28. Idris
Idris
Garrett doesn’t raise his voice.
That’s the first thing I learned about him years ago, long before Calliope came into this house with Sloane’s hand on her back and a wary smile she tried to soften for the rest of us.
Garrett can command a room with quiet. He lets everyone else spend their energy reacting, then steps into the space they leave behind and calls it reason.
Today, I start counting what follows him.
Theo comes out of Garrett’s office after lunch with his sleeves pulled over his hands and his eyes lowered to the floor.
He walks past the sunroom without turning his head, though the half-built nest inside is full of Calliope’s sweaters and the soft pillows he arranged himself.
When Sloane calls his name from the kitchen, Theo stops fast enough that his heel catches on the runner.
He doesn’t answer until Garrett says, from the study doorway, “Give him a minute. He’s processing. ”
Sloane’s jaw tightens. Mine does too.
Calliope is near the counter with a stack of folded dish towels in front of her. She reaches for Theo, then stops before her fingers touch his sleeve. The motion is small, almost nothing. Anyone else would miss it. I don’t.
Garrett moves past them with a folder tucked beneath one arm, his expression calm enough to make accusation feel theatrical. “Heat proximity makes ordinary comfort feel larger than it is,” he says, like he’s offering weather commentary. “We’ll keep the house steady tonight.”
Theo nods once. Calliope looks down at the towels.
Sloane takes one step forward, and I catch the shift in him before it becomes sound.
The sharp pull of his shoulders. The way his hand opens and closes at his side.
He can feel the wrongness, but there’s nowhere clean to put it.
Garrett hasn’t barked. He hasn’t threatened anyone.
He’s only left a sentence in the room and watched everyone rearrange themselves around it.
That’s what makes my attention sharpen.
By late afternoon, Theo is tucked in the sunroom with Sloane, quiet but pliant beneath a blanket.
Garrett has retreated to his study for a call.
Calliope is in the kitchen, wiping down a counter already clean enough to reflect the overhead lights.
She moves the sponge in the same tight circle again and again, her gaze fixed on the granite like the surface has given her a task she’s terrified of failing.
“Calliope,” I say.
She stills, but she doesn’t turn right away. Her shoulders lift on an inhale, then lower with care. “I’m almost done.”
“With what?”
Her hand tightens around the sponge. “I don’t know.”
I cross the kitchen and set my hand over hers. She lets me stop the motion, but her fingers stay tense beneath mine. Her skin is cold. That small fact irritates something deep in my chest, because this house is warm, dinner is on, and Sloane and I are close enough to hear if she calls.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does. Her eyes are clear, which somehow makes it worse. She isn’t panicked. She’s arranging herself into usefulness by instinct, the way some people check locks before bed.
I keep my voice low. “Has Garrett said something that made you unsure where you’re allowed to stand with Theo?”
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
The silence lasts long enough for the refrigerator to hum on behind us. Long enough for her eyes to flick toward the hallway, then back to me. She doesn’t look guilty. She looks caught between two answers, and neither one belongs to her.
“Calliope,” I say again, softer this time.
“I don’t want to make anything harder for him,” she says. “Theo’s close to his heat, and I know that changes things. I know I’m not—” She stops there, biting down hard on whatever word tries to follow.
My hand closes around hers before she can pull away. “You’re not what?”
She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” I take the sponge from her and set it in the sink. “That’s enough.”
For a moment, I think she’ll argue. Calliope has always been gentlest when she’s most prepared to bleed quietly.
She can make self-erasure sound like maturity if no one listens closely enough.
I used to think that was only old damage.
Some of it is. I can feel the history under the way she holds herself, the old almost-family wound Sloane warned us about before we ever let Garrett put our names on the same filings.
This feels fresher.
I turn her hand palm-up and press my thumb into the center of it, slow and firm. “I can leave this alone for now,” I say. “I can sit with you. Or you can come upstairs with me and let me take care of you for a while. Your choice.”
Her breath shakes out of her. She looks at the hallway again, toward the sunroom, toward Garrett’s closed study door, toward every invisible line this house has drawn across her body.
Then she looks back at me. “Upstairs.”
