Page 88 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“I didn’t tell you to become furniture,” Zana replies. “I told you to remember witnesses, context, and restraint until restraint becomes impossible. Learn the difference quickly.”

Dash writes that down, and I look at him. “You’re enjoying this more than you should.”

“I’m writing because she’s right,” he says, his attention still on the page. “One of us needs to remember the instructions when your eyes go black.”

The statement could start another fight, though it does not. I look at my brother’s bent head, Idris' phone on the counter, Callie’s flowers in the measuring cup, and the cracked mug in the sink. Dash knows exactly how ugly I can become around Callie, and he's preparing to stand beside me anyway.

“We also need to discuss the school,” Dash says once he finishes the line. “If Garrett appears on campus, I can involve security before it becomes a pack matter. Callie needs to know the plan. I won’t have her blindsided by men appearing in hallways because we decided worrying her was worse than informing her.”

“Agreed,” Idris says. “She hears it tomorrow.”

I nod. “Theo too, if it involves him.”

Zana’s voice softens slightly. “That is the correct instinct. Garrett isolated everyone by convincing each person they were protecting someone else. Better intentions won't make the same structure safe.”

The truth settles through me. Garrett built rooms out of missing information and locked Callie inside one while convincing me I stood in another by choice. If I want to prove I am different, I can't keep building quiet around her and calling it care.

The call continues for another ten minutes, everyone working through a part of the plan so we can turn the timeline into something Callie can read without forcing her to swim through every ugly detail before breakfast. My assignment is simple and difficult at the same time: I won't call Garrett, threaten him, or drive to his office and put my fist through his teeth.

When the call ends, the kitchen feels smaller. Dash tears the top sheet from the notepad and slides it toward Idris.

“For the morning summary,” he says. “I kept it plain.”

Idris reads it once and nods. “Thank you.”

Dash looks uncomfortable with the gratitude, and I understand why. Being thanked for helping the people you love survive makes the need feel real in a way that hurts.

A soft sound comes from the living room. Callie’s voice, blurred with sleep, says Theo’s name as though she's soothing him without fully waking. Theo answers with a muffled whine. Idris moves first and stops in the doorway, while Dash and I follow behind him.

The nest is a mess of shadows and warm bodies. Callie has rolled partly onto her side with one hand buried in Theo’s dark hair. Theo is curled tightly around her, his cheek pressed to the center of her chest. His scent has sweetened again, though his breathing remains even. Callie’s eyes stay closed while she strokes his hair once, slow and clumsy with sleep.

The bond between us aches as Idris stands on one side of me and Dash on the other. For the first time since the porch, the three of us look at the same room without becoming a war.

“She’ll need the summary after coffee,” Dash says quietly. “She won’t take in any of it before that.”

“She needs food before hard news,” I add. “Toast at least, or she goes quiet.”

“Tea first,” Idris says. “Then toast.”

Dash glances at him. “She drinks the tea better when someone leaves it within reach and pretends not to watch.”

I look at my brother while he watches Callie. His face is open in the dark in a way he would hate if he realized it. He loves her. I see it in the caution, the knowledge, and the way he's already planning a morning that won't take the morning away from her.

The hurt comes, sharp and ugly and entirely mine. I let it exist without moving, and that feels like its own kind of work.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I say.

Theo

I wake too warm again, the heat caught beneath my skin until the blanket feels heavier than it did when I fell asleep. I stay still for a few breaths and listen to the house settling around me: the refrigerator humming beyond the wall, the heater clicking, someone turning a page in another room.

Callie’s place beside me is empty, though the sheets still hold her warmth. Her scent clings to the pillow and the cardigan folded near the edge of the nest, honeyed pear and vanilla tea softened by sleep, and my chest tightens before I remind myselfthat she’s still inside the house. I can smell her down the hallway beneath coffee, sandalwood, and the faint dry scent of paper.

I press my palm into the hollow she left and wait for the panic that used to arrive before thought. It doesn’t come. I miss her warmth and want her close, but the empty place beside me doesn’t feel like proof she has disappeared.

The air catches against my damp skin when I push the blanket away. A shiver moves over my arms even though the rest of me feels overheated, and my scent has gone sweet enough that cardamom burns at the back of my throat beneath the peach blossom. The spikes have been coming closer since Sunday, though none of them has opened into the deep, consuming pull of my heat.

I told Sloane and Idris this morning while they were making breakfast. Sloane watched me too closely until Idris asked what the warmth felt like, giving me room to describe it before either of them decided what my body meant. I told them I felt as though I kept tipping toward heat and catching myself before the fall, and they believed me.