17. Sloane
Sloane
Callie is doing that thing with her hands again.
She has one tucked under her thigh and the other wrapped around her mug, thumb rubbing slowly along the handle like she's trying to polish the ceramic down to dust. She's on the couch, technically.
Her hip is on the cushion, her feet are under her, and she has been sitting there for the last twenty minutes pretending to read an article on her tablet.
But every time Theo shifts on the floor near the coffee table, she goes still.
Theo is doing the same thing in reverse.
He has the plant book open across his knees, one of Callie’s old gray sweaters folded beside him, and a pencil in his hand because Idris told him he could mark the pages with sticky notes instead of trying to remember every question.
He has marked nothing. He keeps looking at Callie, then looking away before she catches him, like her wanting him back yesterday turned into a secret he isn't sure he's allowed to touch in daylight.
It makes my teeth ache.
The sunroom should feel good tonight. The windows are dark, reflecting warm lamplight back at us.
The rain started around dinner, soft against the glass, steady enough to make the whole room feel tucked away from the rest of the world.
Idris is in the armchair near the shelves with a notebook in his lap, pretending he's reading through Miller’s evening notes when every line of his body is tuned to the couch.
Garrett is on the far end of the sectional, sleeves rolled up, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone facedown beside him after finishing a call.
He looks calm in that polished Garrett way, but he has stayed in the room since dinner, close enough for Theo to glance at him whenever the house makes a sound.
Theo has looked at all of us tonight.
He has leaned into Idris’ hand when Idris checked his temperature. He let Garrett tuck the throw around his shoulders after the rain made him shiver. He took three bites of sandwich from my fingers while glaring at me like I had invented dinner to personally offend him.
Then Callie sat down, and every line of him started reaching for her.
Except he hasn't moved closer.
Across the room, Idris lifts his gaze from the notebook. His eyes meet mine for half a second, then drop to Theo’s hand. The pencil is trembling between his fingers.
He hasn't used his cards once since he came home.
He has touched them. I have seen him check his pocket and the little dish on the table, seen his fingers brush the laminated edges like a habit.
But he hasn't pulled one out. Not when Miller came back for the evening check-in last night. Not when he woke up in the closet nest and found us waiting outside the door. Not during breakfast, when Garrett asked if he wanted the suite left open or closed for the day. He nodded. He pointed. He tapped Callie’s wrist once when she asked if he wanted tea.
He has been here with us, choosing in pieces, and I'm so proud of him I want to crawl out of my own skin.
I also want to get Callie off the edge of that cushion before she disappears into the stitching.
I set my mug down and stand slowly enough that Theo hears the movement before it becomes a surprise. His head comes up, eyes wide, and I lift both hands with my palms out.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’m moving because my leg fell asleep, and because Callie is sitting like the couch charges rent by the inch.”
Callie’s eyes snap to mine. “I’m sitting normally.”
“You are sitting like a woman preparing to apologize to furniture.” I cross the room, but I stop beside the coffee table instead of going straight for Theo.
The want under my skin has been getting worse all day, warm and restless, a rut-edge hum that turns every breath of Theo’s cardamom and peach blossom into something my body wants to chase.
I keep my hands visible because wanting too much is still wanting, and Theo needs to see me choose restraint before he trusts the rest.
Theo watches me, pencil still caught in his fingers.
I crouch near the coffee table, bringing myself below his eye line. “You keep looking at her.”
His face goes pink.
Callie makes a tiny sound. “Sloane.”
I glance at her. “Baby, I love you, but if you try to rescue him from the fact that he wants you, I'm going to bite the couch.”
Garrett huffs from the end of the sectional, a low sound that is almost a laugh. “That seems excessive, even for you.”
“The couch knows what it did.” I keep my voice easy, but my attention stays on Theo. “You’re allowed to look at her. You’re allowed to sit with her. You’re allowed to want her where we can see it.”
Theo’s scent flickers, peach blossom opening under the sharper spice.
Callie’s fingers tighten around her mug. She looks at Theo, then at me, guilt crossing her face so fast I almost miss it. Almost.
I point at her with two fingers. “And you. You’re allowed to be wanted where we can see it.”
Her mouth presses together, but she doesn't argue. That alone tells me how much yesterday scared her. My Callie argues with me over laundry settings, sandwich ratios, and whether a cardigan can have emotional support value. She doesn't sit there quietly unless the worry has hooked deep.
