Chapter 3: The Triangle Begins

The week following their heart-to-heart, Chloe and Andi developed a new, unspoken language. It was in the small things. Chloe would slide an iced coffee onto Andi’s station without a word, the condensation beading on the cup exactly as Andi liked it: oat milk, one sugar, no straw. Andi, in turn, started plating a single, perfect extra dessert—a dark chocolate truffle dusted with gold, a miniature lemon tart with a brûléed top that cracked like glass—leaving it for Chloe with a sticky note that just said “For you.” It was a quiet rebellion against the kitchen’s grind, a tiny exchange of beauty and care.

For Chloe, it was the simple, uncomplicated joy of a friendship finally clicking into place. She’d always been drawn to Andi’s quiet mystery, but now she felt a fierce, protective warmth. She found herself scanning Mateo’s demeanor, ready to deflect his ire if it veered too close to Andi. For Andi, the feelings were a tumultuous sea. The trust they were placing in Chloe was both terrifying and liberating. But alongside that trust, a different, warmer current was stirring, a flush that spread through their chest when Chloe laughed or flashed them a conspiratorial grin. It was profoundly confusing. Andi’s attractions had always, clearly, been toward men—toward the solid, silent presence of someone like Benny. This fluttering, nascent pull toward Chloe’s vibrant, all-consuming energy was uncharted territory, a continent they were afraid to even look at, let alone explore. They tucked the feeling away, a secret even from themselves.

It was Chloe’s idea to host a get-together, a deliberate attempt to solidify their newfound bond and pull Benny into their orbit. “We need to de-stress,” she announced one afternoon as they were dicing mirepoix, the rhythmic chop-chop-chop a familiar kitchen soundtrack. “A proper one. No talk of seared scallops or that fucking tyrant we call a chef. My place is a disaster zone, though. Looks like a clothing store threw up. Andi, yours is like a goddamn design magazine. Can we do it at yours?”

Andi hesitated, their first instinct a primal need to protect their private sanctuary, the one place they controlled utterly. But looking at Chloe’s hopeful, open face, the walls felt less necessary, more like a burden. “Okay,” they said, the word feeling significant. “But shoes off at the door. And I’m confiscating any red wine at the first sign of a spill.”

“Deal!” Chloe beamed, her entire face lighting up. “And we have to invite Benny.”

Andi’s heart did a little traitorous flip. “Do you think he’ll come?” “I’ll make him come,” Chloe said with grim determination. “He needs it more than any of us. The strong, silent thing is a cool vibe for, like, five minutes. Then it just gets weird. I want to know what’s going on in that head of his. I bet he’s secretly hilarious.”

Later, Chloe approached Benny as he was methodically cleaning the grill, the metal brush scraping in a steady, rhythmic hiss that was almost meditative. “Hey, Benny. A few of us are hanging out at Andi’s place Friday after shift. You in?” He didn’t look up, focusing on a stubborn, carbonized piece of grease as if it were his mortal enemy. “Not really my scene.” “Come on,” Chloe pressed, leaning against the warm stainless steel of the counter, invading his space just enough. “The scene is sitting on a non-greasy surface and not being screamed at by a man who probably sleeps with a copy of ‘The Art of War.’ It’ll be fun. Andi makes a mean ... well, they’ll probably make something incredibly sophisticated and delicious that puts our kitchen food to shame. Just come. For an hour. Humor me.”

Benny paused his scrubbing. He glanced at Chloe, his blue eyes unreadable, then his gaze flickered over to Andi, who was across the kitchen, meticulously piping rosettes of whipped cream onto a row of chocolate pots de crème. He saw the focused intensity, the graceful precision. He gave a single, curt nod. “An hour.”

Andi’s apartment was, as promised, a sanctuary of order. Modern, minimalist furniture stood against clean lines, plants thrived in precise corners under carefully calibrated grow lights, and abstract art prints were hung with geometric precision. It was a stark, quiet contrast to the chaotic, fragrant heat of The Gilded Lily’s kitchen. Benny stood awkwardly just inside the doorway, his large frame seeming to fill the entire entryway, a lumberjack who had wandered into a gallery opening.

“Shoes,” Andi reminded him gently, pointing to a neat row of footwear by the door. “Right. Sorry.” Benny bent down, his movements suddenly clumsy, to untie his heavy, scarred work boots.