34. Calliope
Calliope
By Thursday, the flowers on Dash’s kitchen table have been replaced once already.
The first bundle came from Sloane, pale yellow roses mixed with tiny white flowers he couldn’t name.
He stood in the doorway holding them too tightly, looking like he’d rather face an armed intruder than explain why he’d stopped at the grocery store because something in the display reminded him of me.
Theo stole three stems for the nest before Idris found an actual vase in one of Dash’s attic boxes, and the rest spent two days brightening the kitchen until the petals began to soften.
The second arrangement is smaller. Sloane brings it home after checking the security work around campus, sets it beside my coffee, then slides one hand around my waist before I can thank him.
His mouth finds mine while I’m still holding the mug, and I have to put it down before I spill coffee over both of us.
“You’re hovering again,” I murmur against his lips, though my fingers have already curled into the front of his shirt.
“I’m kissing you,” he says, his hand moving lower on my hip as he pulls me closer. His eyes stay on my face, watching even while his mouth brushes mine again. “Hovering happens from farther away.”
The answer should annoy me more than it does. Instead, I let him kiss me until the coffee cools and Theo wanders in wearing one of my cardigans with the sleeves covering half his hands.
Theo looks at the flowers, then at Sloane’s hand on my waist. His expression turns thoughtful before he crosses the kitchen and presses himself against my side, claiming the space without asking anyone else to move.
“Those are better,” he says, touching one of the darker yellow petals. “The first ones smelled too sharp near the pillows.”
Sloane doesn’t argue with him. He kisses the top of Theo’s head, then returns his mouth to my temple before leaving for the office with Idris. The whole interaction takes less than a minute, yet warmth follows me through the morning like someone tucked it beneath my skin.
Dash brings me something from the campus shop that afternoon.
He comes into my office after knocking, even though the door is already open, carrying an insulated mug in one hand and a stack of departmental forms in the other.
The mug is deep green with a wide base and a lid that locks properly, the exact kind I paused over last week before deciding the one I already owned was fine.
“You didn’t need to buy this,” I tell him, turning it in my hands as he closes the door behind him.
“I know.” Dash sets the forms on the corner of my desk and steps between my knees where I’m perched against the edge. His hand settles at my lower back, familiar and warm, while the other brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “You looked at it three times and still put it back.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted it.”
His thumb moves once against my spine. “You also looked annoyed when the lid on your old one leaked into your bag.”
I open my mouth to defend the old mug, then remember the stain spreading through my lecture notes yesterday morning. Dash sees the surrender in my face and bends to kiss me before I can make a respectable argument.
The kiss is slow enough to empty my head. His palm presses more firmly against my back as I lean into him, and when he pulls away, his mouth trails along my cheek to the sensitive skin below my ear.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my fingers sliding around his wrist.
Dash kisses my shoulder through my blouse before stepping back far enough to let me breathe. “Use it tomorrow.”
He leaves the mug on my desk and takes the forms with him, apparently deciding I’ve done enough paperwork for one day. I should call him back. I should remind him that removing administrative work from my desk without asking is dangerously close to managing me.
Instead, I run my thumb over the green enamel and smile like an idiot.
Idris courts like he’s getting graded. He brings the tea I like without waiting for me to reach for the cheaper box.
He finds a scarf in a soft rust color after hearing me complain about the morning wind on campus.
He leaves a book on the nightstand because I mentioned the author during dinner, then acts unsurprised when I find it despite the fact that the edition has been out of print for years.
He also seems determined to make sure I associate every gift with his hands.
The scarf arrives around my shoulders while I’m standing at the kitchen island answering an email.
Idris steps behind me, drapes the fabric across my chest, and draws the ends into place with unhurried care.
His knuckles skim my collarbone before his mouth settles against the side of my neck.
“You’re distracting me,” I say, though I tip my head to give him more room.
“That is deliberate.” His voice is low against my skin, carrying the controlled edge that used to settle me before Garrett poisoned every quiet command in the house. “You’ve read the same sentence four times.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re staring at a student asking whether missing seven classes will affect participation.”
“It’s a complicated ethical question.”
