12. Calliope
Calliope
Sloane texts me three minutes after office hours end.
Pulling in. Don’t hide in your office, sweetheart.
I look down at the message, then across the quad toward the faculty café windows.
My reflection sits faintly over the tables inside, gray scarf, charcoal coat, hair pinned more carefully than usual.
I loosen the scarf with two fingers and try to stop looking like I’m waiting for my pack to step into the middle of my workday.
Garrett got pulled into court before breakfast, one of those hearings he said should be simple while already packing three extra folders into his bag.
Idris left for Blackline ten minutes later with his phone against his ear and his tie still loose at his throat.
That leaves Sloane bringing Theo to campus alone, one Alpha, one Omega, and one approved off-site lunch wedged between Bellwether’s rules and my afternoon seminar.
My phone buzzes again before the SUV turns into the visitor circle.
Idris: Eat lunch. Actual lunch. Sloane will tell me if you don’t.
The warmth that moves through me is familiar enough to hurt. I type yes, sir with my thumb half-hidden in my coat sleeve, then lock the phone before the blush can climb any higher.
The black SUV pulls up a minute later. Sloane gets out first, broad shoulders filling the open driver’s door, but his smile folds smaller when he glances back at the passenger seat.
I see him do it. I see the way he pulls himself in before Theo even steps down, making his body less of a wall and more of a place beside one.
He reaches me and takes my hand instead of dragging me into the hug sitting plainly on his face. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, warm over my pulse, and the bond between us steadies around that touch.
“You wore the gray scarf,” he says, voice low enough to stay between us. “I was hoping for the blue one.”
“I’m at work,” I say, though my fingers close around his before I can make myself sound stern. “I’m trying to look like someone who can be trusted with a syllabus.”
“You do,” he says, gaze moving over my face. “You also look like someone Idris was right to threaten about lunch.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Idris has too much range from several miles away.”
Sloane kisses my knuckles once, then lets his hand lower as Theo steps out of the SUV.
Theo wears a dark hoodie that hangs too long over his hands and soft black pants tucked into worn boots.
He looks at the Gothic arches first, then the fountain, then the students crossing the quad with laptops against their chests, every moving part tracked before his eyes find mine.
“Hi, Theo,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “Welcome to Briarwick. This is where I spend most of my time pretending I don’t grade papers in the café.”
His mouth moves around the shape of a greeting, but the sound doesn’t come. I leave my hand open near my side, palm up and patient, and after one long breath, he steps close enough for his sleeve to brush mine.
Sloane closes the SUV door softly. “Garrett said Bellwether approved one hour, café only, no student union, and no wandering into your office unless Theo asks.”
“That’s fair,” I say, starting toward the café slowly enough that Theo can match me without being pulled along. “My office currently has fourteen essays on my desk and one mug I’m pretending I didn’t forget there yesterday.”
Theo looks at me, then at the humanities building behind me. His fingers brush the end of my scarf once, barely there before he lets go again.
A student comes out of the café as we reach the door, balancing iced coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other. She catches herself before she walks straight into Sloane, eyes widening, then looks at me with relief.
“Professor Monroe,” she says. “I’m sorry. I emailed about the thesis proposal.”
“I saw it, Lila.” I hold the door with my shoulder and keep my hand where Theo can find it if he needs to. “Your topic’s strong. Narrow the last paragraph, and stop apologizing before you make your argument.”
Mara smiles like I’ve handed her something useful. “Thank you. I will.”
She hurries across the quad, and Theo stays still beside me after she leaves.
His gaze follows Mara for a second before returning to my face, quieter and more focused than before.
When his fingers find the edge of my scarf again, he holds on this time, only to the soft fringe, only for the space of one breath.
The faculty café is past the lunch rush, quiet enough for the scrape of one chair to carry from the window tables.
Two professors sit near the back with cold tea between them, and someone from admissions taps through messages near the pastry case.
Theo checks every person before sliding into the booth beside me, close enough that his knee touches mine under the table.
Sloane sits across from us with his phone face-up beside his water glass. He keeps his hands visible, one wrapped loosely around the glass, the other resting flat on the table like he learned something from yesterday and means to keep it learned.
The server comes by with menus, and Theo’s shoulders rise when she asks what we want to drink. I order hibiscus tea first, then look at him without turning the whole table into a question.
“You can have water, tea, soda, coffee, or nothing yet,” I say. “The water here is fine. The tea is better.”
Theo looks at the server’s notepad, then at me. His fingers touch the seam of my coat under the table, hidden by the edge of the booth.
“Tea,” he whispers.
The server writes it down like the pause has no weight. “Same kind?”
Theo nods.
Sloane waits until she leaves before picking up his phone. He reads the message waiting there, then turns the screen toward me.
Idris: She ordered food?
I take my own phone out and answer before Sloane can enjoy himself too much.
Me: I ordered tea. Food is next. Stop looming from Blackline.
Idris replies almost immediately.
Idris: Food first. Tea after.
Theo reads the message from the side of the table. His gaze flicks from the phone to me, and the careful line of his mouth softens a little.
“He worries,” I say.
Sloane’s thumb moves once over the rim of his glass. “He’s good at it.”
Theo keeps looking at the phone until I set mine face-down beside my napkin. He doesn’t smile, but his shoulder stays against mine while we look over the menu, and the contact settles something inside my ribs.
When the server returns, I order the turkey sandwich with fries because Idris will know if I don’t.
Sloane orders a chicken wrap and soup, his eyes on Theo the whole time without staring directly at him.
Theo waits until the server turns to him, then looks down at the menu like the words have shifted out of order.
“The grilled cheese is simple,” I say. “Fries come with it. You can change anything.”
His throat moves. “Grilled cheese.”
The server writes it down. “Fries with that?”
Theo nods, eyes lowered.
“Good choice,” I say after she leaves, making the words calm instead of celebratory. “The fries are the best thing here.”
Cardamom eases into the coffee-and-toast smell of the café, faint at first, then a little warmer when Theo’s knee presses more fully against mine beneath the table.
My body notices the change before I have time to tell it what the moment is allowed to be.
Heat gathers low in my belly, soft and sudden, and I wrap both hands around the water glass already waiting at my place so I don’t reach for him too fast.
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.