3. Calliope
Calliope
The dinner containers are still warm against my ribs, garlic and roasted chicken blooming through the insulated bag as I cross the parking garage toward the glass-fronted lobby of Blackline Securities.
My work tote keeps sliding off my shoulder, the strap catching in the soft wool of my coat, and I have three student essays waiting in my inbox with subject lines that all begin with some variation of Quick question, which almost never means anything quick.
I should go home after class. That would be the sensible choice. My lecture ran long, my feet hurt from standing in front of a classroom for two hours, and Garrett has already texted the pack thread that he’ll be out late with work, which means the house will be quiet enough for grading.
But Sloane sent one message at four-thirty that said, Idris has consumed only coffee and rage today, and that’s all it takes.
I stopped for dinner on Fourth, ordered the roasted chicken Sloane pretends he doesn’t crave every week, added the spicy greens Idris likes, and told myself I was only being practical.
They’ll forget to eat if no one puts food directly in front of them.
Idris will claim he’s had “something” and mean a handful of almonds at noon.
Sloane will accuse a protein bar of being dinner and then steal half my meal while grinning like a criminal.
My phone buzzes as I reach the elevator, Mara’s name lighting up the screen before I can tuck it into my pocket. I answer with my shoulder, shifting the insulated bag higher before the containers can tilt.
“I’m not ignoring you,” I say.
“You are absolutely ignoring me,” Mara says, her voice bright with the kind of accusation only a friend can make sound affectionate. “Which is rude, because I sent you a legitimate career opportunity, not a pyramid scheme.”
“I saw it.”
“And? Come on, Callie. It’s a good opportunity. It’s perfect for you!”
I huff out a sigh. “And I’m carrying roasted chicken through a parking garage.”
“That isn't an answer, Calliope.”
I smile despite myself and press the elevator button with my elbow.
Mara has worked with me at Briarwick for three years, long enough to know when I’m dodging, and long enough to call me on it without bothering to soften the landing.
She also sent the Halston College posting four times since Monday, each email forwarded with a different subject line.
The most recent one says: Full-time track.
Better pay. Fewer committee assignments. Stop pretending you’re not tempted.
“The Halston position is beautiful on paper,” I admit as the elevator doors open. “Better course load, better pay, full-time track, smaller department. I read the whole thing.”
“You read the whole thing and then didn’t answer me for six hours.”
“I had class.”
“You had class for six hours?”
“I had emotional avoidance after class.”
“At least you’re self-aware.” Paper rustles on her end, and I can picture her at her desk, one heel tucked under her, glasses sliding down her nose while she pretends not to be invested in my life. “So why are you hesitating?”
Because my life is here, I tell myself.
Because Sloane is probably hunched over a server log right now, dark hair falling into his eyes while he forgets that his body needs more than caffeine and spite.
Because Idris is at a table somewhere with his sleeves rolled up, perfectly controlled, perfectly beautiful, quietly turning neglecting himself into a work ethic.
Because the house is complicated and warm and mine, even with the scent cards on the dining table and Garrett’s careful voice threading through every conversation about the Omega search.
“I have a pack,” I say instead. “You know, Idris and Sloane, remember?”
Mara hums. “I thought you had three Alphas. You have absolutely told me there are three men in that house with Alpha voices and Alpha shoulders.”
“Sloane and Idris are mine,” I say, stepping out of the elevator into the lobby. “Garrett is our pack Alpha.”
“That sounds like an Alpha.”
“He's an Alpha.”
“So three.”
“He’s not mine like that.” My cheeks heat even though I’m alone near the security gate, clutching dinner like roasted chicken can protect me from this conversation. “I don’t have sex with him.”
There’s a short, delighted silence before Mara bursts out laughing so loudly I have to pull the phone from my ear. “Oh my God, Calliope.”
“You’re the one counting Alphas.”
“I was asking about the pack structure. I wasn't asking for a seating chart of your sex life.”
“Well, now you know.”
“I do know, and I’m richer for it.” Her laughter softens into a teasing hum. “Respectfully, I’ve seen Garrett Crane at fundraisers, and I’d climb him like a tree.”
“Mara.”
“Respectfully. Professionally. With appropriate workplace boundaries.”
“You’re awful.”
“I’m honest. There’s a difference.” She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, “So you don’t sleep with the climbable pack Alpha.”
