When I opened the door, I was greeted by silence—and the faint scent of lemon.
Nine was on his knees near the corner, carefully folding a towel with such obsessive precision it might as well have been a weapon schematic. The bed was made. Every pillow puffed and symmetrical. Even the faint smudges on the mirror had been wiped clean.
He didn't look up as I entered. Just kept folding.
The coffee table had been cleared. The couch cushions re-aligned. Everything looked… staged.
Sterile.
"...Nine?"
He flinched like a whip had cracked. The towel slipped from his fingers.
"Alpha," he said, quickly rising to his feet. "I—I didn't hear you come in. I was just—"
"Cleaning?" I finished gently.
His eyes dropped to the floor. "Yes. I didn't want it to be dirty when you came back."
Nyx shifted uncomfortably beneath my skin. The back of my throat ached.
"You don't have to do that anymore," I said. "You're not expected to tidy or serve. You're not... owned."
He hesitated. "But it felt wrong. Just sitting here. I had to do something."
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed—undoing the hospital-corner he'd so tightly folded. One pillow got nudged off in the process. I left it there. "You could've eaten. Slept. Drawn something. Torn the curtains. Anything but this."
Nine hovered, visibly uncertain. "I don't know how."
I tilted my head. "How to… not clean?"
"How to do nothing," he clarified, voice almost inaudible. "They used to say if I sat still too long, I was malfunctioning."
I swallowed thickly.
He kept his hands clasped in front of him, fingers twisting, waiting for me to snap.
Instead, I reached for the folded towel, rolled it into a limp bundle, and lobbed it into the corner.
Nine stiffened.
"Better," I said.
He looked at me like I'd just flipped gravity.
"You don't believe me," I said.
He didn't answer.
So I stood again, walked to the vase of precisely arranged flowers on the table, plucked one, and laid it face-down on the floor. Then another. One by one, I disassembled the arrangement until the table was half-empty and scattered in petals.
He was breathing faster now.
"Alpha—"
"I like chaos," I interrupted. "Mess is honest. Mess means living happened here."
He was trembling. Not from fear of me, I realized—but from the pull between conditioning and instinct. Between the terrified programming screaming at him to fix things and the quiet, new voice whispering that he could let go.
"I don't know if I can stop," he said softly.
"You don't have to all at once," I replied. "Just start with this: sit with me. Don't fold anything. Don't pick anything up. Just… be."
He hesitated.
But then, with a wary sort of determination, he moved to the bed and knelt beside it—eyes locked on mine like waiting for permission.
"You can lie down," I said.
He nodded, climbed in awkwardly, and rested his head against my shoulder—uncertain, but trying.
After a moment, he shifted again. Tucked himself closer. His face pressed against the curve of my neck, nuzzling instinctively into the scent gland at my throat.
Nyx exhaled softly. Finally.
"See?" I murmured, brushing a hand through his hair. "No cleaning. No rules. Just you. Here."
"I'm scared," he whispered.
"I know," I said. "But we'll break it together. One pillow at a time."
He let out a shaky laugh.
I kissed his forehead and held him tighter, letting the silence stretch.
And then, very quietly, Nine asked, "Can I knock over the vase tomorrow?"
I smiled. "You'd better."