Page 62 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Theo hesitates before letting me go.

It is small. A delay, nothing more. His arms loosen and tighten once, his face still tucked near my collar, and then he pulls away because Idris asked and because dinner is ready and because everything happening is normal. I smooth the front of Sloane’s sweatshirt where Theo wrinkled it, and he looks down at my hands like he wants to keep them there.

“Go on,” I whisper. “I want to see what you made.”

That helps. He brightens again, grabbing the bowl from the island and bringing it to Idris with careful importance. Idris accepts it like it matters, because it does matter, and Theo’s shoulders straighten under Sloane’s oversized sweatshirt.

Garrett begins setting the table while Idris finishes plating. He does it with the same quiet efficiency he brings to everything, pulling out chairs, moving glasses, setting the pitcher near the head. No one else notices anything because there is nothing to notice. I tell myself that while I pick up my bag from the counter and carry it to the bench near the mudroom door.

When I turn back, Theo is already beside Idris at the table.

Garrett rests a hand lightly on the back of the chair next to him. “Here, Theo. Idris is on this side, and I’m right here if you need anything.”

Theo glances at me.

It is fast. Too fast, maybe, for anyone else to catch. My body catches it anyway, a small pull beneath my ribs, the same placeMara’s words sat in the car. He looks happy still. Proud. A little flushed from dinner and attention and all the scents on him. But the brightness from the doorway softens when he sees the space between us.

Sloane pulls out the chair beside him. “Baby, sit with me.”

There is no reason not to.

I'm sitting beside my bonded Alpha. Theo is beside Idris, with Garrett at the head. It makes sense. It gives him Alphas on either side after a big first Monday. It puts me where I have always fit, with Sloane’s knee knocking mine beneath the table and his hand sliding to the back of my chair before I even sit.

It is the first meal all weekend where I'm not beside Theo.

The thought arrives quietly enough that I can almost pretend it isn't there. I sit down across from him, smoothing my skirt under my thighs, and smile when he looks at me again.

“Tell me about the bowl,” I say.

Theo’s face lifts at once. He touches the blue ceramic beside Idris’ plate, then looks at his phone on the table. Before he can type, Idris puts a hand briefly over his wrist.

“You can speak if you want to,” Idris says. “Or text. Or show her.”

Theo nods, fingers resting on the phone for one more second before he looks at me. “Blue,” he says softly.

I lean forward like he has given me a whole paragraph. “Excellent choice.”

His mouth curves, and some of the tightness under my ribs eases.

Dinner starts warm.

It should be enough. It is enough, in every visible way. Idris serves lemon chicken with the sauce Theo helped with, and Sloane keeps trying to get Theo to accept praise without curling into the collar of the sweatshirt. Garrett asks about campus, and I tell him about the plagiarism-as-homage argument whileSloane makes a sound of genuine pain beside me. Theo watches me while I talk, smiling in small flickers when my hands move too much.

Sloane’s hand finds my thigh under the table, warm and familiar. Idris’ attention moves over every plate, making sure Theo eats, making sure I eat, making sure Sloane doesn't turn bread into a separate course before anyone else gets more. Garrett remains easy at the head, asking Theo whether the sauce turned out the way he wanted and nodding when Theo gives him one quiet yes.

Theo looks at me from across the table instead of leaning into my side. His phone sits near his hand, but he doesn't use it. His feet are tucked under his chair, too far from mine to touch unless one of us stretches obviously. When Sloane makes him laugh, the sound comes out smaller than it did when he was pressed against me in the doorway.

Maybe he's tired. Maybe Monday was too much. Maybe the morning with Garrett and the long afternoon and dinner and my coming home all hit at once. All of those explanations make sense, and every one of them makes me feel foolish for the hollow little ache gathering behind my sternum.

Garrett passes the bread to Idris. “Theo, try a little more chicken before the sauce cools.”

Theo reaches for his fork.

It is a normal sentence. A caring sentence. He should eat more; he has barely taken five bites. Still, his gaze flicks to me before he lowers his eyes to the plate, and my hand moves to my chest without asking me first.

Sloane notices the movement. Of course he does. His fingers tighten once on my thigh, not possessive now, only checking.

“You okay?” he asks, leaning close enough that his voice doesn't cross the table.