No reaction at first. Then a second bite. Slower. Measured.
I didn’t look directly at him, but I watched the way his shoulders eased, just slightly.
He was tasting comfort. And I wondered how long it had been since food had felt like anything but survival or a notch in his schedule.
I kept eating, letting the silence stretch. Because sometimes, the most generous thing I could offer him wasn’t words.
“This is really good, Charles. Thank you for making it.” I spoke in between bites, keeping an eye on the Omega for any type of reaction.
Adrian and Moore often made food, dropping off left overs for me, but that wasn’t anything near warm, homey type of food that had been cooking all day. Plus, Charles really was a great cook.
“Thank you, Sir. I’m on kitchen duty often, and have learned how to make nearly anything an Alpha could possibly want.” Yet another automatic response.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” I lifted my eyes to him, wanting to know the truth. Thankfully, he seemed to answer truthfully.
“It’s okay when there’s someone who will enjoy it. The Omegas at the house only eat because we are all required to, and with certain serving sizes.”
“To keep you fit and likeable for Alphas,” I assumed.
Charles nodded and took another bite, chewing slowly. “It’s part of our training,” he said, voice flat. “To stay fit. Slim. We’re not desirable if we look like whales.”
The words were rehearsed. Not cruel but conditioned.
I watched him eat, noting the sharpness of his collarbones, the way his wrists looked too narrow for the weight of his own hands. He wasn’t unhealthy. But he was underfed. And I doubted anyone at Lockswell would’ve noticed unless it affected his obedience.
I didn’t respond right away. Didn’t correct him. He was speaking and I wouldn’t take that for granted. I considered asking more, pressing gently, guiding the conversation deeper.
But I knew the risk. Push too hard, and he’d retreat. Back into that quiet shell. Back into the version of himself they trained him to be—skittish, mechanical, careful.
I didn’t want that. I wanted the real Charles. The one beneath the conditioning. The one who flinched less when spoken to. The one who chose his own seat, his own spoon, his own silence.
I could wait. Because seeing him unfold, slowly, and deliberately, was worth more than any answer he could give me now.
The rest of dinner was quiet, Charles not saying much more as he finished up the last bits in the bowl. I debated on seconds, the stew too good to not eat more, but decided against it. There’d be enough left over for days, and I’d happily enjoy that.
Before I could clean up the table, Charles was up and taking my bowl along with his own. I almost told him to leave them, to let me take care of it all, but thought otherwise after a second.
Charles did better with tasks, feeling needed and seen in a quiet sort of way. So, I let him go, watching as he moved about the kitchen as though he lived here for years.
The only other Omega that had made themselves at home like that was Adrian. Not because he had to, but because he enjoyed cleaning up after Alphas. That Omega enjoyed seeing things taken care of, all the while he chatted about everything.
Charles wasn’t like that. He moved in the silence, as though he were one with it. He moved from one spot to another, as though he were weightless. His movements were smooth, as though he’d been taught how to move with any sort of task. It was the same way he kneeled, or obeyed any of my commands. Smooth and without second guessing.
Sir?” Charles’s voice was soft and uncertain. He tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was waiting for something I hadn’t decided to say.
I knew he had questions, just like he knew I had some, too. But whether I’d ask them, that was another matter.
“Is there anything you need from me?” Not obedience. Not routine. He meant something else.
Instead of answering, I stood. Pushed in my chair, then walked toward him.
It had been a long day. The shadows beneath his eyes told me more than words could. He looked worn thin—not just physically, but in the way people do when they’ve been holding themselves together too tightly for too long.
“No,” I said, voice even.
Then I reached out and took his hand in mine. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean in either. Just stayed still like he was trying to decide if the touch was safe.
I didn’t press. Didn’t tighten my grip. Just held it. Because sometimes, the most important answer wasn’t spoken.
