Page 103 of What We Don't Say: Part One

By early afternoon, the house has divided itself into acceptable zones. Theo rests in the sunroom with Idris near the door and a fan turned low. Sloane is in the pantry, swearing under his breath at a supplier who substituted the wrong crackers. Calliope remains in the office with the audit packet, though she has begun answering emails that could wait because a person who feels peripheral will often prove her worth by becoming more useful than anyone asked her to be.

I make tea and take it to her.

She looks startled when I enter, which is useful information and mildly disappointing. I place the mug beside her laptop and glance at the screen long enough to see that she has color-coded the department’s compliance gaps by deadline. “You are very good at making disorder legible.”

Her smile is small. “That’s one way to describe my job.”

“It is also one way to describe what you do here.” I keep my tone warm, careful, the same tone I use with young attorneys who mistake exhaustion for failure. “You see what people need before they know how to ask. Theo has benefited from that more than he understands.”

Her fingers settle around the mug. “I love him.”

“I know.” I allow the answer to soften before I continue. “That is why I trust you to make careful choices as his heat gets closer. Love can become pressure when an Omega’s body is already under strain.”

The color changes in her face, retreating by degrees. She looks down at the tea. “I’m trying to be careful.”

“You are.” I stand beside the desk rather than across from it, giving her the sense of being accompanied rather than confronted. “The audit work will give you a little distance today. That may be good for both of you.”

She doesn't answer immediately. Her gaze moves toward the hallway, and I know she is thinking of the laundry room, of Theo’s hands and his purr and the way I found them tangled on the tile. She hasn't known where to put that moment since I named it for her. That uncertainty isn't cruelty. It is the beginning of wisdom.

“Distance feels like punishment,” she says.

“Only if you think every boundary is rejection.”

Her mouth tightens, and for a moment I see the professor in her, the woman who teaches ethics and literature and should be more difficult to maneuver than she is. Then Theo makes a sound upstairs, a faint distressed note that carries through the vent, and Calliope rises halfway from her chair.

I put one hand on the back of it. Not touching her. Not blocking her. Only reminding the room that furniture has limits and bodies should respect them.

“Idris is with him,” I say.

She freezes there, half-standing, one palm flat on the desk. Her instinct is obvious enough to embarrass her. Mine is obvious enough to require control.

“I can check,” she says.

“You can trust Idris.”

That lands better. Her loyalty turns against her own need. She lowers herself back into the chair, slowly, and I reward the choice by stepping away from the chair before she notices she has been held by the shape of a sentence.

“Finish the packet,” I say. “Then we’ll reassess the evening.”

When I leave, her hands are trembling around the mug.

By four, the pantry is stocked, the sunroom is cooler by two degrees, and Theo has had one small spike that settles with Idris’s hand on his neck and Sloane’s voice through the door. Calliope doesn't go up. She stands at the bottom of the stairs for most of it, cardigan wrapped tight around her middle, listening hard enough that her whole body seems to lean toward the second floor.

She stops herself before I have to move her, and I let the silence reward the choice. The next time she reaches for Theo, she’ll remember this pause before she remembers me.

Sloane comes down afterward with his hair a mess and his expression thunderous. He sees her at the stairs and softens so quickly it makes my stomach turn. “He’s okay,” he says to her. “He asked for the gray sweater. Idris gave it to him.”

Calliope nods, but her eyes shine. “Good.”

Sloane reaches for her cheek. “You can come up.”

I speak before his fingers touch her. “Theo has just settled.”

Sloane’s hand stops midair. Calliope sees the conflict cross his face and steps back to spare him the choice. Again. Always again.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll start dinner.”

Sloane turns on me. “She’s allowed to see him.”