Page 88 of What We Don't Say: Part One

I want to argue, but I don't. “Yeah,” I say, the word rough as gravel. “Okay.”

Idris studies me long enough to know I mean it. Then he leans in and kisses me again, slower this time, with the kind of care he never announces before he gives it. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“We keep Callie in the room,” he says. “We keep Theo asking for what he wants. We stop letting Garrett be the only one who sounds calm.”

I laugh once, tired and humorless, but it doesn't cut the way the earlier laugh did. “I’m famously good at calm.”

“You are good at being honest.” Idris’ mouth twitches, faint and brief. “We can work with that.”

I shove his shoulder, and he lets me. It is ridiculous how much better that makes me feel.

We clean up in the small bathroom off the gym without talking much. Idris tosses me a towel, and I catch it against my chest while I watch him wash his hands in the mirror. Red marks circle my wrists, and bruises are already beginning near my hips where he held me down.

I run my thumb over one mark before following him into the hall. The house is quieter than I like. Callie’s voice drifts up fromdownstairs, soft and amused, and Theo answers with something too low for me to catch. Garrett’s voice follows a moment later, calm enough that my body starts to rise again on instinct.

Idris catches my wrist before I can move faster. I look at him, and he doesn't saysteady. He doesn't need the word. His grip says it. His eyes say it. The faint ache in my muscles says it too, because I have already given him the worst of the pressure and let him hand me back something usable.

I breathe once, then again, until the hallway stops narrowing.

Downstairs, Callie laughs. It is quiet, but it is real, and Theo makes a pleased sound right after like he caused it on purpose. My chest loosens by a fraction.

Garrett says something I still can't make out, and the sound of him is enough to put the edge back under my ribs. I don't run toward it this time. I walk, and Idris stays beside me all the way down the stairs, shoulder close enough to brush mine, black tea and rain cutting through the heat still clinging to my skin.

I follow Callie’s voice, not Garrett’s. In the kitchen, Theo is mangling a clementine while Callie tries not to laugh, and the sight slows me before Garrett’s silence can sharpen me again. Garrett stands near the coffee machine, mug in hand, watching them with that mild expression I'm learning to hate.

Callie looks up when I enter, and her eyes move over my face, my throat, the damp ends of my hair. She knows exactly what Idris and I did upstairs, or enough of it to pink her cheeks before she looks down at the demolished clementine in Theo’s hands.

“Better?” she asks.

I cross to her slowly, giving Theo time to track me and Idris time to stay within reach. When I get to Callie, I don't grab. I don't crowd. I set one hand on the counter beside her and lean down to kiss her temple.

“Getting there,” I murmur.

She studies me for a second, then nods as if she hears everything underneath. Her hand lifts, fingers brushing my jaw before she turns back to Theo.

“Your radiator is back, Star,” she says. “Give him the ugly clementine.”

Theo looks at me, then at the mangled fruit in his palm. His mouth curves, shy and wicked at once, and he holds it out like an offering.

I take it and eat the whole thing, torn membrane and all, because Theo watches my face while I do it and Callie’s shoulder stays warm against my arm. Garrett says nothing, which is almost worse, but I don't give him the growl sitting under my ribs. I swallow the last bitter thread of peel and hold Theo’s gaze until his smile settles into something real.

Calliope

Theo is vibrating with a nervous, humming energy I haven’t seen since his first day in the house. He spends the entire morning in the kitchen, his movements bird-like and frantic, as he arranges four matching glass containers into a thermal bag. He barely slept after the rough pre-heat night, his body still carrying that heavy sweetness that makes my own skin feel too tight, but his focus is entirely on the sandwiches.

“They need to be exactly the same, Callie,” he whispers, his fingers trembling as he tucks a sprig of parsley into the corner ofIdris’ container. “If they aren’t the same, it isn’t an offering. It’s just... lunch.”

I reach out, my hand hovering near his shoulder before I pull back. I don’t want to startle him out of this rare moment of agency. He’s wearing my oversized gray sweater again, the sleeves swallowing his hands, and the sight of him trying so hard to perform a traditional Omega role for our Alphas makes my chest ache with a dull, familiar thrum.

“I want them to know I thought about them,” he says, quieter. “All of them. You too.”

My throat tightens. “They’re going to know, Star. Sloane will probably eat his in three bites, and Idris will pretend he isn’t hungry while he steals your grapes. It’s perfect.”

Theo looks up at me, his eyes wide and dark with a desperate kind of hope. His hands stay wrapped around the thermal bag even though every container is already packed. I understand the need beneath the careful parsley and matching portions more than I want to.

The drive to Blackline Securities is quiet. Theo sits in the passenger seat with the thermal bag gripped in his lap like it holds the secrets of the universe. When we pull into the sleek, glass-fronted parking lot, he hesitates, his gaze fixed on the heavy front doors.

“We can go back,” I offer, though I know we won’t. “We can eat these on the porch and pretend we forgot the way.”