Page 67 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Theo’s eyes flutter. “Sloane.”

Sloane leans in and kisses him when Theo turns toward the sound of his name—soft, open-mouthed, careful. “I’m here. You’re doing so well. Just breathe with us.”

I keep the pace exactly the same, feeling the way Theo’s body gradually opens further around me. Another wave is already building under his skin. I can feel it in the way he clenches and the soft, broken sounds he makes every time I bottom out. Sloane talks him through it in the same quiet register, never raising his voice, never pushing.

“You’re safe,” Sloane murmurs against Theo’s temple. “We’ve got you. Stay with us.”

“Stay,” Theo echoes.

“We’re staying,” I tell him.

When the worst of the spike tightens around him, Theo’s back arches and his free hand fists in the sheets. I don’t speed up. I hold the same steady rhythm and let him feel that nothing is going to rush or overwhelm him. Sloane presses closer, forehead to Theo’s, still holding his hand.

“Green?” I ask.

“Green,” Theo answers, voice frayed but clear. “Please—Idris—”

I let my knot begin to swell. The stretch is gradual. I watch his face for any sign of too much and find only acceptance. Theo’s legs tighten around my hips, drawing me deeper as the knot locks into place with a final, careful push. He makes a soft, punched-out sound and goes still, breathing hard, eyes glassy.

“Color,” I say again, quiet.

“Green.” His fingers tighten in Sloane’s. “Stay.”

“I’m here. We’re both here.”

I hold him through the lock, keeping the pressure calm and close, rolling my hips in the smallest possible movements so the knot works him without overwhelming. Sloane stays pressed against Theo’s side, one hand stroking his hair, the other still holding on. Theo’s release builds slowly under the steady pressure. When it comes, it is quiet and full-body—his back arching, a broken little sound leaving his throat, his body clenching hard around the knot as pleasure rolls through him in waves. Sloane holds him through it, murmuring soft reassurances against his hair while I keep him grounded and full.

Only when Theo has gone loose and trembling in the aftermath do I let myself follow. The orgasm is controlled, deep, the kind that stays close instead of sharp. I keep my weight braced so I don’t crush him, forehead resting lightly against his, breathing with him until the last of it settles.

Sloane is still hard, still fighting the rut-edge, but he hasn’t moved to take anything for himself. He waits.

I look at him over Theo’s shoulder. “You can let go. Carefully.”

Sloane exhales like he’s been holding the breath for minutes. He stays right where he is—pressed close along Theo’s side—and takes himself in hand with short, controlled strokes, eyes never leaving Theo’s face. When he comes it is quiet, almost silent, his forehead dropping to Theo’s shoulder as the tension finally leaves his body. He doesn’t ask for more. He simply stays, one arm draped carefully across Theo’s waist, breathing hard but steady.

By the time the knot eases, Theo is loose and glassy-eyed against me, one hand still twisted in Sloane’s shirt. Sloane has his forehead against Theo’s shoulder, breathing like he’s run miles without moving. His scent is heavy in the room, smoked cedar darkened by the rut-edge he’s still fighting down, but his hands are careful where they hold Theo.

He did well. Better than he thinks he did.

Theo makes a small sound when I shift, and I press my mouth to his damp hair before the sound can turn fearful. “I’m here,” I tell him. “We’re getting you cleaned up.”

His fingers tighten in Sloane’s shirt. “Don’t move.”

Sloane’s eyes close. “I’m not moving.”

Theo turns his face enough to find me. “Warm.”

“We’ll keep you warm.” I sit up slowly, taking him with me when he refuses to release my arm. His body is worn out in the aftermath, but the panic that lived under his skin when we first entered the room is gone. “Can you stand for a shower?”

Theo thinks about that for a moment with great seriousness, then shakes his head.

Sloane’s mouth curves against his shoulder, soft and wrecked. “That’s honest.”

“Sloane,” I warn, though there’s no heat in it.

He lifts both hands. “I’m getting towels.”

“You’re also getting water.” I gather Theo carefully and stand with him in my arms, letting him tuck his face against my neck while Sloane strips the bed and opens the bathroom door. “And you’re going to breathe before you make yourself sick.”