Page 91 of What We Don't Say: Part One

Idris

Garrett doesn’t raise his voice.

That’s the first thing I learned about him years ago, long before Calliope came into this house with Sloane’s hand on her back and a wary smile she tried to soften for the rest of us. Garrett can command a room with quiet. He lets everyone else spend their energy reacting, then steps into the space they leave behind and calls it reason.

Today, I start counting what follows him.

Theo comes out of Garrett’s office after lunch with his sleeves pulled over his hands and his eyes lowered to the floor. He walks past the sunroom without turning his head, though the half-built nest inside is full of Calliope’s sweaters and the soft pillows he arranged himself. When Sloane calls his name from the kitchen, Theo stops fast enough that his heel catches on the runner. He doesn’t answer until Garrett says, from the study doorway, “Give him a minute. He’s processing.”

Sloane’s jaw tightens. Mine does too.

Calliope is near the counter with a stack of folded dish towels in front of her. She reaches for Theo, then stops before her fingers touch his sleeve. The motion is small, almost nothing. Anyone else would miss it. I don’t.

Garrett moves past them with a folder tucked beneath one arm, his expression calm enough to make accusation feel theatrical. “Heat proximity makes ordinary comfort feel larger than it is,” he says, like he’s offering weather commentary. “We’ll keep the house steady tonight.”

Theo nods once. Calliope looks down at the towels.

Sloane takes one step forward, and I catch the shift in him before it becomes sound. The sharp pull of his shoulders. The way his hand opens and closes at his side. He can feel the wrongness, but there’s nowhere clean to put it. Garrett hasn’t barked. He hasn’t threatened anyone. He’s only left a sentence in the room and watched everyone rearrange themselves around it.

That’s what makes my attention sharpen.

By late afternoon, Theo is tucked in the sunroom with Sloane, quiet but pliant beneath a blanket. Garrett has retreated to his study for a call. Calliope is in the kitchen, wiping down a counter already clean enough to reflect the overhead lights. She moves the sponge in the same tight circle again and again, her gaze fixed on the granite like the surface has given her a task she’s terrified of failing.

“Calliope,” I say.

She stills, but she doesn’t turn right away. Her shoulders lift on an inhale, then lower with care. “I’m almost done.”

“With what?”

Her hand tightens around the sponge. “I don’t know.”

I cross the kitchen and set my hand over hers. She lets me stop the motion, but her fingers stay tense beneath mine. Her skin is cold. That small fact irritates something deep in my chest, because this house is warm, dinner is on, and Sloane and I are close enough to hear if she calls.

“Look at me,” I say.

She does. Her eyes are clear, which somehow makes it worse. She isn’t panicked. She’s arranging herself into usefulness by instinct, the way some people check locks before bed.

I keep my voice low. “Has Garrett said something that made you unsure where you’re allowed to stand with Theo?”

Her mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

The silence lasts long enough for the refrigerator to hum on behind us. Long enough for her eyes to flick toward the hallway, then back to me. She doesn’t look guilty. She looks caught between two answers, and neither one belongs to her.

“Calliope,” I say again, softer this time.

“I don’t want to make anything harder for him,” she says. “Theo’s close to his heat, and I know that changes things. I know I’m not—” She stops there, biting down hard on whatever word tries to follow.

My hand closes around hers before she can pull away. “You’re not what?”

She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.” I take the sponge from her and set it in the sink. “That’s enough.”