“No.”
“But?”
I shift the bag again, feeling the warmth of dinner through my coat. “He’s great for cuddling.”
Mara makes a sound like she’s been handed gossip and dessert at the same time. “So you have two Alphas waiting for dinner, one climbable pack Alpha for cuddling, and somehow Halston is still the complicated part?”
“I didn’t say I can’t consider it.”
“You’re hesitating,” she says, softer now. “Why?”
The lobby opens in front of me, all polished concrete and quiet glass, the security desk glowing beneath recessed lights.
Beyond the turnstiles, I can see the open office stretching back toward the break room, most of the day staff gone but enough monitors still awake to bathe the place in blue-white light.
“We’re going to trial an Omega,” I say.
Mara goes quiet in a way that’s careful without being cold. “Oh.”
“His name is Theo. We haven’t met him yet, but his profile is…
” I stop near the security gate and look through the glass, searching for Sloane before he has a chance to find me first. “It’s sweet.
He seems sweet. He likes low light and quiet spaces and plants, and I keep thinking about the sunroom because the afternoon light is soft there, but the reading nook might be better if he needs somewhere smaller. ”
“That doesn’t sound like hesitation.”
“It’s not, exactly.” I watch one of the analysts move away from a desk, and then there’s Sloane, bent over a monitor with one hand braced beside the keyboard, his broad shoulders filling out his black work shirt.
His hair is a mess from his own fingers, and his mouth is set in the focused line he gets when he’s hunting a pattern through data.
My chest goes soft so fast it almost hurts.
“I’m excited. I really am. I want this to work.
I don’t want to be the reason it doesn’t. ”
“So the Halston job feels badly timed.”
“The commute alone would be killer. Some days I’d probably have to stay near campus, especially if I had late classes or office hours.
If Theo moves in and he’s trying to settle, if the pack is changing, if everyone needs to learn each other…
” I swallow as Sloane lifts his head, almost like he feels me watching.
“I don’t want to be halfway across the state while my life is happening without me. ”
Mara is quiet long enough for the answer to settle between us. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said about it,” she says at last.
I laugh, and Sloane’s head snaps toward the sound. The change in his face is immediate. His frown vanishes, his eyes warm, and then he’s moving toward the security gate with the same single-minded purpose he brings to everything he loves.
“I have to go,” I say, already smiling despite myself.
“Go feed your men. But don’t bury the offer just because wanting something for yourself feels inconvenient.”
“I’m not burying it. Call me later.”
“I will.”
“And tell the climbable one I said hello.”
“Mara.”
“Respectfully.”
I’m still laughing when Sloane reaches the gate, prowling toward me, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the building worth noticing. He uses his badge to override the gate before I can sign in, the glass panel hissing open, and then his hands are on me before he even looks at the bag.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into the low, rough register that always makes my knees feel unreliable. “Tell me that’s the chicken from Fourth.”
“It’s the chicken from Fourth.”
He closes his eyes for one dramatic second. “I knew I bonded you for a reason.”
“You bonded me because you’re obsessed with me.”
“That too.” He reaches for the bag, but his other hand finds my waist first, pulling me into him until my coat brushes his shirt and the familiar heat of him wraps around me. “Mostly that.”
The lobby is too bright and too public, but I let myself lean into him anyway. Coffee clings to his shirt when he pulls me closer, and his mouth brushes my temple before he finally looks at the dinner bag.
“People can see us,” I say, though I don’t move away.
“Good. Let them know I’m adored.”
“You’re fed. There’s a difference.”
“Not to me.” He kisses me quickly, hard enough to leave heat in my cheeks, then finally takes the bag from my shoulder. “Idris is in the break room pretending server logs are more important than his blood sugar. You’re saving lives, baby.”
“I know. I’m very noble.”
He keeps one arm draped over my shoulders as we walk toward the back, his thumb hooking into the strap of my tote like he doesn’t trust it not to slide again.
The office is quieter than it would be during the day, most desks empty, the remaining analysts murmuring into headsets or staring at screens with the focused exhaustion of people chasing something that refuses to be found.
Sloane belongs here in a way that makes my heart squeeze.
He's easy at home, loud and touchy and shameless, but here there’s a different edge to him.
He moves like someone who knows every exit, every camera angle, every risk in the room.