Page 128 of Hard Knot

I feel like I'm seeing him clearly for the first time.

Not the cold, dismissive Alpha he pretends to be.

Something real.

With careful movements, I push myself out of bed, testing my balance before fully standing. My body aches in ways that remind me of particularly brutal dance practices, but the fever seems to have broken.

For now I guess…it wasn’t my heat then.

The en-suite bathroom continues the theme of thoughtful luxury.

Vintage oak floors stretch beneath my feet, the wood worn smooth by years of use but clearly well-maintained. Brass hardware gleams against marble countertops, and the sink's faucet a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that looks like it could have been salvaged from some grand old estate.

Everything in this house feels like it has a story.

After washing my face with cool water and borrowing a spare toothbrush I find still in its package,another considerate touch, curiosity gets the better of me.

The house beckons like a mystery waiting to be solved, and my feet carry me into the hallway before I can overthink it.

The corridor stretches in both directions, lined with what must be original hardwood and decorated with a mix of modern art and family photographs. Unlike the sterile perfection of most wealthy homes, this place feels lived in — like someone took allthe expected trappings of old money and softened them with actual personality.

Modern architecture blends seamlessly with historical details — floor-to-ceiling windows letting in natural light while original crown molding adds character to the high ceilings. It's the kind of space that would feel imposing if not for all the little touches that make it feel like an actual home.

A collection of family portraits catches my eye, drawing me closer. They're arranged chronologically, telling the story of the Holmes lineage through carefully captured moments. But it's the largest portrait that makes me pause, my breath catching slightly.

Holmes' mother is stunning in a way that transcends conventional beauty. The artist captured her with remarkable skill — the subtle curve of her lips suggesting warmth beneath her aristocratic bearing.

But it's her eyes that command attention.

Holmes' eyes.

The same intense gaze, though hers hold a softness I've yet to see in her son. The artist caught something else too — a hint of mischief in her expression as if she found humor in having to sit still long enough to be immortalized in oils and canvas.

Her complexion is porcelain-perfect, but there's nothing cold about her.

Even in paint, she radiates a kind of grace that has nothing to do with her obvious wealth and everything to do with genuine compassion. The way she's posed, half-turned toward the viewer, one hand resting elegantly on the back of a chair, speaks of natural poise rather than practiced rigidity.

She looks like someone who knew how to balance sophistication with genuine warmth.

I wonder what happened to her.

The portrait's placement suggests importance, but there are no recent photos that I can see. Just this moment in time, preserved with obvious care and respect.

A sound pulls me from my contemplation — notes drifting through the air like ghosts. The melody is haunting but beautiful, drawing me forward as if pulled by invisible strings.

I follow the music downstairs, each step bringing the song into clearer focus. The path leads to a glass-enclosed space that takes my breath away.

The foyer is a masterpiece of architectural design, with walls of windows that let in natural light while maintaining privacy through clever angles and strategic placement. But it's the centerpiece that steals the show: a glass piano that seems to float in the space, its crystalline structure catching and refracting light like a prism.

And there's Holmes, seated at the instrument, his fingers moving over the keys with careful precision.

The melody is familiar, tugging at my memory until it clicks; "Remember Me" by d4vd. I'd heard it trending, the raw emotion of the lyrics capturing something universal about loss and longing.

But this version is different.

He's not just playing it; he's deconstructing it, rebuilding it piece by piece. The progression isn't smooth — he pauses occasionally, working through sections with methodical focus, as if relearning something once known by heart.

Like he's allowing himself to reconnect with something he gave up.

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