Page 61 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Theo is standing at the island beside Idris, holding a small blue bowl in both hands like it contains something far more fragile than chopped parsley.

He isn't wearing my cardigan tonight. He's in one of Sloane’s sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up badly and already sliding down over his wrists again. Idris’ dark socks are on his feet, too large at the toes. Something of Garrett clings to him too, not clothing exactly, but the close, clean trace of office and leather, the kind of scent that settles into skin when someone has spent the morning held against a steady body.

The sight makes me stop in the doorway. Sloane’s sweatshirt swallows Theo’s shoulders, Idris’s dark socks bunch around his ankles, and the faint trace of Garrett’s study still clings to his skin. He’s spent the day wrapped in my Alphas.

Then Theo looks up and sees me.

The blue bowl hits the counter with a dull clink, and Idris’ hand moves fast enough to steady it before it tips. Theo is already across the kitchen by then, a blur of too-big sleeves and bright eyes, and I barely have time to brace before he collides with me.

My bag slides off my shoulder and lands somewhere near my feet. I don't care. Theo’s arms go around my middle, his face pressing hard into the curve of my neck, and the sound that leaves him is so happy and relieved that my eyes sting before I can stop them.

“Hi,” I whisper, laughing as I wrap both arms around him. “Hi, Star.”

He answers by lifting his face and kissing my cheek. Then my other cheek. Then the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the tip of my nose, quick eager touches that make me laugh harder while I try to catch his face between my hands.

“Theo,” I say, smiling against his mouth when he catches me again. “Baby, breathe.”

He does, but only long enough to rub his cheek against mine and tuck closer. His hair brushes my chin. His hands are in theback of my sweater, fisting carefully, like he's trying to hold on without wrinkling anything too much.

Sloane comes up behind him with my bag in one hand and the expression of a man witnessing a miracle he's very proud of having encouraged. “He has been waiting for that exact sound since three o’clock,” he says, setting my bag on the counter before his hand settles broad and warm at my waist. “Possibly earlier. I wasn't consulted during the quiet brooding portion.”

Theo turns his face just enough to glare at him from against my shoulder.

Sloane’s mouth softens. “That’s fair. It was private brooding.”

I laugh again, and Sloane leans in over Theo’s shoulder to kiss me. The kiss is warm, familiar, and brief because Theo makes a small offended sound between us, as if Sloane has stolen something he was still using. Sloane pulls back with a grin and presses a kiss to Theo’s hair too, his hand moving once over the back of Theo’s neck.

“Excellent taste,” Sloane murmurs. “In bowls, apparently, and in women.”

Theo makes another sound, but this one is shy and pleased. He turns back to me, face flushed, and his scent blooms under the layers of Alpha on him. Cardamom, peach blossom, smoked cedar, black tea, rain, mint, leather. I breathe all of it in and feel something inside my chest open so wide it almost hurts.

Idris steps closer from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel. His gaze moves over me first, the way it always does when I come home from campus, checking for what the day has done before he decides what I need. Then he looks at Theo tucked against me, Sloane’s hand at my waist, the abandoned bowl on the counter, and the corner of his mouth softens.

“Welcome home, Calliope,” he says, and when he reaches us, his hand comes to my jaw. He kisses me once, slow enough tosettle the room, then presses his thumb lightly beneath my chin. “Dinner is nearly ready. He found the bowl.”

“I heard.” I glance down at Theo, whose face goes pinker at once. “I received several official updates.”

Theo ducks his face into my sweater, but I can feel the smile against me.

For a minute, everything feels exactly right. Idris at the stove, Sloane behind us, Theo clinging to me in clothes that smell like the men who have been holding him all weekend. My phone is still in my hand with his messages warm on the screen. The kitchen is bright and loud in small ways, spoons against pans, rain against the windows, Sloane’s hand squeezing my hip when Theo kisses the corner of my mouth again because he can.

Then Garrett comes in from the hall.

He's still in shirtsleeves, like he has been working late without leaving the house entirely. His tie is gone, and there is a faint crease at one cuff where Theo must have gripped him earlier. The sight makes my face heat again before I can stop it, a flash of the morning rushing back in fragments I never saw and still somehow carry.

Garrett’s gaze moves over the kitchen.

For one second, he looks at Theo wrapped around me, at my hands in Theo’s hair, at Sloane’s body pressed close behind us. Something passes through his eyes so quickly I can't name it. It isn't anger. It isn't even disapproval. It is a warning I don't understand before his expression settles into the calm warmth I know.

“There you are,” Garrett says, crossing the room. His hand comes to my shoulder, firm and nonromantic, the head-Alpha touch of someone greeting a pack member home. “Long day?”

I nod, still holding Theo. “Long enough.”

“Then let’s get everyone fed.” Garrett’s thumb presses once against my shoulder before he lets go, and the touch shouldsteady me because it always has. “Idris has kept dinner alive despite Sloane’s repeated attempts to interpret tasting as a formal assignment.”

Sloane’s hand shifts at my waist. “I supported the process.”

“You compromised the process,” Idris says from the stove, but his voice holds no heat. He turns off one burner and reaches for the serving dish Theo has been guarding. “Theo, bring me the bowl.”