Page 100 of What We Don't Say: Part One

That’s the sentence that almost breaks me. Not because it fixes anything, but because he doesn’t demand a clean report before he believes the bruise is there. I lean back into him and stare out at the water until my eyes stop burning enough to speak.

“He made it feel dirty,” I say. The words come out thin, scraped raw around the edges. “Theo was talking to me, Sloane. He was happy and embarrassed and so sweet, and then Garrett walked in and suddenly I felt like I’d done something wrong.”

Sloane’s arms tighten, but he keeps his voice steady. “You didn’t.”

“I know.” I swallow hard, watching the wind rough up the lake’s surface. “I know it up here. But he looked at us like... like I’d let Theo make a mess of himself. Like I should’ve known better.”

Sloane presses his face into my hair. “Theo knows what he wants.”

“He said that.” My mouth twists because remembering Theo’s voice should warm me, and it does, but the warmth has Garrett’s shadow over it now. “He kept saying it. He was trying so hard to make sure I believed him.”

“He should never have had to prove it.” Sloane’s voice roughens, and one of his hands spreads over my stomach, grounding me the way he’s done a thousand times before. “But I’m glad he had the words with you. I’m glad he got to say them where you could hear.”

The shaking slowly eases while the lake wind pushes at us and Sloane keeps his body wrapped around mine. He doesn’t promise Garrett can’t hurt us, because Garrett already has. He only keeps me warm until I can loosen my grip on the railing.

Then Sloane kisses my cheek again and shifts his tone with deliberate care. “There was a duck here last week,” he says. “Meanest little bastard I’ve ever seen. Fought a piece of driftwood for ten full minutes like the wood had insulted its lineage.”

A sound leaves me before I can stop it. It isn’t quite a laugh, but Sloane takes it like a victory and keeps going. He tells me about the student he saw walk straight into a glass door while texting, then about the coffee cart near my building that burns the beans so badly he thinks the owner might be conducting a war against taste. His voice stays low and warm, folding absurd little pieces of the world around me until Garrett’s hallway feels farther away.

“And Theo,” he adds, smiling against my temple. “That little thief. He had your sweater on like he’d pulled off a heist. Did he look smug when he stole it?”

“He looked proud,” I say, and this time the laugh is real enough to hurt. “Like he expected applause.”

“He should get applause. Man has taste.” Sloane turns me in his arms, and his eyes move over my face with open, aching care. “There you are.”

I rest my hands on his chest. The leather of his jacket is cold under my palms, but underneath it, he’s warm and solid and mine. “Don’t let him make this smaller.”

“I won’t.” Sloane bends until his forehead touches mine. “But I need you to hear me. Garrett doesn’t get to be the only voice in your head when you’re scared. You come to me. Even if all you can say is that something feels wrong.”

I nod because words feel hard again, and he accepts the nod without making me dress it up. When he kisses me, it’s slow and steady, less claim than reminder. I let myself sink into it for a few breaths, into smoked cedar and brown sugar, into cold wind and warm hands and the pressure of his thumbs at my waist.

When we finally walk back to the truck, the house is still waiting for us at the end of the drive. Theo is still close to his heat. Garrett is still inside those walls with his calm voice and careful hands. None of that has changed, but Sloane keeps his arm around my shoulders, and I let myself lean on him for the whole walk back.

“Ready?” he asks when he opens my door.

“No,” I say, because I’m too tired to lie.

His mouth softens. “Okay.”

I climb into the truck anyway. Sloane closes the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and reaches for my hand only after he starts the engine. This time, I let him take it. I’m not fixed, and the thought of going back makes my stomach clench, but Theo’s purr still lives against my throat, and Sloane’s thumb is moving slowly over my knuckles, and for the length of the drive, I can hold both truths without dropping either one.

Garrett

I stand at the edge of the kitchen with a legal call muted against my ear and watch Calliope move through the room as if the house has been built around the path of her body. She’s barefoot, hair twisted up carelessly, one sleeve of her cardigan slipping toward her elbow while she stirs something on the stove. Theo follows her in a loose, restless orbit, drifting from the pantry to the island and back again, never more than two steps from the reach of her hand.

He has three Alphas in the house. He has a nearly finished sunroom nest, a regulated meal schedule, a full pre-heat plan, and every approved comfort Bellwether recommends for an Omega this close to his heat. Still, when Calliope turns to reach for the salt, Theo moves first, passing it to her with both hands like an offering.

“Thank you, Star,” she says, and her smile lands on him with unbearable softness.

Theo’s face opens. The whole of him responds to her, shoulders lowering, mouth curving, a faint purr stuttering in his chest before he tucks his chin like he can hide it. He’s wearing one of her sweaters again. The gray one. The neck is stretched, and the sleeve hangs past his wrist, and every time he lifts his hand to his face, he breathes her in before he remembers anyone might be watching.

Sloane sees it and lights up.

That is the part I keep returning to, though I know better than to make this about Sloane’s smile. He’s leaning against the island with a coffee mug in hand, talking to Idris about pantry inventory, and the moment Calliope glances over her shoulder, his entire face changes. He becomes warmer, broader, less contained. He sets the mug down, steps behind her, and kisses her temple as if the kitchen belongs to them because she’s standing in it.

Idris is no better. He pauses mid-sentence to slide a small plate toward her, sliced pear and cheese arranged with the kind of quiet attention he usually reserves for contracts and risk maps. Calliope doesn’t even notice at first. She’s asking Theo whether he wants broth or tea with lunch, and Idris waits, patient as a man at worship, until she takes the pear because his fingers nudge the plate into the exact path of her hand.

They don't defy me. Defiance would be cleaner. Defiance would have a charge, a shape, a thing I could name and answer in kind.