Lucien settled onto the sofa by the window, the perfect vantage point to watch Edmund at the piano while pretending he was only here for the charcuterie and wine.
From this angle, he could see everything: the straightened back, the squared shoulders, the careful placement of strong fingers over black and white keys.
The first notes floated into the room, warm and hesitant. While Lucien nibbled on brie on top of crackers with honey, the sweetness melted on his tongue, and he observed him closely.
The music was sweet too… in a clumsy, painfully adorable way.
His brows twitched.
Edmund's tempo was too rigid. His wrist is too stiff. He hit the melody cleanly but with the emotional range of a government official reading a tax report.
And then—Lucien flinched—wrong note. Another. The alpha was sweating, shoulders slowly rising, jaw clenched like he was defusing a bomb instead of playing a nocturne.
