3. Calliope #2
I like seeing him like this.
I like seeing the part of him that exists before me and still makes room for me without question.
The break room is warmer than the lobby, filled with the hum of a vending machine and the faint smell of burnt coffee.
Idris is at the far table with his tablet propped against a napkin dispenser, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his dark brows drawn together in concentration.
He looks severe and beautiful and slightly murderous, which means he absolutely hasn’t eaten.
He lifts his head when we enter, his expression shifting just enough to make my stomach flutter. Idris doesn’t brighten the way Sloane does. He softens by degrees, a lowering of his shoulders, a brief release around his eyes, a quiet recalibration of the room now that I’m in it.
“You came all the way here after class,” he says, already clearing his tablet and stylus to make space on the table.
I shrug. “Garrett said he was working late and you sounded hungry.”
“Princess, we haven’t spoken since lunch.”
“Sloane texted.”
Idris’s gaze slides to Sloane. “Traitor.”
“She brought the spicy greens,” Sloane says, dropping into the chair beside me and popping the lid off one container like he’s personally won something. Steam rises between us, rich with garlic and herbs. “Be grateful.”
“I'm grateful.” Idris reaches for my hand where it rests on the table, his thumb pressing once into my knuckles. “I’m also aware that you drove here after teaching because the two of us apparently can’t be trusted to behave like adults.”
“You can’t.”
Sloane has already stolen a piece of carrot from my container. “Rude but accurate.”
I laugh and take off my coat, folding it over the back of the chair before Idris can stand to do it for me.
The break room isn’t romantic. The lighting is mediocre, the vending machine rattles every thirty seconds, and someone has left a passive-aggressive note on the microwave about covering soup.
Sloane steals a carrot before I sit down, and Idris moves the extra salsa toward me without looking away from the container he is opening.
Sloane starts stuffing his mouth, groaning around the chicken in a way that has me pressing my thighs together. I already know my scent is giving me away, my Alpha grinning before he points his fork toward my container. “I need to test that.”
“You have the same thing, Sloane.”
“Yours could be different. As your bonded Alpha, I’m obligated to verify.”
I let him steal a bite because his grin widens when I roll my eyes, and because he looks too good like this, relaxed around the edges, one arm hooked over the back of my chair, his thigh warm against mine beneath the table.
Idris watches us with the faintest curve to his mouth before he reaches over and moves the greens closer to himself.
“You’re both ridiculous,” I say, mostly because I need to say something that isn’t I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. I pick up my fork, and his thumb moves once against my knee in approval.
Idris reaches across the table and wipes sauce from the corner of Sloane’s mouth with his thumb.
Sloane catches his wrist before he can pull away and kisses the pad of it, holding Idris’s gaze until Idris leans across me and gives him a brief, warm kiss.
Their knees remain pressed together beneath the table when they settle back into their food.
“Marcus,” I start around a bite of chicken.
“Marcus Bellamy or Marcus Winters? You’ve told us about two of them,” Idris offers. “Both interesting… people, but neither of which I’ll ever want to meet.”
I snort. “Bellamy. He keeps trying to argue that late Victorian moral panic is “basically cancel culture with waistcoats.”
Sloane bursts out laughing, Idris's brows drawing together with such grave disappointment that I nearly lose my own composure.
“He said it like he’d solved Dickens,” I say, reaching for my water.
Sloane coughs once into his napkin, still grinning. “I kind of love him.”
“You absolutely would.”
Idris cuts another careful bite of greens. “I hope you made him defend the claim.”
“I asked him to define both terms before using either again.”
“That’s my girl,” Idris muses, and the warmth that rolls through me is embarrassing in its immediacy.
Sloane catches it, his grin softening into something more dangerous than teasing, and I busy myself with my fork before he can say anything about my face. It doesn’t help. My phone buzzes beside my container, effectively giving me an out.
Mara’s name lights the screen.
I expect another joke about Garrett being climbable, but the preview is about Halston again.
Seriously. Think about it. They’d be lucky to have you.
I turn the phone facedown, but Idris notices the movement. He pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, then lowers it as if the thing deserves his full attention. “Who was that? Something from the school?” he asks.
I nod and wipe my fingers on my napkin, buying myself a second I don’t need. “Yeah, Mara sent me a job posting at Halston College. It’s one of Briarwick’s sister campuses.”
Sloane shifts beside me, his knee still pressed to mine.
He doesn’t make a joke, which somehow makes the conversation feel more real.
Idris waits while I explain the parts I’ve been trying not to look at too directly, all of the pros of taking the position.
Saying it out loud makes the offer feel less like a forwarded email and more like a door cracked open at the end of a hallway.