Page 32 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Sloane purrs across the table.

The sound is low enough that no one outside the booth would hear it. I feel it anyway, under my skin and through the bond, steady as a hand between my shoulder blades. When I lift my eyes to him, his gaze holds mine with a warning tucked inside the comfort: slow down, keep him with us, don’t let the warmth turn into pressure.

I breathe around the ache in my stomach and let my shoulder stay exactly where Theo has chosen it.

The food arrives with a basket of fries beside my sandwich and Theo’s grilled cheese cut into neat triangles. Theo looks at his plate, then mine, as though my fries might be different because they are mine. His hand moves from his napkin to the table edge and back again.

Sloane nudges my basket half an inch toward the center. “Those are Callie’s,” he says, voice quiet and warm. “She’ll share.”

I look at Theo instead of answering him. “You can have one.”

Theo’s eyes lift to mine.

I pick up a fry and hold it between us, my elbow resting on the table so my hand stays steady. “Here.”

His breath catches. For one second, he only stares at my fingers. Then he leans forward and takes the fry from my hand, his lips brushing the tips of my fingers before he pulls away.

The contact is tiny. It goes through me like a spark.

Theo chews with his eyes lowered, but his scent opens around us, cardamom warming fully now, peach blossom unfolding beneath it. It curls into the booth, and the answering heat in my belly deepens enough that I have to look down at my plate.

Sloane’s purr lowers, not louder, deeper. It reminds me to keep my hand still on the table instead of chasing the place where Theo’s mouth touched my fingers.

Theo glances toward him, tense for the first time since the food arrived.

Sloane takes a slow drink of water and sets the glass down without a sound. “You’re all right,” he says, the words simple and even. “Eat what you want.”

Theo looks back at me. His mouth twitches, almost shy, and his hand moves toward my basket before stopping.

I offer him another fry.

This time, he takes it sooner. His lips brush my fingers again, warmer now, and he stays close for one suspended second before sitting back against the booth. He eats the fry with his shoulder pressed to mine and his scent tucked around us, no longer sterile from the Center, no longer lonely enough to make my throat ache.

A dot of honey mustard clings to his thumb after the next fry, bright against his skin. He notices it the same time I do and holds his hand halfway between the plate and his mouth, unsure which choice belongs to him.

I reach for a napkin and pause with it folded over my fingers. “May I?”

Theo’s eyes lift to mine. Then he turns his hand over and gives it to me.

The trust of it hits harder than the touch. I cradle his wrist lightly, giving him room to pull back, and wipe the sauce from his thumb with one careful stroke. His pulse flutters beneath my fingers, fast and delicate, and the warmth in my stomach tightens when he watches my mouth instead of the napkin.

“Got it,” I whisper.

Theo doesn’t move away.

Sloane’s purr threads through the booth again, steady enough to hold the shape of the moment. I hear the warning in it and the permission too. Keep it soft. Let him decide. Don’t set off the part of him that’s waiting for someone to turn wanting into a mistake.

I loosen my hold on Theo’s wrist, but he follows the retreat before I get far. His fingers catch mine, barely closing, and his gaze lifts from my mouth to my eyes with something startled and brave moving through it.

“Theo,” I say, his name almost too quiet to count.

He leans in before I know whether I’m asking a question or trying to steady myself. The kiss is quick, a soft press of his mouth to mine that vanishes almost as soon as I understand it is happening. His lips are warm. His hand stays in mine. Then he freezes close enough that I can still feel his breath, eyes wide and face flooding red.

I keep my fingers around his, thumb resting near the place where the honey mustard had been. My heart is beating too hard, and my mouth still tingles from him, but I make my voice gentle when I speak.

“Hi,” I whisper.

Theo blinks once, like the word reaches him from somewhere far away.