"I need…" I start, but I don't know how to finish.
"I know," he says.
We go to Luther's office.
The door's heavier than the others. The rug's thick underfoot. The windows have darker blinds, half-drawn against the afternoon glare. It smells like cedar, paper, leather, Luther's steady Alpha warmth, and the faint sweetness of the children from the mornings they've invaded the space before. My lungs open a little.
I only mean to bring one blanket.
It's the gray weighted one from the family lounge, the one Blake uses when his body forgets how to come down. I carry it into Luther's office and spread it in the corner behind the large leather chair. The children watch me without asking why.
"It's better in here," I say. "The light's softer."
Rosalie nods gravely, though she's never cared about lighting in her life. She crawls onto the blanket and places her rabbit in the corner closest to the wall.
Ten minutes later, I go back for a pillow because the chair leg leaves too much open space.
Then another, because Samuel says the first one doesn't cover the "side gap."
Then James's books, because he hasn't opened his notebook since Dorian crouched in front of Rosalie, and I need his hands doing something familiar.
Then Rosalie's second stuffed animal, the lopsided bear Blake bought after her first dentist appointment because she cried so hard he nearly cried too.
Then Samuel's dinosaur sweatshirt, because he keeps putting himself at the edge of the blanket like a guard and I want something soft against his back.
By early afternoon, half the nest has migrated into Luther's office.
I sit in the middle of it with my knees drawn up, surrounded by blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, two books about machines, a plastic crown, and three sleepy children who've finally letthe room make them heavy. Rosalie's curled near my thigh. Samuel's sprawled on his stomach with one hand still touching her ankle. James lies on his side with his notebook open but blank.
The office is dim. The door's closed. I can see the handle from where I sit.
It helps.
It scares me how much it helps.
The door opens quietly.
My whole body tenses before I recognize Grayson.
He pauses in the doorway with two more blankets folded over one arm and a cup of tea in his other hand. His long hair's slipped loose around his face, messy from running his hands through it, and there's exhaustion under his eyes. Still, when he sees the nest, he doesn't smile like it's cute. He doesn't tease. He doesn't ask me what I'm doing on the floor of Luther's office with half our family bedding tucked under a desk.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
"I brought the blue blanket," he says softly. "It smells like home."
My throat tightens so quickly I have to look down.
Grayson sets the tea within reach, then kneels beside the nest and unfolds the blanket over the edge where the rug still shows. He moves carefully around the sleeping children, tucking a corner near Samuel's feet, smoothing another beside Rosalie's shoulder. When he gets to me, he crouches and fixes the curls that've fallen into my eyes, his fingers gentle at my temple.
I lean into his hand before I can stop myself.
"He makes me feel small," I whisper.
Grayson doesn't ask which he.
I hate that. I love that.
"Dorian," I say anyway, because the name needs somewhere to go. "Victor's awful, but I understand what kind of awful heis. Dorian makes me feel stupid for being afraid. He doesn't do enough for me to name it. He keeps everything clean. His hands. His voice. The words he chooses." I swallow. "He crouched in front of Rosalie and didn't touch her. He didn't even reach for her. And she still hid."
