Page 10 of What We Don't Say: Part One

By the time Blackline Securities settles into its after-hours quiet, every task on my desk has started to feel like something standing between me and home. The office hums around me, monitors dimmed along the far wall, conference rooms dark behind glass, the last analysts speaking in low voices near the operations pit.

Usually, this is the part of the day where my focus sharpens. Fewer interruptions. Fewer people needing to turn their panic into my responsibility. Tonight, the quiet only leaves more room for the pressure under my skin.

I close one report, open another, then realize I’ve been reading the same incident summary without absorbing any of it. My notes are neat and useless, three lines of operational language that don’t touch the thing I actually want to do.

I want to check the house. I want to make sure the guest room window latches cleanly, that the hall light near the east stairs doesn’t flicker, that the pantry has enough heat-safe food and the spare blankets are washed without any harsh detergent. Theo Mehra isn’t ours yet. He hasn’t even stepped through the door, hasn’t chosen anything, hasn’t even seen us outside a Bellwether file, but my instincts have decided his arrival is close enough to become a problem requiring lists.

Across from me, Sloane stops typing. He’s been working through the contact logs I asked him to review, his laptop balanced on one knee, dark hair a mess from dragging his hand through it too many times. He watches me for a moment with the kind of attention he usually reserves for Callie when she says she’s fine too fast. Then he closes the laptop and comes around the desk, almost too soft for how loud my Alpha usually is.

His hand settles on the back of my chair before he leans down and kisses my cheek. He’s running hotter than he was an hour ago, and when he shifts beside me, the front of his trousers pulls tight enough that I stop pretending I’m the only one having an instinct problem.

“You’ve been ready to go home for an hour,” he murmurs, cedar and brown sugar rolling off him too heavy for an office. “Call it nesting or don’t, but you’ve checked the time six times since Garrett texted about Friday. Your version just looks like locks and lists.”

“Fuck off,” I say, though my gaze drops once before I can stop it. “I’m not the one sitting through a security review half-hard.”

Sloane’s smile drags lower, rougher, his hand tightening once on the back of my chair. “Callie brought us lunch the other dayand sat there talking about Theo like she already wanted to tuck him into the house. I keep thinking about him with her. About Theo maybe wanting her first, and then I’m sitting here trying not to think about getting my mouth on one of them and my dick in the other.”

I crack a smile before glancing up at him, letting him see the shape of my restlessness because he’s fighting his own version of it. Mine wants locks checked, supplies counted, doors secured before Theo crosses the threshold. Sloane’s has always been less orderly. His instincts don’t prepare by making lists; they obsess. They circle Callie, memorize every change in her scent, and turn the idea of a soft, frightened Omega looking at her like safety into something he can barely sit still under.

My phone lights before I can address that, Garrett’s message appearing in the pack thread.

Court prep is running late. Don’t wait up for me.

Sloane reads it from his own screen, the air between us changing slightly. His scent thickens, smoked cedar going darker beneath the brown sugar, Sloane reaching down to readjust himself.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do with it,” he says, quieter now. “Fuck,” the word comes out in a soft growl, his need running through the bond. I sit forward, willing my own cock to stay soft before we end up fucking in the office. “It feels like the start of my rut but I haven’t had one of those for what, months?”

Heat pulls through me as I breathe through the sudden rush of need pooling in my stomach. “You accused me of nesting while you’re over there trying not to come in your pants.”

Sloane exhales a laugh that sounds more like strain than amusement. “Then pack up and let’s get home. If Callie’s up for it, I need my hands on her tonight. If she’s not, I’m fucking your ass until I can think again.”

I lock my files and stand, but Sloane catches my shirt before I can pass him. His mouth lands on mine hard enough to push me back against the desk, one hand gripping my hip while the other closes around the back of my neck. I kiss him until the strain in his body breaks into a rough sound against my tongue, then pull back before either of us forgets where we are.

“Home,” I tell him, keeping my forehead against his. “Callie gets first choice. If she wants sleep, you’re still mine.”

The drive home doesn’t loosen either of us. Sloane keeps the music low and one hand on the wheel, but his other hand keeps flexing against his thigh like he’s stopping himself from reaching for something that isn’t there.

“Breathe through it,” I tell him, watching the muscle in his jaw tick.

“I'm breathing,” he says, though his voice is rough enough to make the lie pointless. “But that’s not going to help.” Sloane lets out a low groan, reaching down to squeeze himself through his pants.

I bite my lip from making some kind of retort, watching as his knot seems to thicken at the base as well. Whoever made the fabric of his pants should be awarded and if I didn’t think he’d fuck a hole down my throat, I’d lean over and suck him off right now.

“Stop thinking about my dick, Idris. You’re going to make it worse.” He twists his head enough to glare at me before focusing back on the road.

I just laugh as the house comes into view, my mind already working through security details. Porch light on. No unfamiliar cars in the drive. Front curtains open. Upstairs hall lamp lit. Thedetails arrange themselves into safety before I can stop them, and Sloane catches the sweep of my gaze as he parks.

“She’s fine,” he says, softer than he’d say it if he were trying to be funny. “Garrett’s late, though, which means she’s had unsupervised access to the guest rooms for at least two hours and you know she’s probably setting up for Theo.”

It’s a wonder how much everything has changed in a few days. Callie was so unsure of her place here when Garrett brought up bringing in an Omega and now, none of us can stop thinking about it. My favorite part is that she can’t stop making space for him, forthem.

Idris

The house smells like coffee, clean laundry, and Callie the second we step inside. Honeyed pear and vanilla tea drift through the lower floor, warmer than it was this morning, brightened by an eager edge that makes Sloane inhale like he’s been caught by the throat.

The sound he makes is almost too low to hear, but I feel it anyway, that rough Alpha catch in his chest that says the edge he’s been walking all evening just got narrower.

I set my keys in the dish and listen. There’s no grading lecture playing from her laptop, no shower running, no movement from our bedroom. For a moment, the house is still enough that I hear the low tick of the foyer clock and the faint sound of Sloane setting the lock behind us. Then her humming reaches us from upstairs, coming from the back hallway.