I wanted to reach out and touch her shoulders, to work my fingers into those tense muscles and ease some of that strain. The urge was almost overwhelming, physical and immediate, myhands actually lifting slightly before I caught myself. Too much. Too soon. She'd flinch away from that kind of touch, would read it as a threat or claim or any number of things that would shatter whatever fragile trust we'd built last night.
But God, I wanted to. Wanted to ease her pain, needed to help, to be close enough to feel the warmth of her skin under my palms.
I took another step into the room, and that's when her scent hit me fully. Apple pie. Sweet and warm and impossibly comforting, like walking into my childhood kitchen on a Sunday afternoon when my mother was baking.
My chest tightened. My breathing deepened, pulling more of that scent into my lungs, and I felt something in me respond that I'd trained myself to control. Want. Need. The urge to move closer, to surround her with my scent, to mark her as mine in ways that had nothing to do with conscious choice.
I stopped walking, forced myself to pause, and breathed through my mouth instead of my nose. This was exactly the kind of response she'd be watching for, the type of behavior that would confirm every fear she had about Alphas. I needed to be better than my biology, needed to prove that I could be trusted with the proximity to her vulnerability.
She'd stopped singing. Had sensed my presence. Her shoulders had gone more rigid, her head tilting slightly like she was calculating whether to run.
I crossed the remaining distance to the piano bench and sat down beside her, careful to leave a space between us. Not touching, not crowding, just present. Her eyes tracked my movement with the wariness of prey watching a predator, but she didn't bolt. That was something.
Up close, I could see her pulse beating, visible in her throat, and could see the way her chest rose and fell with breathing that was too quick and shallow. Every part of her was screamingdanger, but she was staying. Choosing, however tentatively, not to flee.
I said nothing. Words felt wrong in this moment, too direct and demanding of response. Instead, I let my fingers hover over the piano keys, feeling the familiar cool smoothness of ivory under my touch. My left hand found its position first, settling into the bass register, and I started to play.
Minor key. That felt right for what I sensed in her, for the fear and hesitation that radiated from her tense body.
She was watching my hands now instead of her sheet music. I could see it in my peripheral vision, the way her attention had shifted, the way some of that rigid tension was easing as the music filled the space between us.
She started singing again. I adjusted my playing immediately, listening to the specific qualities of her voice and shaping my accompaniment to complement rather than overwhelm. When she went high, I stayed low, giving her room to soar without competition. When she faltered, I strengthened the bass line, providing more support. The music became a conversation, her voice asking questions and my piano offering answers, both of us speaking in the only language that felt safe enough for this moment.
I watched her reactions while I played. The way she flinched when I shifted position, pulling back before forcing herself to resettle. How her breathing hitched when I moved into a louder dynamic, her body reading volume as a potential threat. Every slight movement she made told me something about where her boundaries were, what felt safe, and what triggered that impulse to run.
So I played softer. Stayed more still. Made my presence as non-threatening as possible while still being present, still being engaged in the musical exchange we were creating together.
After several minutes, I felt the natural place where the improvisation wanted to rest. I let the music gentle into a pause, not an ending exactly, but a breath between phrases.
Thinking about the footage Kade had shown me, I turned my head slightly toward her, careful not to make the movement too sudden. “What inspires your songs?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, barely above a whisper. The question was genuine, not just conversation for its own sake. I wanted to know what lived inside her, what she pulled from when she created those melodies she sang on the street corner.
She went still beside me.
I could see the exact moment the question registered, the way her entire body tensed like I'd pressed a bruise. Her green eyes darted toward the door with the same calculation I'd seen yesterday.
My chest ached watching her do that math, watching her treat every interaction like a potential threat that required an escape strategy.
“Just...” she stopped, swallowed. Her voice when it came again was barely audible, a thread of sound that I had to strain to catch. “Things I've seen.”
The answer was so carefully minimal, so deliberately vague, that it told me exactly how afraid she was of revealing anything real. I didn't push. Didn't ask follow-up questions, or press for details, or do any of the things that would have been natural in a normal conversation between people who weren't navigating the minefield of Alpha and Omega dynamics complicated by obvious trauma.
Instead, I turned back to the piano and played again.
This melody differed from the first. I built it in a major key this time, but kept it muted, undemanding. The music spoke what I couldn't say directly: that her boundaries were safe with me, that I wouldn't push past her careful walls, that we had time.
She'd stopped looking at the door. Her breathing was still quick, still shallow, but some of that escape-ready tension was easing from her shoulders.
Playing through another phrase, I let it develop and strengthen, and then I heard her voice again. Still quiet, but offering something more than generic deflection this time.
“I slept under a bridge for three months last fall,” she said, the words coming out flat and matter-of-fact, like she was reporting someone else's experience. “The sound of the cars going overhead at night, the way the engine noise echoed off the concrete—it had a rhythm to it. Like percussion.”
I shifted the melody immediately, incorporating a rhythmic element that mimicked what she'd described. Not literally the sound of cars, but the feeling of it, the pattern of headlights passing and engine noise rising and falling. The bass line became more percussive, marking time in steady beats.
She made a small sound, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Yeah. Like that.”
The affirmation settled something in my chest. We were talking now, really talking, using both words and music to bridge the gap between us.
“I sang for change on street corners,” she continued, each word still careful but coming easier now. “Different corners, depending on the day. You learn which spots are good, where people are more likely to stop. Where the police won't bother you.”