His mouth moves lower, and my answer dissolves when his teeth graze the place above my shoulder. He doesn’t bite. He lingers there, breathing against my skin until I close the laptop and lean back into him.
“That seems less complicated now,” he murmurs.
I turn in his arms and pull him down by the front of his shirt. He kisses me with one hand at my jaw and the other firm on my waist, his restraint still present without becoming distance. When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark and intent.
“Wear the scarf tomorrow, princess,” he says, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. “I like the color on you.”
I wear it.
Theo’s gifts are smaller and somehow harder to survive.
He asks for one of my cardigans before bed and returns it folded the next morning, though it smells so thoroughly like him that I immediately put it back on.
He leaves a wrapped pastry beside my grading because he noticed I kept forgetting to eat between classes.
He saves a pressed flower from Sloane’s first arrangement and slips it between the pages of the book Idris found, explaining in a soft voice that he wanted me to have something pretty where it wouldn’t wilt.
Each time, he watches me carefully, waiting to see whether asking has weakened the closeness. Each time, I pull him against me before answering.
The next afternoon, my phone lights while I’m between student emails.
Theo: I put your blue pen in the nest.
I look at the message for long enough that the screen starts to dim, then tap it awake again.
Me: I was wondering where that ended up. Are you going to give it back?
Theo: No, I don’t think so. Maybe.
A picture follows. My pen is tucked beside one of my cardigans, half-buried in the blanket he keeps stealing from Idris’ chair.
Me: Should I come get it?
Theo: Later.
Theo: I just wanted it there.
I save the picture before I answer.
Me: Okay, sweetheart.
By the end of the week, the house feels crowded in a way I’ve missed.
Sloane keeps catching me by the waist when I pass him.
Idris pulls me into his lap whenever I stand near his chair for more than a few seconds.
Dash brushes his hand over my lower back as he moves behind me and rarely passes through a doorway without kissing my shoulder.
Theo climbs into my lap with complete confidence, rearranging my limbs until he’s comfortable enough to stay.
No one is treating touch like a fragile object anymore. They still watch me. They still pause when my body tightens or my eyes drift toward an exit. The difference is that wanting me has stopped looking like something they’re ashamed to show.
On Friday evening, I walk into the living room and find all four of them waiting. The sight makes me stop.
Theo sits cross-legged in the middle of the couch with my cream cardigan wrapped around him.
Dash is in the chair near the window, one ankle resting over his knee, though the stiffness in his shoulders gives away that he’s paying attention to every movement in the room.
Idris stands near the fireplace with his sleeves rolled to his forearms. Sloane is pacing beside the coffee table with a small black box in his hand.
The box explains nothing. I look from it to the flowers on the side table, then to the green mug Dash brought me, then to the scarf folded over the arm of the couch. “You all keep bringing me things.”
Sloane stops pacing.
“And every time I turn around,” I continue, “someone has their mouth on me.”
Theo’s smile appears first. Dash lowers his gaze, though I catch the warmth in his face before he hides it. Idris' expression barely shifts, but his eyes move over my body with enough intent to make heat gather low in my stomach.
Sloane looks at me like the answer should be obvious. “We’re courting you.”
The words go through me slowly.
I’m wearing Sloane’s bite in my shoulder. Idris has known the shape of my submission and the exact way I take my tea. Theo has slept with his face pressed into my neck and his fingers curled into my clothes. Dash gave me a place to survive before any of them knew where I was.
Still, they’re courting me.
They aren’t assuming the bonds we had mean I owe them the same woman they lost. They’re coming toward the person I am now with flowers, books, mugs, pastries, touches, kisses, and patience.
My throat tightens before I can answer.
Sloane’s fingers flex around the black box. “This part isn’t supposed to buy anything from you.”
“I know.” My voice catches, and I take a slow breath before crossing the room. “Show me.”
He sits on the edge of the coffee table while I lower myself onto the couch beside Theo.
Theo immediately presses against my side, his hand sliding into mine beneath the sleeve of my cardigan.
Dash moves closer from the chair, and Idris comes to stand behind the couch with one hand resting against my shoulder.