Page 86 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“It is waterproof under sane conditions.” His shoulders loosen, and warmth edges into his voice. “You stood up because you wanted to prove we weren’t sinking.”

“We weren’t sinking until you panicked.”

“We were standing in the lake ten minutes later, Sloane. The boat had already made its position clear.”

The laugh leaves me before I can stop it. It is small, rusty, and painful around the edges, though it still feels like relief. Dash laughs too, and for several seconds the kitchen belongs to a time when he was my brother on the dock, dripping lake water and trying to stay angry while he smiled.

When the laughter fades, I twist the dish towel between my hands and look down at it. “Why did we stop talking?”

Dash takes his time before answering. There is no single fight we can blame, no clean moment where the relationship broke and gave us something obvious to repair. “Because we’re two stubborn Alphas,” he says. “Neither of us knew how to be the first one to knock after we decided silence was easier than admitting we were wrong.”

I nod because the answer is painfully close to the truth. “I thought about calling. More than once. Then enough time passed that calling felt like admitting I’d let the silence grow into something I couldn’t control.”

“I thought you didn’t need me,” Dash says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I thought you didn’t want to need me.”

He studies me for a moment before his shoulders lower. “We were both wrong enough to make the distance last.”

The flowers lean to one side in the measuring cup, their stems too long for the glass. Callie touched them as though they mattered. Theo tried to place two of the small white flowers in her hair and nearly cried when they wilted against her curls. Idris promised to find a vase, and Dash mentioned there might be one in the attic if any of us were brave enough to face the boxes.

Ordinary things are beginning to grow around the wreckage, and I don't want the old silence between my brother and me to poison them.

“I’m here for her,” I say. “I’m here for Theo. I’m here for Idris, even when he’s being infuriatingly calm about things that deserve broken furniture. I’m trying to be here for you too, Dash. I don’t know what that looks like yet.”

His eyes hold mine. “It looks like telling me before you break something. It looks like letting me love her without treating every touch like theft. It means both of us remember she isn’t responsible for turning our damage into something polite.”

“That sounds exhausting,” I admit, and the corner of his mouth moves.

“It probably will be. She’s worth the work.”

I don't have to think before answering. “Yeah. She is.”

The kitchen doorway darkens before either of us speaks again. Idris stands there with Callie’s empty tea mug in one hand and his phone in the other. His shirt is wrinkled where Theo must have grabbed him earlier, and his hair is less controlled than usual, which tells me the day has worn on him more than he wants anyone to see. His gaze moves from Dash to me, then back again.

“Do I need to break up a possible fight,” he asks, calm enough to make the question dangerous, “or did we make up?”

“Fuck off,” I mutter, though the words carry no heat.

Idris crosses the kitchen and bends to press a gentle kiss to the top of my head. The tenderness should embarrass me in front of Dash, yet it only makes my eyes burn. I lower my gaze until I can breathe around the feeling while Idris' hand settles at the back of my neck.

“So we made up,” he says.

Dash watches us with something complicated in his expression. He lets himself see how Idris touches me and how I lean into the contact for half a second before straightening again. The room shifts another inch toward something I can't name yet.

“Callie still asleep?” Dash asks, turning his attention toward the living room.

“For now,” Idris says as he sets her mug beside the sink. “Theo is curled around her, and she hasn’t moved except to put her hand in his hair. His temperature is elevated, though the spike hasn’t opened fully.”

“He was sweeter today,” Dash says, his voice taking on the careful focus he uses when he's trying to learn something important. “His scent didn’t feel distressed. His body seemed like it was getting ready.”

Idris nods. “That was my read too. I don’t think we have days before the next serious spike. We may have hours or a day, depending on how settled he stays.”

The thought of Theo tipping closer to heat tightens my grip on the counter. “He needs us ready.”

“He needs us ready, Callie needs us honest, and Garrett needs to stop being treated like a future problem.” Idris lifts his phone slightly. “Zana is calling in six minutes. Kade sent a cleaner timeline on the rerouted calls and the first device logs. It isn’t enough for the full strike yet, though it gives us enough to start building the record around Callie’s current situation before Garrett decides to stop pretending he’s calm.”

The stiffness in Idris' voice tells me how much rage sits beneath the strategy. I usually let him turn himself into polished steel while I guard the edges, but the memory of Callie asleep in the next room keeps me from allowing that old pattern to settle without question.