Page 131 of Hard Knot

"Thank you," I say quietly, glancing back over my shoulder. "For taking care of me. You didn't have to do that, but you did." I show him a glimpse of true appreciation in my eyes. “To find an Alpha willing to do that is a rarity, especially someone who doesn’t know or care about me. I appreciate that…appreciate you.”

I'm about to continue my retreat when his voice stops me, rough with disuse but clear in the morning calm.

"It's not that I want to be silent for so long."

The admission freezes me mid-step.

I turn back to find him already moving toward the piano, his movements graceful despite the obvious tension in his shoulders. His fingers trail over the ivory keys with barely enough pressure to leave fingerprints, let alone produce sound.

"It takes time," he continues, his voice low and measured, "to process things. PTSD or some stupid shit, they say. Not that I can't hear at normal speed…I do. But having it process up here..."

He taps his temple with his free hand.

"It's delayed. By the time I gather all the pieces, understand what's been said, and form a response...the conversation's usually long over. Or everyone's just staring, waiting for my opinion, and I have nothing to contribute because I either missed crucial parts or they assume I'm being deliberately difficult."

The words come slowly, each one chosen with obvious care.

It's not just about giving himself time to process — it's about making sure he says exactly what he means to say.

"Have you told anyone?" I ask softly, drawn back into the room by this unexpected vulnerability. "That this is why you stay quiet?"

He doesn't answer, his attention fixed on the keys beneath his fingers.

The silence stretches, but this time I recognize it for what it is — not dismissal or disdain, but the time he needs to fully process the question and consider his response.

In that silence, I notice more details about him.

The way his jaw works slightly like he's testing words before letting them out. The subtle tension in his shoulders that speaks of constant vigilance. The careful way he positions himself so his blind side is partially protected by the piano.

All these little tells that I missed before, too caught up in his apparent coldness to see the defense mechanisms for what they were.

Not arrogance.

Not disdain.

But protection.

A way to create space and time in a world that demands immediate responses, that judges delayed reactions as weakness or defiance. A world that has no patience for processing time, forcareful consideration, for anything that doesn't fit its expected patterns of interaction.

Looking at him now, illuminated by morning light filtering through walls of glass, I wonder how many people have taken the time to truly see him. To look past the silence and the blindfold and the carefully constructed walls to the man beneath.

The man who could have stayed up all night tending my fever.

Who lets his fingers ghost over piano keys like he's remembering something precious and lost.

Who's trying, in his own careful way, to let someone else understand his point of view.

My feet carry me forward before I can overthink it, drawn to him like a moth to flame. He remains still as I approach, but I can feel his attention shift to track my movement.

When I reach his side, I hover my hand over his where it rests on the keys, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

As if reading my thoughts, he begins to play — something simple, a basic melody that repeats in gentle waves. His fingers move with deliberate grace, showing me the pattern without words.

I watch, memorizing the progression, until my own fingers itch to join in.

He adjusts slightly, making room for me on the bench without breaking the melody. When I finally lower my hand to the keys, he guides me through the motions with infinite patience. Each note becomes familiar under his silent instruction until the simple tune feels as natural as breathing.

Once he senses I've grasped the basic melody, I let my hands drift higher, finding the same progression in a lighter register.The higher notes dance above his deeper tones like sunlight on water.

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