I don’t smile. I don’t praise her like she has passed some test. I just nod, take her hand, and lead her upstairs.
Our bedroom is quiet when I shut the door behind us. The click of the lock settles through the room, clean and final. Calliope stands near the foot of the bed with her fingers curled against her palms, like she doesn’t know what to do with herself now that there’s no chore in front of her.
I step into her space, but I don’t touch her yet. “Tell me your color.”
Her lashes lower. “Green.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s still true.”
I put two fingers beneath her chin and lift her face. “Then say it again.”
Her throat works. “Green, Idris.”
The sound of my name in her mouth loosens the tightest part of my control.
I lean in slowly enough for her to turn away.
She doesn’t. She rises onto her toes and meets me halfway, her hands catching in the front of my shirt.
The kiss starts careful, then breaks open when she makes a small sound against my mouth, wounded and relieved at once.
I pull back before the need in me gets ahead of the need in her. “Last choice before I touch you properly. Bed, my lap, or we stop here.”
Her eyes shine. “Bed.”
I guide her there with a hand at the small of her back. She sits on the edge of the mattress first, then lets me ease her fully onto it when I nod. I stay standing for a moment, looking down at her, giving both of us a final breath of space.
“Color,” I say.
“Green.”
I undress her slowly. Shirt first, button by button, watching her face the entire time.
She lifts her arms when I ask. The fabric slides away.
Her bra follows. I set each piece aside instead of letting it fall.
Pants next, then the soft underwear beneath.
When she is bare I pause again, one knee on the mattress, and rest my hand over her sternum so she can feel the steady pressure.
“Still with me?”
“Yes.”
I lean down and kiss her. The first kiss is careful. The second deepens when she answers it. Her hands find my shoulders, then slide into my hair. I keep the pace measured, learning the exact moment her breathing changes from nervous to wanting. Only then do I move lower.
My mouth traces the line of her throat, the slope of one shoulder, the soft skin above her heart.
I take my time at her breasts, kissing, tasting, drawing one nipple into my mouth until her back arches and a quiet sound leaves her.
The other receives the same attention. Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Idris—”
“I’m here.” I kiss the underside of each breast, then lower, across the soft plane of her stomach. “You don’t have to do anything but feel this.”
When I settle between her thighs she opens for me without hesitation.
I press a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other, then higher.
The first stroke of my tongue is slow, dragging a gasp from her lips.
I do it again, following the familiar shift of her hips and the soft, broken sounds she makes.
One of my hands rests on her hip, holding her steady.
The other reaches up so she can lace her fingers through mine if she needs the anchor.
She takes it.
I work her open with patience, circling the swollen peak of her with the flat of my tongue, then dipping lower to taste her more deeply.
Every time her breathing stutters I ease back just enough to keep her from tipping too fast. Every time she softens I press closer again.
Her free hand finds the sheets, then my shoulder, then my hair once more.
“Color,” I murmur against her.
“Green. Please don’t stop.”
I don’t.
I slide one finger inside her, then a second when she opens easily for me, curling them in time with the slow strokes of my tongue.
The dual sensation pulls a longer sound from her throat.
Her thighs tremble on either side of my head.
I keep the rhythm exact, reading every small change in her body, until the pleasure starts to gather in earnest.
That is when the apology comes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice already fraying. “I’m taking too much time, I know I’m—”
I stop immediately. My mouth leaves her. My fingers stay inside her but no longer move. I lift my head so she has to see my face.
“No.”
Her eyes open, wet and startled.
“You don't apologize for this.” I keep my voice low and absolute. “Receiving care isn't theft. Wanting this isn't a burden. Color.”
Her throat works. “Green.”
“Then stay with your body. Stay with me. Let me give this to you.”
I wait until she nods. Only then do I lower my head again.
This time I don't hold back the intensity.
I suck gently at the peak of her while my fingers stroke the place inside that makes her hips lift.
Her free hand fists in the sheets. The one holding mine tightens hard.
Soft, broken sounds leave her with every breath.
I keep her there, right at the edge, until the only thing left in her is sensation and the sound of my name.