Dead Plate Oneshots Third Wheel

Manon’s heart thudded in her chest as she stood outside the old brick building, staring at her phone.

**Rody**: Apartment’s kinda messy, but come on up. Door’s unlocked, 3rd floor! Don’t trip on anything lol.

She read the text again, as if the words might magically change. *Finally*, she was going to Rody Lamoree’s apartment. After months of harboring an embarrassingly huge crush on him, here was her golden opportunity. They’d been paired up for a group project in their Modern History class, which meant hours of research, outlining, and—she hoped—a chance to get to know him better.

Manon had been crushing on Rody ever since she first saw him stride into class, five minutes late, with his messy auburn hair and that lazy grin that always seemed to be on the verge of cracking a joke. He was effortlessly cool in that “I don’t really care” way, but with just enough charm to make it work. Sure, he barely paid attention in class and couldn’t seem to keep a notebook to save his life, but it didn’t matter. He had that rakish, disheveled look that totally worked for him.

And now? Now she was standing outside his apartment, on the verge of *finally* hanging out with him outside of class. She could barely contain her excitement.

The building was… well, it had character. The kind of character that probably came with questionable plumbing and a lingering smell of stale pizza, but hey, this was Rody. He wasn’t exactly a five-star hotel kind of guy.

With a deep breath, Manon entered the building and started climbing the stairs. The elevator, predictably, was out of order, and the hallway had a faint smell of something that could have been burnt toast. She tried not to think about it as she reached the third floor, where the door to Rody’s apartment was slightly ajar.

She hesitated, then pushed it open. The sight that greeted her was exactly what she had imagined—and somehow worse. The place was a *mess*. Clothes were strewn across the floor like a battlefield of forgotten laundry, there was an avalanche of dirty dishes threatening to spill off the coffee table, and the couch was buried under what looked like five mismatched blankets. The apartment had this… lived-in, chaotic energy that screamed, “I’m an adult, but only barely.”

“Manon! Hey!” Rody’s voice rang out from somewhere deeper in the apartment. A moment later, he bounded into the room, grinning like an excited puppy. He was wearing sweatpants, a loose t-shirt, and socks that didn’t match, and his hair was even more unkempt than usual—if that was possible. Somehow, the disarray only made him more endearing.

“Sorry about the mess,” Rody said, not looking sorry at all. “I was gonna clean, but then I remembered that I hate cleaning, so, y’know, here we are.” He gestured at the chaos as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Manon laughed, trying to play it cool. “No worries. I didn’t expect you to have a sparkling apartment or anything.” She stepped over a pile of socks as she moved further inside. *This is fine,* she told herself. *You’re here for the project. Focus.*

Before she could sit down, another door opened at the far end of the hallway. A tall, dark-haired guy stepped out, his expression unreadable. He was dressed all in black, like he was ready to attend a funeral or a vampire convention, and his hair was still damp, suggesting he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked at her briefly, gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment, and then walked straight into the kitchen without saying a word.

“Oh, hey! Vin!” Rody said brightly, waving at him like he was greeting a celebrity. “Manon, this is my roommate, Vincent. Vin, this is Manon. She’s helping me with this project thing.”

Manon blinked. She had heard that Rody had a roommate, but she hadn’t expected… *this*. Vincent was tall, brooding, and seemed to carry this permanent aura of disdain, like he was too cool for the rest of the world and definitely too cool to be interested in whatever Manon and Rody were doing.

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Manon said, giving a small wave. Vincent just nodded again, already rummaging through the fridge.

“So!” Rody plopped down on the couch, throwing his legs up on the coffee table and making no effort to move the dirty dishes that threatened to crash to the floor. “We should probably start with the outline, yeah? Or…” He shot her a mischievous grin. “We could just, y’know, order pizza and call it a day. I’m great at procrastinating.”

Manon smiled, taking a seat at the far end of the couch, careful not to sit on anything that looked too questionable. *Focus, Manon. You’re here to work on the project. Not to stare at Rody. Focus.* “We can start with the outline,” she said, pulling out her notebook. “Then maybe reward ourselves with pizza later.”

Before she could finish her sentence, Rody twisted around on the couch, looking toward the kitchen. “Vin! You cooking tonight?”

