31. Garrett
Garrett
I stand at the edge of the kitchen with a legal call muted against my ear and watch Calliope move through the room as if the house has been built around the path of her body.
She’s barefoot, hair twisted up carelessly, one sleeve of her cardigan slipping toward her elbow while she stirs something on the stove.
Theo follows her in a loose, restless orbit, drifting from the pantry to the island and back again, never more than two steps from the reach of her hand.
He has three Alphas in the house. He has a nearly finished sunroom nest, a regulated meal schedule, a full pre-heat plan, and every approved comfort Bellwether recommends for an Omega this close to his heat.
Still, when Calliope turns to reach for the salt, Theo moves first, passing it to her with both hands like an offering.
“Thank you, Star,” she says, and her smile lands on him with unbearable softness.
Theo’s face opens. The whole of him responds to her, shoulders lowering, mouth curving, a faint purr stuttering in his chest before he tucks his chin like he can hide it.
He’s wearing one of her sweaters again. The gray one.
The neck is stretched, and the sleeve hangs past his wrist, and every time he lifts his hand to his face, he breathes her in before he remembers anyone might be watching.
Sloane sees it and lights up.
That is the part I keep returning to, though I know better than to make this about Sloane’s smile.
He’s leaning against the island with a coffee mug in hand, talking to Idris about pantry inventory, and the moment Calliope glances over her shoulder, his entire face changes.
He becomes warmer, broader, less contained.
He sets the mug down, steps behind her, and kisses her temple as if the kitchen belongs to them because she’s standing in it.
Idris is no better. He pauses mid-sentence to slide a small plate toward her, sliced pear and cheese arranged with the kind of quiet attention he usually reserves for contracts and risk maps.
Calliope doesn’t even notice at first. She’s asking Theo whether he wants broth or tea with lunch, and Idris waits, patient as a man at worship, until she takes the pear because his fingers nudge the plate into the exact path of her hand.
They don't defy me. Defiance would be cleaner. Defiance would have a charge, a shape, a thing I could name and answer in kind.
This is worse. They simply forget to look to me first.
I unmute the phone long enough to confirm a hearing time with Judge Bell’s clerk, then end the call and slide my phone into my pocket.
My reflection catches in the dark glass of the cabinet: pressed shirt, rolled sleeves, calm expression, head Alpha of record.
Every legal structure that makes this pack legitimate runs through my name, my work, my signature, and still the emotional body of the house turns toward a Beta who has mistaken usefulness for centrality.
“The revised Bellwether addendum came through,” I say, stepping fully into the kitchen.
My tone is mild enough that Sloane keeps his growl behind his teeth, though I see the effort it costs him.
“I’ll need everyone’s availability tightened for the next forty-eight hours.
Theo’s close to his heat, and the pre-heat spikes are coming with less warning. ”
Calliope’s hand stills on the spoon. Theo looks at her first, then me, which tells me more than his words would have. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Calliope says at once, too quickly and too gently. She reaches for him, then stops herself with her fingers hovering an inch from his sleeve. “Nothing’s wrong, Star.”
That pause is the only good thing I have seen all morning.
“It’s preparation,” I say, giving Theo the answer Calliope softened. “Preparation keeps a hard day from becoming a dangerous one. Idris, the sunroom list needs one more pass before lunch. Theo should be present for it so the final placement matches what his body is choosing today.”
Idris looks at me over the rim of his tea. His gaze has become less convenient these past few days, sharper in the corners, too willing to remain on a point after everyone else has moved on. “We checked it this morning.”
“Then the second check should be quick.”
Theo’s fingers curl into the hem of Calliope’s cardigan. The motion is small, but Sloane’s eyes drop to it immediately, and the room tightens around the sight of that hand. Calliope looks down too. Her face softens in a way that makes something hot and precise press under my ribs.
I smooth it away before it reaches my voice.
“Calliope, your department sent another reminder about the faculty-audit packet,” I say. “It would help if you handled that before the house gets busier this afternoon. The quiet window will be useful.”
Her eyes lift to mine. There is a question in them, buried under the habit of being reasonable. “I thought I could help Theo finish the sunroom first.”
