Page 72 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

Idris lowers his arms after beginning to cross them, catching the defensive posture before it settles. “What does she need from us?”

“She wants you,” I say. “Her body also learned that wanting you could end with a locked door. She may understand the truth before she stops bracing for the lie.”

Sloane closes his eyes. His hands flex against the granite, then flatten again as though he's reminding himself the counter can take the pressure and Callie cannot.

“I need her to know I never sent those messages,” he says. “I need her to know I never called the police and never put money into her account. If I had known she was outside that house, I would have torn the door apart with my hands.”

“I believe you.” The words change the room by a fraction, though they don't repair what stands between us as brothers. “Knowing the messages were forged won’t make her stop flinching overnight. You can't treat her understanding as proof that her body should already feel safe.”

Idris looks toward the living room again. Callie’s hand moves slowly through Theo’s hair, and his shoulders have dropped since the three of us stepped away. The room has given her enough space to breathe without taking the people she wants completely out of reach.

“We want her to choose,” Idris says. “After what Garrett did, I won't take another choice from her.”

“Choice can become another burden if you make her build every answer from nothing.” I look between them to make sure the point lands with both. “Give her choices with edges. Coffee or water. Couch or floor. Lamp on or lamp off. Put food and water within reach without waiting for her to ask, and offer your hand where she can choose it. If she freezes, step back without making her explain or apologize.”

Sloane presses the heel of his hand against his sternum. I know enough about bonds to understand where the gesture lands, even though I don't know what his feels like. Callie has touched her shoulder in the same way for months, as though firm pressure might contain whatever hurts beneath it.

“You had to learn all of that because I wasn’t there,” he says.

“She went pale every time her phone buzzed.” I turn toward the kettle before my hands reveal more than I want them to. “For weeks, she couldn’t look at the screen until she had braced herself. She thought every notification might be the next legal step in being erased. Remember that when the truth feels obvious to you and her body still reacts like the next message could take everything away again.”

Idris' expression tightens around the eyes, and his scent turns sharper, black tea gone bitter beneath rain. He looks toward Callie as though he can see each of those moments arranged behind her, every time she sat alone with a phone she believed carried their rejection.

“You have been good to her,” he says.

The statement is sincere, but the room still knows how Alphas are built. Sloane’s head lifts, and for the first time since he arrived, I see the brother who could fill a room merely by breathing wrong. They both smell me on her. My soap is in the robe around her shoulders, my house in her hair, and my scent beneath the places where Sloane, Idris, and Theo have begun to return.

“I gave her a place where no one commanded her,” I say. My voice drops before I can stop it, and I pull the edge back before Callie can feel the tension from the other room. “I gave her a door that opened whenever she wanted it open and a bed where she didn't have to explain why she cried. If either of you punishes her for surviving with me, you need to leave before she has to carry that too.”

Sloane moves, and every muscle in my body prepares for the wrong response. He stops on the other side of the island without entering my space, his hands visible and his face wrecked enough that looking at him hurts.

“Thank you,” he says. The words are rough and stripped bare. “Thank you for keeping her from being alone.”

I nod because anything more would turn the moment toward the history between us. I pour the hot water over the grounds and watch the dark bloom spread through the press. The smell of coffee moves through the kitchen, earthy and ordinary, giving the room something simple to hold.

“I know my own instincts can become a cage too,” I say. “I want to lock every door between her and Garrett and keep anyone who answers to him on the far side of the county. If I stop listening to her because I call that protection, one of you needs to tell me.”

Sloane looks at me for a long moment. Some of the hostility in his posture eases, leaving the exhaustion beneath it exposed. “We keep each other from turning fear into control.”

Idris nods once. “Agreed.”

I press the coffee slowly, then pour the first mug and slide it toward Sloane. “Start with this. Ask her clearly, then set it down within reach. Do not put it in her hands and make accepting help require accepting touch.”

His fingers shake when he takes the mug. He wraps both hands around it, though the coffee isn't for him, and stares at the steam as if the task requires more courage than walking into the rain did.

Idris reaches for the second mug, then pauses before lifting it. “What should I watch for?”

“Her hands,” I answer. “If she starts picking at her cuticles, she's spiraling. Do not ask her to explain while it is happening. Give her something else to hold. A mug. A blanket. Theo’s hand if he's settled enough. Yours if she reaches first.”

“Understood.” Idris' reply is quiet and precise, though grief moves through his face before he controls it. He sets the second mug back down because Callie does not need two men arriving with drinks and another decision.

We return to the living room with coffee. Callie remains on the sofa, half turned around Theo. Her eyes are heavy, and exhaustion has drawn the color from her face. Theo has his cheek against her shoulder and one hand curled beneath the edge of her robe. He watches us return with red-rimmed eyes, tracking Sloane first and then Idris without pulling away from her.

Sloane stops several feet from the sofa. He lowers his shoulders and smooths the jagged edge of his scent until the smoked cedar and brown sugar settle into something warmer. The effort is visible in the tension around his mouth, though he keeps his attention on Callie instead of asking the room to make space for his pain.

“Callie,” he says, waiting until she looks at him. “I made coffee. I can set it here, or I can bring you water instead.”

Her gaze moves from his face to the mug, then to the open space on the coffee table. “Coffee, please.”