He reached for the cinnamon tin, tapped a little into the milk.
I stepped in slowly, bare feet quiet against the tile. I watched in something akin to amazement on how he moved so easily, so softly and sure of exactly what he was doing. He didn’t command the space, but more worked within its space.
He poured the milk into two mugs, then set one on the counter near me. I reached for it after a moment, fingers curling around the ceramic like it might vanish if I didn’t hold tight. Alpha Harris took his own mug and leaned against the counter.
We didn’t speak.
Just drank.
The milk was warm, quiet, grounding. And for the first time since the call, my thoughts settled.
Taking another sip, I let the thickness and creamy cinnamon settle on my tongue, trying to cement it to memory.
I didn’t want to think about what could happen back at Lockswell House. Didn’t want to think about what might happen if I went back. Not about what might happen if I stayed. And especially not about Alpha Harris.
He sat across from me now, eyes on his mug more than on me.
“My mother used to wake up in the middle of the night,” he said quietly. “Sometimes she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes one of us was up.” His voice was soft, steady. “She’d warm milk on the stove. Just like this. Said it soothed the soul.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I never believed her. But I think I do now.”
I watched him for a moment, unsure what to say. Then: “What was her name?”
He looked up, just briefly. “Evelyn.” The name felt gentle. Like someone who tried to make the world softer, even when it wasn’t. Even when it was cruel to people like us. Because life didn’t care if you were kind. Especially not if you were Omega. But maybe kindness still mattered. Even if it didn’t change the rules.
“She had this way of making space feel safe,” he continued. “Not by controlling it. Just by being in it.”
I took another sip of milk, the warmth grounding me more than I expected.
“She used to say that Omegas were the soul of the house. That if you listened closely, you could feel when one was hurting—even if they didn’t speak.”
I didn’t respond. Partly content that he was willing to share something with me, even if it was small. It made me see him just a little different. Not an equal, because we’d never be that. But something that could be close, if given time.
“She taught me how to listen,” he said. “Not just to words. To silence. To stillness. You remind me of her sometimes.”
I tilted my head, confused. All Omegas had things in common, mostly obedience and quietness. It was drilled into us from an early age.
“I wished, more than once, that she was never given to my father, to marry and have his children. Henever treated her with the respect Omegas should be given.”
“She sounds nice.”
“She was.”Was, which didn’t need any questions.
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
He looked at me and smiled slightly. “It’s been years,” his voice low. “My father made sure of that. He kept her away from me after I moved out.” He didn’t sound angry. Just tired. Like the distance had settled into him over time, layer by layer.
I didn’t know if that was normal. Didn’t know what families were supposed to look like.
So I didn’t say anything.
Just finished the last sip of warm milk, letting the heat settle in my chest.
It was already working—softening the edges of my thoughts, quieting the ache behind my ribs.
The Alpha didn’t speak again. And I didn’t ask.
Some things didn’t need answers. They just needed space.
