The first time Zade heard you sing, you hadn’t known he was there.

You’d been in your apartment, lights low, barefoot and half-sprawled on your old couch with a notebook in your lap and your voice slipping softly into the silence—raw, unfiltered, haunting in the way that only something real could be. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t for anyone. It was just yours.

And he had stood outside your window in the dark, unseen, breath caught in his throat like you’d reached through the glass and stolen it.

That was before.

Before you knew his name. Before his hands had ever touched your skin. Before his world tilted and reformed around the sound of your voice.

Now, you were his.

But you still didn’t sing for crowds. Not even for him.

You sang behind closed doors—softly, like a secret, the way you always had. When you thought you were alone.

And Zade never tried to take that from you.

He didn’t ask you to perform. Didn’t beg to hear. Didn’t push. He just waited. Quiet. Patient. Hungry.

Because your voice wasn’t just music to him.

It was confession. It was the part of you no one else ever got to touch.

Some nights, when the house was still and the city lights glowed faintly through the windows, you’d sing in the bathroom or the kitchen or curled into the nook of the guest room where you wrote your lyrics. Zade wouldn’t say a word. He’d just stay in the hallway or lean against the doorframe in the dark, heartbeat slow, fingers twitching like the sound of you alone could undo him.

He listened like a man starved. Like he was memorizing every note, every breath.

And when the last whisper of your melody faded into the air, he’d slip back to where he was—never letting you know he’d been there.

Except you always knew.

You saw the way he watched you after. The way he touched you like you were made of the same delicate magic as your voice. Like if he wasn’t careful, he might shatter something sacred.

One night, curled in bed with his arm heavy around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin, he spoke quietly into your hair.

“I used to sneak around just to hear you sing,” he murmured. “Didn’t even know your name yet. Just your voice.”

You didn’t answer, but your fingers curled into his shirt.

He continued, softer now. “I used to think if I could just find the sound again, I’d know what peace felt like.”

You swallowed, heart tight in your chest.

“And now I have it,” Zade said, his lips brushing your forehead. “Even if I only get it in pieces. Even if you never sing for anyone but yourself.”

He held you tighter then, like he understood the weight of the gift you never meant to give him.

Because it wasn’t just a song. It was you.

His little mouse. Or rather, his little bird.

He wouldn’t force you to sing, no, but that never stopped him from listening.