Page 110 of What We Don't Say: Part One

She turns her head, and the panic in her eyes is quieter than Sloane’s but no less dangerous. “He was doing better,” she says. “He was talking to me in full sentences. He knew what he needed, Idris. Then he said Garrett talked to him, and it was like the words started hurting him.”

“I believe you,” I say, shifting my hand from her knee to the edge of the chair. I lower myself until I can see beneath the table without forcing Theo to look up. “Theo, it’s Idris. I’m beside Calliope, and Sloane’s checking the side door. Do you want help getting up, or do you want to stay where you are a little longer?”

Theo’s gaze moves to my hand, then to Calliope’s fingers where they rest near his temple. He swallows, and I watch him pull the answer together with care rather than panic. “I want help getting up,” he says. “I want Callie close while I do it.”

Calliope’s breath catches above us. I nod once, letting him see the answer land cleanly. “She can stay close,” I tell him, and I wait until his shoulders loosen before I reach for him.

I slide one arm beneath Theo’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees, moving slowly enough that he can stop me. Calliope keeps her hand on him until the last second, then rises with us, one hand finding the back of his sweater while I lift him from the shadowed space under the table. Theo is too warm against me, sweat-damp at the hairline, his pulse racing where his throat presses against my neck. He turns his face into me and breathes in hard, searching for the steadiness my body can give him.

“There you are,” I say against his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says, muffled against my throat. His hand reaches blindly until Calliope catches it, and the moment their fingers lock, his breathing evens by a fraction. “I know you do.”

That should be the only answer I need. It should be enough to carry him to the sunroom, lay him in the nest, and let the three of us settle him before his next spike gathers teeth. But the shape of his fear is too specific, and Calliope’s trembling hand tells me this isn’t only his heat.

I keep my mouth near his ear and make my voice gentle enough that it can’t bruise him. “Theo, did Garrett tell you not to ask Calliope for something?”

The response is immediate. Theo locks so hard his hand goes rigid in Calliope’s. His breathing cuts off against my throat. The weight of him changes in my arms, less limp than absent, his body becoming a held thing with nowhere to put the pressure. Calliope feels it through their joined hands and through the sweater still caught beneath her fingers, and her face drains before she understands why.

“Theo,” she whispers, and her voice nearly breaks. “Star, breathe.”

I stop the question before it can become a second injury. “You don’t have to answer,” I say, my hand firm across his back. “You already did what I asked. Breathe with me now.”

His chest stutters once, then again. I draw a slow breath against his temple and hold him through the next one, letting him borrow the rhythm without making him earn it. Calliope steps closer, her hand still locked with his, and I see the instant she chooses to hold the explanation back even though fear is begging her to ask for it.

“Good,” I murmur when Theo drags air in. “Again.”

He breathes again, shakier this time. His eyes stay unfocused, but his fingers begin to soften around Calliope’s. I don’t askanother question. I don’t need to. The pattern has already touched all three of us.

Sloane comes back before I can move Theo toward the sunroom. He stops at the dining-room threshold with his phone in his hand and murder held carefully behind his teeth. “Camera’s useless,” he says. “The angle caught the driveway and half the side path. If someone left the box, it’s below the frame. If someone came through the gallery, it wouldn’t show from there.”

“That’s fine,” I say, because the delivery was only ever a reason to move him. His eyes snap to mine, and I hold his stare long enough to make him understand we’ll discuss that elsewhere.

Sloane stares at Theo in my arms, then at Calliope holding his hand. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“It’s handled for the moment.” I adjust Theo higher against my chest, and he turns his face deeper into my throat. “We’re taking him to the sunroom with Calliope. Then you and I are going to the study.”

Sloane’s eyes flash. “No.”

“Sloane,” Calliope says softly, and the sound of her voice pulls his attention the way it always does. She doesn’t ask him to calm down. She only looks at him with her hand still wrapped around Theo’s. “Please.”

The plea lands where my instruction couldn’t. Sloane’s jaw works, but he nods once, a short and violent movement that he forces into obedience. He steps close enough to touch Theo’s ankle, and his fingers are careful when they curl there.

Theo looks at him, still pale, still too hot. “I’m not trying to leave you.”

The words cut through the room. Sloane’s face twists before he can stop it, and Calliope’s fingers tighten around Theo’s hand.

“I know, sweetheart,” Sloane says. His voice is rough, but he keeps it low. “I’m sorry I made it feel like you had to tell me.”

We move together because separating would be worse. I carry Theo, Calliope walks close enough that his hand stays in hers, and Sloane stays behind her with one palm hovering near the small of her back until she leans into it and lets him touch. He looks down at that permission like he’s been starving for it. When his hand settles there, Theo’s breathing eases again.

The sunroom is still warm from the morning, the nest rumpled from bodies and blankets and too many interrupted attempts at comfort. I lower Theo into the center and keep one arm beneath his shoulders until Calliope climbs in beside him. He turns toward her immediately, then reaches back for Sloane with his free hand.

Sloane gives it to him. He kneels at the edge of the nest, both hands wrapped around Theo’s, and bends his forehead to their joined fingers. “I’m here,” he says, quieter than I expected. “I’m angry, but I’m here.”

Theo nods. His voice is small but whole when he says, “I need Callie here too.”

“She’s here,” I answer before anyone else can make the promise sound like a concession. I tuck the cooling cloth behind his neck and look at Calliope. “Stay with him. If his breathing changes or the spike starts building, call me before you try to manage it alone.”