19. Calliope #2
Theo makes another sound, but this one is shy and pleased.
He turns back to me, face flushed, and his scent blooms under the layers of Alpha on him.
Cardamom, peach blossom, smoked cedar, black tea, rain, mint, leather.
I breathe all of it in and feel something inside my chest open so wide it almost hurts.
Idris steps closer from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel.
His gaze moves over me first, the way it always does when I come home from campus, checking for what the day has done before he decides what I need.
Then he looks at Theo tucked against me, Sloane’s hand at my waist, the abandoned bowl on the counter, and the corner of his mouth softens.
“Welcome home, Calliope,” he says, and when he reaches us, his hand comes to my jaw. He kisses me once, slow enough to settle the room, then presses his thumb lightly beneath my chin. “Dinner is nearly ready. He found the bowl.”
“I heard.” I glance down at Theo, whose face goes pinker at once. “I received several official updates.”
Theo ducks his face into my sweater, but I can feel the smile against me.
For a minute, everything feels exactly right.
Idris at the stove, Sloane behind us, Theo clinging to me in clothes that smell like the men who have been holding him all weekend.
My phone is still in my hand with his messages warm on the screen.
The kitchen is bright and loud in small ways, spoons against pans, rain against the windows, Sloane’s hand squeezing my hip when Theo kisses the corner of my mouth again because he can.
Then Garrett comes in from the hall.
He's still in shirtsleeves, like he has been working late without leaving the house entirely.
His tie is gone, and there is a faint crease at one cuff where Theo must have gripped him earlier.
The sight makes my face heat again before I can stop it, a flash of the morning rushing back in fragments I never saw and still somehow carry.
Garrett’s gaze moves over the kitchen.
For one second, he looks at Theo wrapped around me, at my hands in Theo’s hair, at Sloane’s body pressed close behind us.
Something passes through his eyes so quickly I can't name it.
It isn't anger. It isn't even disapproval.
It is a warning I don't understand before his expression settles into the calm warmth I know.
“There you are,” Garrett says, crossing the room. His hand comes to my shoulder, firm and nonromantic, the head-Alpha touch of someone greeting a pack member home. “Long day?”
I nod, still holding Theo. “Long enough.”
“Then let’s get everyone fed.” Garrett’s thumb presses once against my shoulder before he lets go, and the touch should steady me because it always has. “Idris has kept dinner alive despite Sloane’s repeated attempts to interpret tasting as a formal assignment.”
Sloane’s hand shifts at my waist. “I supported the process.”
“You compromised the process,” Idris says from the stove, but his voice holds no heat. He turns off one burner and reaches for the serving dish Theo has been guarding. “Theo, bring me the bowl.”
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 place Mara’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 while Sloane 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.
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
His eyes search my face, and I know he doesn't believe me all the way. But I also know what he sees: me sitting beside him, Theo safe with Idris and Garrett, dinner on the table, all of us together. I know because that is what I see too, and still my chest hurts in a place no one touched.
“I’m going to wash my hands,” I say, pushing back from the table before Sloane can ask another question. “I got sauce on my sleeve.”
There is no sauce on my sleeve.
No one calls me on it.