Page 122 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“A mug broke,” I say quickly. My feet touch the driveway, and the world tilts enough that Sloane’s arms close around me. “I cut my palm, but it’s small. Callie took me to the nurse. She did everything right.”

Sloane stills on Callie’s name. His eyes lift to Garrett over my head, then drop back to me because I'm shaking in his arms. “Where is she?”

“Interview,” Garrett says. He has the campus health papers in one hand and my jacket in the other. “Theo asked her to go ahead. The nurse cleared him to return home as long as we monitor for another spike.”

Idris comes down the porch steps with black tea and rain cutting through the driveway air. He takes my bandaged handwithout pulling me out of Sloane’s hold, examining the wrap, the redness at my wrist, then both knees with a look that makes me want to apologize even though I know he would hate that. His thumb settles near my pulse.

“Pain?” he asks.

“My hand hurts. My knees hurt.” I lean harder into Sloane’s chest because the driveway is too open, and the heat inside me is starting to gather again. “Everything got loud, but I’m okay.”

“Were you scared?” Garrett asks from beside the car.

Sloane’s arm tightens around me. Idris’s thumb stills at my wrist.

“Yes,” I say, turning my face enough to see Garrett. “But not of Callie.”

Garrett’s expression stays calm. “No one suggested that.”

The air shifts. Sloane’s scent sharpens fast enough that my body answers with a shiver, and Idris looks at Garrett for one controlled second before he brings his attention back to me. His hand slides to the back of my neck, steadying the place where too many words keep landing wrong.

“We’re going inside,” Idris says. “Sunroom first. Then we call Calliope before she goes in or as soon as she can step out.”

Garrett’s phone buzzes before Sloane can answer. He looks down at the screen, and his jaw tightens in a way that makes the driveway feel suddenly quiet. “Campus safety,” he says. “They’re escalating the incident report because Theo’s heat status was disclosed during treatment.”

Sloane’s head comes up. “Escalating how?”

“Documentation. Questions about whether the visit was appropriate this close to his heat. They’re doing what institutions do when liability gets involved.” Garrett slips the papers under one arm and looks toward the house. “I’ll handle it before anyone thinks to interrupt Calliope’s interview.”

Idris’s gaze hardens. “Keep us copied on anything written.”

“Of course,” Garrett says, and his smile is small enough to be missed by anyone who doesn't live inside the same walls.

Sloane looks like he wants to follow that sentence all the way to the end of Garrett’s throat. Then my knees buckle. It isn't dramatic. My body simply stops agreeing to stand, and Sloane catches me before the driveway can rise up again. Whatever Garrett is doing with campus safety stops mattering for one hot, terrible second because the spike I have been holding away from everyone opens under my skin.

“Sloane,” I say, and this time his name tears on the way out.

He lifts me. There is no hesitation, only motion, his arms under me and his mouth pressed to my hair as he carries me up the porch steps. Idris stays beside us, one hand at my back and the other opening doors before Sloane reaches them. Garrett’s voice follows from the driveway, lower now, already on the phone. I hear “campus health,” then “Omega proximity,” then nothing useful as Sloane carries me into the house.

The sunroom smells like warm laundry, cooling cloths, cedar, rain, and my own cardamom gone sharp with panic. Sloane lowers me into the nest, but he doesn't let go. He comes down with me, his body curving behind mine, his hands moving over my chest and stomach like he is checking that I'm still in one piece.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is rough enough to shake. “Theo, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re home.”

“It hurts,” I say. I want to say more. I want to say it isn't my palm, not my knees, not the cut, not the burn. The words scatter when another wave rolls through me, bright and deep, pulling a sound out of my throat that makes Sloane go rigid behind me.

Idris drops to his knees in front of us. He doesn't rush his hands onto me, even though I can see the need in him, the Alpha part straining hard against the man who knows better. He takesmy face first, making my eyes find his through the heat-shimmer gathering at the edges of the room.

“Color,” he says.

“Yellow.” I breathe too fast, but I answer. “Yellow and getting worse.”

“Do you want touch to stay comfort, or do you want help through the spike?” Idris asks it clearly, with Sloane’s arms locked around me and the nest already too warm beneath my thighs. “Use words while you have them.”

Sloane makes a broken sound against the back of my neck. His hands stop moving the second Idris asks, holding still through what has to be agony for him. He is all heat at my back, all want and panic and restraint, and that is what lets me reach for the answer without feeling trapped.

“I want help through it,” I say. “I want Sloane. I want you. I want it to stop hurting.”

Idris’s eyes darken, but his voice remains steady. “Green?”