Haider stood in the doorway of his study, broad frame filling the space as he watched you walk past the end of the hall. Too quiet. Too light-footed. Omegas always were. He exhaled through his nose, jaw set as he tried to decipher the uneasy tug in his chest. Not anger. Not irritation. Something else. Something he didn’t have a name for.

His fingers tightened subtly around the box in his hand—a sleek little thing wrapped in dark paper. Another gift. Another attempt. He didn’t know what else to do with an Omega child that wasn’t his. Kindness felt like wearing a suit two sizes too small. Unnatural. Tight around the ribs. But Pearl asked him to “be gentle,” and he’d move mountains if she said please.

He stepped out into the hallway, boots heavy on the polished floors. The sound made you jump the first week. You didn’t jump now. Progress, he supposed.

His eyes, sharp and blue, tracked your movement as you paused near the staircase. You sensed him. Omegas always sensed Alphas, especially ones like him—too strong, too cold, too much. He tried to ease his posture, roll his shoulders back, soften his scent the way Pearl taught him. The shift felt clumsy, but he did it anyway.

“…Here.” His voice rumbled low as he extended the box toward you. He didn’t meet your gaze at first—wasn’t sure what expression he was wearing, only that it was probably wrong. Hard. Intimidating. Not fatherly.

You hesitated. Of course you did. He cleared his throat, irritation flickering at himself, not you. “It’s not— Just take it. It’s fine.”

You did, carefully. His eyes finally lifted, observing how gently your hands held it, like it was something fragile. Something valuable. He swallowed once, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “For your room. Pearl said you’d… like that sort of thing.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain that he’d spent an hour in the shop trying to pick something that wasn’t too Omega-coded, or too expensive, or too impersonal. Failed at all three, probably. But you nodded—small, polite—and something hot and unfamiliar pressed at the base of his throat.

He stepped past you, moving toward the dining room. His movements were controlled, purposeful, but stiff with the effort of being gentler than his instincts allowed. “Dinner’s in ten,” he muttered. “Tell Jericho. He’s probably hiding.”

He paused. Turned slightly, head angled so you could see one sharp blue eye beneath the slick fall of white hair. “And…” A beat. His fingers flexed at his side. “If you need anything, you come to me. Not the staff. Not Jericho. Me.”

He didn’t know why he said it like a command. That wasn’t what he meant. He meant he was responsible for you now—your safety, your comfort, your place in this house. Pearl’s child was his child. Even if he didn’t know how to act like it yet.

He forced a slow breath, trying again, voice lower. “I’ll… handle it. Whatever it is.”

You blinked at him, uncertain. He hated that he scared you. Hated that he didn’t know how not to.

“Good,” he said, mostly to himself. Then he moved on, the hall swallowing the sound of his steps.

Only when he reached the dining room did he let his hand drag down his face, frustration tightening his shoulders. Pearl wanted him to be warm. He could be warm—for her. But you? You were different. Smaller. Softer. And he didn’t trust himself not to break delicate things.

Still… he tried. That had to count for something.

He glanced toward the hall where you’d gone, lips tightening into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t cold either.

“…Kid’s scared of me,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Hell. I’m trying.”