Page 113 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Garrett stands near the fireplace with his phone in one hand and his attention spread through the room like a smooth, invisible net. He speaks quietly to someone from Bellwether, his voice steady and authoritative, confirming supplies, windows, contact preferences, anything that can be turned into a list and checked off. He looks calm enough to make the rest of us seem unreasonable by comparison.

Sloane passes the sunroom doorway, stops, turns, and starts back toward the kitchen. His eyes catch on me near the island, and the pacing breaks. His whole body turns toward me so abruptly that I set the plate in my hand down before I drop it.

“Come here,” he says.

I cross the room because pretending I wouldn’t have gone to him anyway would only waste time. He catches me by the waist the second I’m close enough, pulling me into the hard line of his body. His mouth lands on mine with none of last night’s slow patience. This kiss is desperate and deep, his hand spreading between my shoulder blades, his other arm locking around my lower back while his Alpha rises warm and possessive around us.

“Sloane,” I whisper when he lets me breathe, but my fingers are already twisted in the front of his shirt.

“I know.” His forehead rests against mine, and his breath shakes. “I know you’re going. I know it matters. I’m going to be good about it, and I’m going to hate every fucking minute you’re gone.”

“You don’t have to be good about it.”

His mouth brushes mine again, softer now but still hungry under the softness. “Yes, I do. You’re not carrying my panic into that interview.”

Idris appears at my other side before I can answer, holding a plate with eggs and toast arranged like a decision he expects me to obey. He doesn’t interrupt Sloane’s hold. He only steps behind me, takes my hips in his hands, and eases me back until I’m held between them for one suspended second, Sloane in front of me and Idris solid at my back.

“Three bites before you argue,” Idris says near my ear.

“I wasn’t going to argue.”

“You were preparing a persuasive statement.” His mouth touches the side of my neck, right below my ear, and my eyes close before I can pretend I’m immune to him. “I’ve heard them all. Eat anyway.”

Sloane’s laugh is breathless against my mouth, but he doesn’t turn it into a joke. He takes the plate from Idris, holds a bite to my lips, and watches me eat with an intensity that makes my cheeks warm. Idris keeps one arm around my waist while I chew, his palm flat against my stomach, his thumb moving once when I swallow.

The second bite is easier because they’re both touching me. The third sits in my throat until Idris kisses the hinge of my jaw, slow and quiet, and murmurs, “Your work matters, Calliope. Today matters. Don’t let fear turn it into leaving.”

That is almost enough to undo me.

I look toward the sunroom before the tears can rise. Theo is in the doorway wearing one of my oversized gray sweaters, both hands tucked into the sleeves and the cuff pressed beneath his nose. His hair is sleep-mussed, his eyes dark with heat-haze and worry, but he’s watching Sloane’s arm around me and Idris’s hand at my waist with something fragile and relieved in his face. When I reach for him, he comes without hesitation.

“Hi, Star,” I say, taking his hand and letting him press his face into my palm.

“Hi.” His voice is soft, but it’s a full word with breath behind it. He kisses the center of my palm and keeps his mouth there for a second longer than he has to. “I know you have to go today.”

“I do.” I smooth my thumb under his eye, careful with the tender skin there. “Only for the interview, and then I’m coming back.”

“I want to believe that without feeling scared.” He looks embarrassed after he says it, but he doesn’t take the sentence back.

Sloane’s arm tightens around my waist. Idris’s hand leaves my stomach long enough to touch the back of Theo’s neck, steadying him without pulling him away from me.

“You can be scared and believe me,” I say. “Both can fit.”

Theo nods once, then looks down at my hand still in his. He rubs his thumb over my knuckles, careful and repetitive, and I know he’s trying to find the next thing. I wait. Idris waits. Sloane somehow manages to keep breathing instead of filling the silence with his own fear.

“Could I come see you before the interview?” Theo asks at last. “Just for lunch. I don’t want the whole day to be the heat.”

My chest aches so sharply that my fingers close around his. “Yes. Of course you can.”

Relief moves through him fast enough to make him sway. Sloane reaches out immediately, catching Theo’s elbow whileIdris shifts closer behind him. Nobody makes a speech about it. They simply touch him, touch me, and hold the shape until he steadies.

Garrett ends his call near the fireplace and looks over at us. His expression softens in the way it has been softening lately, carefully and slightly too late, as if he’s read the room and chosen the correct response from a list.

“That sounds reasonable,” Garrett says. “A normal lunch may help settle the morning for both of you.”

The words should comfort me. They’re exactly what I want someone to say. Still, something in my stomach folds around them, small and cold, and I don’t know why I glance away.

I busy myself with the stack of cooling cloths on the island because there are too many eyes on my face. I gather them into the basket, smoothing the top cloth twice, then a third time when the edge refuses to lie flat. Garrett crosses the room and takes the basket from my hands before I’ve decided whether to lift it.