“You already have.” I let warmth enter the words and watch her absorb it like a reprimand she has been trained to call praise.
“He has your sweaters, your notes for the linen rotation, and half your kitchen in his stomach. Let Idris take this pass. Protecting your work is part of protecting the pack.”
Sloane sets his mug down too hard. Coffee jumps over the rim and stains the pale stone counter before Calliope reaches automatically for a towel. “She’s not a prep assistant you can schedule out of the way.”
I turn my attention to him slowly. A reactive Alpha can be managed if he is given enough room to hear himself sound unreasonable.
“No one is scheduling her out of the way. I’m asking each of us to do the piece that best supports Theo’s heat.
Calliope has professional obligations that matter, and Theo needs time with his Alphas without every comfort turning into a negotiation. ”
Theo goes very still.
Calliope’s hand closes around the towel, but she doesn't wipe the spill. Idris’s eyes shift from Theo to me, then back again. He notices the stillness. Of course he notices the stillness. He has made a career out of reading what other men prefer to miss.
“We can do the sunroom after she eats,” Idris says.
“She can take the plate to her office.” I keep my voice smooth. “The audit packet won’t finish itself, and the food will still nourish her at a desk.”
For half a second, Sloane looks ready to cross the kitchen. It is there in the line of his shoulders, in the way his Alpha gathers around him until the air tastes like smoke and burnt sugar. Calliope sees it too, and her fear for him gives me what my authority alone doesn't.
“It’s okay,” she says, quiet and immediate. “I really do need to get the packet done.”
Sloane turns toward her, betrayed by the agreement. “Baby.”
“I’m fine.” She wipes the coffee from the counter because it gives her somewhere to put her hands. “I’ll eat in the office. Theo, I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
Theo nods without looking at me. He doesn’t let go of her cardigan until Idris moves close enough to touch his back, and even then, his fingers slide from the fabric with a reluctance that feels obscene in its intimacy.
Idris murmurs something too low for me to catch, and Theo follows him toward the hall with one backward glance that lands entirely on Calliope.
The room recalibrates badly once they are gone.
Sloane stays near Calliope, close enough that his hip brushes hers when she reaches for the plate Idris made. He does it deliberately, a primitive claim presented as comfort. Calliope’s shoulders lower at the contact, and the humiliation of watching it almost cracks the shape of my face.
I pick up the folder from the island before my fingers can tighten around something fragile. “Sloane, the pantry delivery needs confirmation. Theo’s tolerating the electrolyte blend, but the plain crackers are almost gone, and Idris noted that the peach cups have too much syrup.”
Sloane gives me a long look. “You want me to confirm groceries.”
“I want you to stop pretending groceries become less important because they aren’t dramatic.
” I pass the list across the island and let the paper sit between us.
“Food, hydration, linen rotation, temperature control. Those are the things that carry an Omega through a heat. The rest is sentiment unless it supports the plan.”
Calliope flinches at sentiment. Barely. Enough.
Sloane catches it, and his jaw flexes. He reaches for her, but she steps back before he can touch her, plate in hand and eyes already lowered. “I’m going to work on the packet,” she says. “Theo’s going to need the house quiet anyway.”
“Callie,” Sloane says, and there is enough ache in it that I nearly lose patience.
She gives him a smile that costs her something. “I’m right down the hall.”
That phrase again. Right down the hall. Near enough to be called upon. Far enough to train the body into distance. Useful. Available. Peripheral.
She leaves with the small plate in one hand and her laptop tucked under her arm.
Sloane watches her go with the expression of a man being asked to let a door close on his own pulse.
I almost tell him that this is the kindness he keeps refusing to understand.
I almost tell him that Calliope will hurt less if she learns the shape of her place before the heat strips all of them down to biology.
Instead, I tap the pantry list with two fingers. “Confirm the delivery before noon.”
He laughs once, without humor. “You’re getting brave.”
“No.” I meet his eyes. “I’m getting practical.”
He takes the list because refusing would make him look like exactly what he is: overprotective, volatile, more interested in challenging me than stabilizing the Omega upstairs.
He stalks out through the mudroom with his phone already in hand, and I let him have the small victory of slamming the door.