Page 24 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“Yellow card.”

“Good.” Andrea turns forward as the van slows, her voice warming like we didn’t just rehearse how to survive walking into a house that might not want me once I’m actually inside it. “We’re here.”

The house rises at the end of the drive with wide stone steps, dark trim, and windows bright with afternoon light. It looks expensive and settled, the kind of settled that makes my stomach tighten because settled things don't need another person coming in and making noise in the wrong places.

There are trees along one side of the property and a garden tucked beyond the curve of the drive, but the house takes up most of what I can see. It looks like someone already knows where everything belongs. Which means they aren’t really looking for someone like me.

"The Crane pack is very well respected," Andrea says as the driver puts the van in park. "Mr. Crane is a senior pack-law attorney, and Bellwether has worked with his office before. Their home passed every environmental review, and the first-contact preparations were completed exactly as requested. This is a good opportunity, Theo."

I manage a nod, hating how everything sounds managed. I’m a good fit because they make money, can clinically take care of my needs, and know how to lawfully take care of an Omega. Or at least… that’s what it sounds like.

The driver opens the side door, cool air slipping into the van with the first heavy wash of pack scent. Cold mint and polished leather reach me first. Smoked cedar and brown sugar settle under it, warmer and broader, and then black tea and rain cuts through both with a steadiness that makes me want to breathe deeper.

Beneath the Alphas, softer and low enough that I almost miss it, is honeyed pear and vanilla tea. My eyes widen a little in surprise as I lean forward, my fingers loosening in the hem of my shirt.That scent, I tell myself.

Andrea catches it before she unbuckles and steps out ahead of me. "Take your time," she says, though she's already waiting beside the open door with the tablet against her chest.

I step down from the van with my hands tucked into my sleeves, the cuffs pulled low over my fingers. Andrea's gaze drops as she clicks her tongue. "Hands, Theo."

I pull them out too fast, fingers curling hard against my palms instead. My face burns as she gives me the same patient look she gave me this morning when I forgot to make eye contact during practice introductions. "Visible hands," she reminds me, softer now. "Remember?"

Good Omegas keep their hands visible during first contact.Andrea made me practice it after breakfast, along with steady posture, polite eye contact, and the kind of smile that looks grateful without showing too much need.

My fingers want the shelter of my sleeves again, but I keep them out where everyone can see them. One minute out of the van, and there's already something Andrea had to correct. If there’s too many things, she’ll send me back to the Center for more training. I can’t go back there. I don’twantto go back there.

Andrea starts up the walk, and I fall half a step behind her, hands stiff at my sides, still trying to make myself small. It’s only when I look up and see the space between us that I hurry to match her pace, heat crawling up my neck as her tablet shifts against her chest. The scents grow stronger near the porch, layered over stone, wet leaves, and the faint sweetness tucked beneath all the Alphas. Honeyed pear. Vanilla tea. My breath catches around it, and I lower my eyes to the steps before Andrea can remind me not to scent like I’m starving.

The front door opens before she knocks, and I stop with one foot on the bottom step. Garrett Crane stands in the doorway, taller than the photograph in the packet made him seem, dark hair neat, suit pressed, face calm in a way that makes my hands feel wrong at my sides.

His gaze touches Andrea first, then me, and every word I practiced in the van sinks somewhere I can’t reach.

“Theo,” he says, voice smooth and low. “Welcome. I’m Garrett Crane.” He leaves the threshold open, one hand resting on the door, and that should help. It almost does until Andrea turns slightly toward me with the tablet held against her sweater.

“Greeting, Theo,” she murmurs.

My mouth opens. The hello is right there, the shape of it still sore from practice, but the porch is too bright and Garrett is too still and Andrea is waiting beside me with my tablet tucked under her hand. I press my nails into my palms, trying to push the word out through my fingers instead. Nothing moves. Nothing sounds. Garrett stays quiet while my face heats so fast my eyes start to sting.

Andrea shifts into her meeting voice. “Verbal locking,” she explains. “It’s most common under direct Alpha attention or when Theo feels evaluated. Yes-or-no questions are usually easier, and he has communication cards if he needs them. He understands what’s being said, even when he can’t answer.”

I stare at the edge of the porch step as Andrea’s shoes blur beside mine. She’s helping. She’s making sure he knows I’m not stupid. But her explanation doesn’t even begin to hint at the why, which just makes this feel like something added to the file before I’ve made it through the front door.

Garrett’s attention returns to me. “I read the note,” he says, still mild, still holding the door open. “You don’t need to prove anything on the porch.” He steps back further, giving Andrea space to enter first. “Come in when you’re ready. We’ll keep this simple.”

I nod, unable to find my voice, and follow Andrea inside. The staircase curves up one wall, a hallway opens ahead, and another branches left into rooms I can’t see yet. I keep my hands out of my sleeves, fingers curled tight and visible the way Andrea wantsthem. Garrett walks ahead at an easy pace, not slow enough to feel like he’s managing me, not fast enough to make me hurry.

“The others are in the sitting room,” he says, glancing back once. “We thought that would be easier for a first introduction.”

“That was very considerate,” Andrea says, her thumb moving over the edge of the tablet as I step carefully, trying to keep my shoes from making too much sound.

The sitting room opens wide off the hall, the pack’s scents thickening the second I reach the doorway. I stop just at the edge to see three people waiting, spaced apart like someone measured the room and removed every trap before I arrived. Mentally, I work through the pictures that were in the file back at the center.

Sloane is by the sofa, larger than anyone else in the room, with dark curls and shoulders wide enough to make my fingers want my sleeves again. He starts to smile, then catches the way my hands twitch and softens it before the full force reaches me. His scent is smoked cedar and brown sugar, warm under the edge of something muted, like it wants to reach farther than it’s allowed. He lowers himself onto the arm of the sofa instead of staying at his full height.

“Hey,” he says, voice deep but careful. “I’m Sloane. We’re glad you came.” He lets the words sit there without turning them into a question, and some of the air stuck in my chest leaks out.

I let my gaze continue to walk around the room before landing on Idris, one of his shoulders angled away from me. Black tea and rain cut clean through the room around him, steady enough that my eyes keep trying to return to him even while my body stays wary. His gaze meets mine, then moves deliberately to the open hallway, the chair closest to the door, and the tea tray on the low table.

“Idris,” he says. “You can sit wherever you want, or stand for a while.”