Manon blinked. *Wait, what?*

Vincent, who was now chopping something with the precision of a surgeon, glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Aw, come on! You *always* make something awesome!” Rody practically whined, giving him puppy-dog eyes. “Please? You know I’m useless in the kitchen. I tried to make spaghetti last week and almost set the stove on fire.”

Manon stared at him, incredulous. *Is he really begging his roommate to cook right now? We’re supposed to be working on the project!*

Vincent sighed, exasperated but clearly used to this. “Fine. But only because I don’t feel like watching you eat takeout again.”

Rody beamed. “Thanks, Vin! You’re the best.”

Manon watched this exchange with growing confusion. The way Rody acted around Vincent was… odd. Like, way too affectionate for just roommates. And the way Vincent responded—it wasn’t quite annoyance, but something closer to begrudging fondness. As if he was used to indulging Rody’s whims.

“Rody,” Manon said, trying to pull his attention back to the project. “We should probably—”

“Right, right!” Rody interrupted, turning back to her, though his eyes kept flicking toward Vincent like an excited child waiting for his favorite meal. “So, what were you saying about the outline?”

Manon sighed, pulling out her notes. “We were going to break the sections down into—”

“Vin!” Rody called out again, cutting her off. “Are you making that lemon chicken thing? Manon loves lemon. Right, Manon?”

She froze, blinking. “Uh… sure, yeah, lemon’s great.” *Was lemon my favorite?* she wondered. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to *tell* Rody her favorite foods, and here he was acting like she was obsessed with lemons.

Vincent’s eyes flicked to her for the briefest moment, and Manon swore there was something like amusement there, before he turned back to the stove. “Lemon chicken it is.”

As Vincent moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, Rody’s attention kept drifting away from the project and toward his roommate, his eyes lighting up every time Vincent so much as reached for a spice. It was like watching a puppy beg for treats.

Manon, on the other hand, was starting to feel more like a spectator in her own date—or what *should* have been a date. She was supposed to be working on a project with Rody, maybe getting a little closer to him, but instead, she was playing third wheel to… whatever this was.

She tried to steer the conversation back to the project multiple times, but every few minutes, Rody would get distracted by Vincent’s cooking.

“Vin, are you putting garlic in that?” Rody asked, peering over the couch like a curious kid.

“Yes, Rody. Garlic goes in the lemon chicken,” Vincent replied, his voice a perfect deadpan.

“Awesome,” Rody said, beaming as if garlic was the greatest invention of mankind.

Manon couldn’t believe what she was seeing. *Was Rody… into Vincent?* She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something weird going on here. The way Rody acted around Vincent was *way* too familiar, too clingy. And Vincent, for all his cold, standoffish demeanor, seemed to tolerate it with a kind of quiet fondness.

Was Vincent into Rody too?

Manon’s stomach churned at the thought. She had come over here to work on a project, maybe flirt a little, but now she was starting to feel like she had walked into some kind of weird love triangle.

“Rody,” she said, trying again to get his attention. “Do you want to start with the—”

“Oh, right! Yeah, the project,” Rody said, finally looking back at her. “So, you were saying… something about the outline?”

But before Manon could even respond, Rody jumped off the couch, heading toward the kitchen.

“Vin! Are you sautéing the onions? You always do that thing where they get all caramelized and stuff. Manon’s gotta try it. She’s never had your cooking before.”

Manon blinked, barely holding onto her patience. *I’m right here,* she thought. It was almost cartoonish how much Rody was ignoring her for Vincent.

Vincent looked over his shoulder, briefly meeting Manon’s eyes, and there was that faint smirk again. He wasn’t just indifferent—he knew exactly what was going on. And, worse, he was playing along. Manon felt her face flush. Was this some kind of competition she hadn’t even realized she was in?

“Rody, maybe we should, you know, work on the project first?” she suggested, trying to sound casual.

Rody turned to her, flashing a sheepish grin. “Oh yeah, sure, but dinner’s gonna be ready soon! We can multitask. I’m great at multitasking. Watch this.” He grabbed a pen and waved it around like a magician. “Outline with one hand, dinner in the other. I’ll be like a history-writing, chicken-eating machine.”

Manon sighed, rubbing her temples. “That’s… not really how outlines work.”

