Page 82 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

She lets me drag her from the bed wearing only Idris' shirt and a pair of soft sleep shorts I don't remember her putting on. Her hair is a mess down her back. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, and she tugs at the hem once like she's thinking about changing. I catch her hand before she can retreat toward the dresser, not hard, only enough to make her look at me.

“You are perfect,” I say, quieter now because the words matter. “Come to the kitchen like this.”

Her eyes soften at the edges. “You are very demanding this morning.”

“I am very correct this morning.” I press my mouth to her knuckles, and her laugh comes out low and warm, the first sound of the day that feels like sunlight. “Dash will have coffee. You like coffee before decisions.”

Dash is in the kitchen exactly where I expect him to be, one hip against the counter, mug in hand, morning light catching in his hair. He looks up when we come in, and his gaze goes straight to Callie. It does not snag on Idris' shirt in a sharp way. It warms. That makes the irritation in me ease and sharpen at the same time, because he loves her right, but he's still standing outside the place where she sleeps.

“Morning,” he says, and his voice turns softer on the word when Callie drifts toward him.

She goes easily, like her body has learned this path too. Dash sets his mug down before touching her, his hands going to her waist beneath the loose fall of Idris' shirt. He kisses her once, gentle and lingering. Then he kisses her again because she rises onto her toes for it, and I stand by the stove with my hand on the carton of eggs, feeling warm enough to combust and happy enough to let it happen.

Callie comes back to me when I tug at the hem of the shirt. I don't pull her away from Dash like I am angry with him. I only need her closer, and she understands because she lets herself be drawn until her shoulder brushes my chest. I put her between me and the counter while I take out a pan, and she leans back against me with the boneless trust of someone still not fully awake.

“You are supposed to sit,” I tell her, though I keep my arm around her waist instead of actually letting her go. “Breakfast is part of the plan.”

“Your plan has a flaw,” Dash says from behind his mug, his eyes on my arm around Callie. There is warmth in his voice and something quieter beneath it. “You can't cook if you refuse to let her move more than six inches.”

“I can.” I reach for the butter one-handed and feel Callie start to laugh against my chest. “I am very talented.”

She tips her head back against my shoulder. “That one was not your best lie.”

I kiss her temple because the laugh is worth any insult. The spike rolls again, low and sweet, making the kitchen light seem too bright for one breath. My grip tightens at her waist before I can stop it, and Callie’s hand comes over mine without alarm. She feels the change. Of course she does. She turns just enough to look at me, her smile fading into attention.

“I am warm,” I admit before she can ask. “It is only a spike.”

Dash straightens slightly, and I see the Alpha in him wake beneath the professor and the coffee. He does not crowd me. He only watches my face with the same careful attention he gives Callie when she goes too quiet. “Do you need anything different?”

“Her.” I say it before I can make it sound less needy, then tuck my face against Callie’s shoulder because I don't regret it. “And breakfast. And everyone where they belong.”

Callie’s hand squeezes mine. “Then make breakfast, Star.”

I make eggs with Callie trapped against me for half of it and perched on the counter for the other half because Dash eventually takes the pan from my hand with the calm authority of someone who has decided not to watch me burn anything. I let him because he gives Callie a piece of toast while he does it, and because I can stand between her knees with my hands on her thighs. She runs her fingers through my hair while the butter melts, and I close my eyes for one second, so full of the smallness of it that my throat aches.

The office door opens down the hall.

Sloane appears first, rumpled and heavy-eyed, his T-shirt wrinkled and his hair flattened on one side like he fell asleep against Dash’s desk while pretending to work. Idris follows behind him with a folder under one arm and his sleeves rolled to his forearms, more composed but not untouched by the early hour. They have been in Dash’s office since before dawn, doing something with Blackline that no one explained in front of Callie because Sunday morning isn't for Garrett unless Callie asks for him.

Sloane stops when he sees her.

The change in him is immediate. Sleep leaves his face. His eyes move over Idris' shirt on her body, my hands on her knees, Dash at the stove, and the plate of toast sitting near her hip. For one second, the kitchen goes still around the way he looks at her. He does not rush across the room. He only moves closer, slow enough that the choice remains hers, and Callie leans in before he reaches her.

The kiss is deep enough to change the air.

Sloane’s hand settles at her waist, his thumb pressing lightly into the fabric of Idris' shirt. Callie’s fingers curl into his sleeve, and she melts into him with a sound so soft I feel it in my own body. There is nothing quick about it. Nothing polite. He kisses her like Sunday morning is another kind of vow, like seeing her sleepy and rumpled and alive in the kitchen has done something to him that he has no intention of pretending away.

Idris comes to her side while Sloane is still holding her.

He does not take her from Sloane. He joins the shape already forming, one hand sliding to the counter beside her hip while his mouth finds the side of her neck. Callie’s breath catches. Her head tips without anyone guiding it, giving him room, and Idris kisses slowly down the exposed line of her throat to the placewhere the collar of his shirt has slipped wide. His eyes are dark when he lifts them to her face.

“I never should’ve waited to make you mine, princess,” he murmurs against her skin.

Callie’s eyes fill instantly.

She looks at him like the words have reached some place in her that is still bruised around his absence. Sloane’s hand tightens at her waist, then eases before the pressure can become too much. Idris lifts his mouth from her neck and kisses her properly, slow and devastating, while Sloane keeps her held between them. Callie’s hands shake when one goes to Sloane’s chest and the other to Idris' jaw, but she does not pull away. She lets them want her where everyone can see.

I last about half a second.