Page 115 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“It means you’re going to go be brilliant at your interview,” Idris says. “You’re going to text me when you arrive, and you’re going to eat the food I put in your bag. When the house is settled and you’re on your way back, Sloane and I are going to talk to Garrett. Calmly. Clearly. Then you’ll come home, and we’ll figure out the next piece together.”

“Together,” Sloane says into my hair. His arm tightens, and the bond bite in my shoulder warms under the pressure of him. “No more letting him make you feel like you’re outside the room.”

I nod because I want to believe them. I want that more than I want the job, more than I want the clean, bright future waiting over an hour away with my name printed in professional font on a folder. I want to go, be impressive, come home, and find that the people who love me have started naming the thing I’ve been swallowing.

Idris kisses me first. He holds my face in both hands and kisses me like the hallway, the house, the heat, and the interview can all wait for one breath. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and his voice is low enough that the words feel private even with Sloane wrapped around me.

“Bring every version home,” he says again.

“I will.”

Sloane turns me in his arms the second Idris lets go. His kiss is rougher, less patient, his hand spread over the bite in my shoulder through my shirt. He kisses me until I have to grip his forearms to stay upright, then holds me there while his mouth moves against my cheek.

“I’m going to hate watching you drive away,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’m going to let you do it anyway.”

That breaks something loose in me, a soft, painful laugh that turns into another tear before I can stop it. Sloane catches it with his thumb, then presses his mouth to the place it left behind.

When we step back into the kitchen, Theo is still in the sunroom doorway with my sweater pressed to his mouth. Garrett has moved the basket of cooling cloths to the correct shelf, and his face softens as if the small hallway huddle has been a normal part of a normal morning.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says.

“I know.” I wipe under my eyes with the heel of my hand, careful not to smudge the mascara I already regret putting on. “I’m just nervous.”

“Of course.” Garrett’s expression turns warm with immediate understanding. “Big day.”

The kindness should land. It almost does. Then his gaze shifts to Theo, and the morning rearranges around logistics again.

“If Theo still wants lunch before your interview, I can take him,” Garrett says. “Sloane and Idris should keep the house ready, and you shouldn’t have to rearrange your morning any more than you already have.”

Theo lowers the sweater from his mouth. “I still want to go.”

“You can go,” I say, turning to him before anyone else can make that sound difficult. “I’ll meet you on campus before the interview. We’ll eat something normal and complain about vending-machine coffee.”

Theo’s mouth trembles into a small smile. “I want the café with the soup.”

“Then we’ll do the café with the soup.”

Sloane’s hand settles at my lower back. Idris’s fingers touch my wrist again, brief and grounding. Neither of them looks comfortable with Garrett driving Theo, but the house is stacked with half-finished heat prep, and Theo’s eyes are on me with so much fragile hope that nobody argues in front of him.

Garrett nods once, practical and calm. “I’ll have him there by noon. That gives you time to arrive, settle, and breathe before you see him.”

“Main campus café,” I say, because the logistics suddenly matter more than they should. “Lunch there, then I drive to the sister campus for the interview.”

Garrett nods. “Exactly. One normal lunch, then I’ll bring Theo home.”

“Thank you,” I say, and the words taste wrong even though the help is real.

I go upstairs to change before I can stand there and dissect the taste of it. My interview clothes wait on the bed where I laid them out last night: navy blazer, cream blouse, trousers that make me look steadier than I feel. I dress slowly, checking the mirror after each layer as if professionalism is something I can button around my ribs. When I reach for my earrings, my fingers shake, and I have to set them down until the tremor passes.

Sloane finds me before I finish. He comes in without knocking because this is our room, because he has never treated any door between us like more than a suggestion unless I needed it to be one. He doesn’t say anything at first. He only stands behind me in the mirror, large and rumpled and beautiful, his eyes fixed on my reflection like he’s trying to keep me in the glass.

“You look terrifyingly competent,” he says.

I pin one earring in place. “That’s what I was going for.”