I stand and move to the couch, lowering myself beside her. I leave the space between us open, wide enough for Theo if he chooses it. Then I stretch my arm along the back of the sectional and wait.
Theo looks at the empty cushion.
He looks at Callie.
Callie sets her mug down with careful hands and turns her palm up on the cushion between us.
Theo’s pencil rolls off the book and lands on the rug. He doesn't pick it up. He crawls onto the couch with the kind of concentration that makes the entire room hold still, and he settles in the space beside Callie, close enough that his knee touches her thigh.
Callie doesn't move for half a breath.
Then her fingers close around his.
The scent change that comes off him is so soft it almost hurts.
His shoulders drop. His head tips toward her, not all the way, but enough that the line between them becomes visible to anyone with eyes.
Callie looks down at their joined hands, and the expression on her face makes my rut-edge flare hot behind my ribs.
I want to put my mouth on her.
I want to put my mouth on him.
I want to gather the whole room against my chest and growl until every doubt knows better than to come close.
Idris shifts in the chair, his gaze sharpening on me. He sees it, then. The way my fingers curl against the back of the couch, the way my scent thickens, the way Theo’s attention jumps to me as soon as my control has to work.
I breathe through my nose.
“Callie,” I say, turning toward her. “I want to kiss you.”
Her eyes soften, but she glances at Theo before she answers. That is new too, that small check, like his comfort has become part of her consent without either of them knowing how to name it.
I look at him. “Theo, I’m going to kiss our girl if she says yes. You can watch, tuck into her, look away, tell me yellow, tell me red, tap the couch, throw the plant book at my head. You get choices.”
Theo stares at me.
“The book is hardcover,” Idris says from the chair. “Aim carefully.”
Theo’s startled little laugh breaks through him, and Callie’s face opens at the sound.
I wait for her.
“Yes,” she says, voice soft. “Kiss me.”
I lean in slowly, giving Theo time to see every inch of it, and put my hand along Callie’s jaw.
She comes toward me before I reach her, which nearly ruins my plan to behave.
Her mouth meets mine warm and familiar, and the first taste of her steadies something in me even as it feeds the thing trying to wake under my skin.
I keep the kiss slow.
Callie doesn't.
Her fingers catch in the front of my shirt, and her mouth opens under mine with a small, hungry sound that goes straight down my spine. I angle her closer, thumb brushing her cheek, and feel Theo move before I see it. His hand tightens around hers. His breath catches. He doesn't pull away.
He leans in.
Callie feels it too. Her mouth pauses against mine, and the shiver that moves through her has nothing to do with fear.
I break the kiss before I turn greedy. My forehead rests against hers while I breathe once, twice, forcing the rut-edge back into a shape I can hold. “There you are.”
Callie’s eyes are dark when they open. “I’m right here.”
“I know.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, then let her go only enough to look at Theo. “How was that?”
Theo swallows. His gaze is fixed on Callie’s mouth, then mine, then the place where their hands are linked.
He taps the cushion once.
I look at Idris.
Idris closes the notebook and sets it aside. “Green?”
Theo nods.
Something proud and aching moves through me. “Good. Green means keep going?”
Another nod.
Idris stands, crossing the room with the kind of calm that makes everyone else’s breathing adjust around him. He doesn't come straight to Theo. He stops beside the coffee table, near the little dish of cards.
“You haven’t pulled one of these since you came home,” Idris says.
Theo goes still at once.
Callie’s hand tightens around his. “That’s okay, Star.”
“It is,” Idris says, voice low. “You’ve been answering us.
Nods. Touch. Looking where you want to go.
Tapping Callie’s wrist. That tells me you’re staying with us.
” He sits on the edge of the coffee table, close but not crowding, and holds Theo’s gaze.
“It also tells me we need another way to hear you if your voice locks and your hands are full.”
Theo’s eyes flick to the cards.
“We’ll keep the cards,” Idris says. “We’re adding colors. Green means yes or keep going. Yellow means slow down, pause, or check. Red means stop now. You can say the color, tap it, point to something red or yellow or green, or use your fingers.”
Garrett uncrosses his ankle and leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “That is a good system.”
Theo looks at him.