Rody flopped back onto the couch beside her, legs stretching out, his body language as relaxed as ever. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Except he wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze was firmly on Vincent, who was now flipping chicken in the pan with an almost cinematic flourish.

Manon gritted her teeth. *I am a guest,* she reminded herself. *Be polite. Be calm. Be…*

“So, Manon, what’s your favorite food again?” Rody asked suddenly, turning back to her as if he’d just remembered she was in the room. “I feel like I should know that by now, right?”

She gave a tight smile, her patience wearing thin. “Well, actually, I really like—”

“Vin!” Rody interrupted her again, standing up in excitement. “Can we have dessert too? You’ve gotta make that lemon tart thing! You’ll love it, Manon. It’s got this really tangy kick, and it’s, like, the best thing ever.”

Manon stared at him, incredulous. *Seriously?*

Vincent, to his credit, didn’t even look annoyed at Rody’s antics. He merely raised an eyebrow and gave a quiet, “Sure.”

Rody threw his arms in the air like he’d just won a gold medal. “Yes! I love you, man!”

Manon’s heart sank.

It wasn’t even jealousy anymore. It was just… defeat. She sat there, watching as Rody practically bounced around the apartment, talking to Vincent about spices and sauces as if she wasn’t even there. And Vincent—stoic, unflappable Vincent—seemed perfectly content with Rody’s attention. In fact, she could swear she saw a faint smile on his face every now and then.

She didn’t know what was worse—the fact that Rody was so clearly infatuated with his roommate or that Vincent might actually feel the same way.

“Rody,” Manon said, her voice more strained than she intended. “Maybe we should focus on the project now. We’ve barely written anything down.”

“Oh, right! Sorry!” Rody returned to the couch, but he still couldn’t stop glancing at the kitchen. “I just get so excited when Vin cooks. You’ll see why in a second—it’s, like, magic or something. He’s a culinary genius.”

Manon gritted her teeth. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s great.”

Vincent, meanwhile, stayed mostly silent, calmly plating the food. He slid three plates onto the table, then, without a word, walked back to the kitchen to grab utensils.

Rody’s face lit up as if Christmas had come early. “Oh, man, this looks awesome!”

He immediately sat down and started digging in, barely waiting for Vincent to sit beside him. Manon stared, still clutching her notebook, feeling more and more like a third wheel by the second.

“So, uh, Manon,” Rody said through a mouthful of chicken, “what do you think of the lemon?”

She stared down at her plate, completely unprepared for the amount of enthusiasm radiating from Rody. “It’s… good?”

Rody leaned back, grinning. “I *knew* you’d love it. Vin’s the best cook, right? Like, who needs a Michelin star when you’ve got this guy?”

Manon’s fork froze mid-air. The situation had gone from awkward to ridiculous. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Rody wasn’t just fond of Vincent—he was totally obsessed with him. And Vincent? Well, he wasn’t exactly pushing Rody away, either.

She glanced at Vincent, hoping for some kind of reaction—anything to make her feel less like an intruder. But all she got was a brief, knowing glance from him, followed by a tiny smirk.

Oh, he knew. He *definitely* knew.

Manon sighed, pushing her food around her plate. This was not how she’d imagined her evening going. She’d come here with dreams of getting closer to Rody, maybe even sparking a little romance, but instead, she was watching him fawn over his roommate like some kind of lovesick puppy. And the worst part? He didn’t even realize it.

“So,” she said, trying to salvage some sense of normalcy, “about the project…”

“Oh, right!” Rody snapped his fingers, looking at her with that same sheepish grin. “The project! Sorry, I just got distracted by this awesome food. Vin, seriously, you should open a restaurant.”

Vincent gave a noncommittal grunt, clearly accustomed to Rody’s praise. He stood up, gathering his plate and heading back to the kitchen.

Rody watched him go, his eyes lingering just a little too long, before turning back to Manon with a wide grin. “Isn’t he great?”

Manon forced a smile. “Yeah… great.”

She had come here with high hopes of getting closer to Rody, but as she sat there, watching him stare dreamily at his roommate’s back, she realized something.

She was never going to win this.

—

And thus, Manon’s evening ended with a sinking realization: no matter how much she liked Rody, she was always going to be the third wheel in a very weird, very domestic love triangle.