The House with Glass Ears

Sera POV

It was six in the morning. The rays of the sunlight were already piercing through the curtains, and laying golden lines on the floor and on my breast. I opened my eyes and blocked the rays from entering my eyes when suddenly I froze. My heart was beating like I was being chased by wild beasts, as I made out a very faint thrum from downstairs. My chest felt very uncomfortable with the rhythmic vibration.

It was very clear that Kaelen was moving around downstairs. I was very conscious, heart hammering in my head and for a second, I could only listen. It felt like I was begging and trying to empty my head and body of the sound, as if I could just deaden my body, as if I could just disappear and no one would find me in the house.

That is when it struck me, the scent of the dark coffee, intoxicatingly dark. I feel my stomach aching. I went down the steps and entered the kitchen and saw a coffee cup before me in the kitchen counter. It was like a lifeline, I haven't eaten since last night.

I raised the coffee cup to sip when my eyes caught the note pad on the fridge.

Kitchen hours: 6-7 AM, 12-1 PM, 6-7 PM. Clean up after yourself. No visitors without prior approval. - K

I blink at it. Once. Twice before my stomach twists again, tighter this time. He was here twelve hours ago last night. Twelve hours, and the first thing he does is impose rules. The aura he exudes makes me feel like I’m in a royal castle and he is seated on a throne while I’m a mere guest who has overstayed. My nervousness makes me squeeze my lips while I curl my fingers. I don't want him to think that i care, even though I do. I care far too much, in ways that make me feel weak, and exposed.

I make the coffee. Slowly, deliberately. Loudly. Every scrape of the grinder, every click and whirr of the machine, I exaggerate. I make it sound like an alarm, like a warning, like a protest. I slam my mug on the counter when it’s ready, the sharp clink bouncing off the walls. Maybe he’ll hear it. Maybe he’ll understand the message in the noise. Maybe he’ll get me.

Twenty minutes later, he comes down. Kaelen. Perfect posture, hair combed, eyes sharp and calculating. Twelve hours of movement around the house and he still looks like a goddamn magazine cover. Like he belongs here, like he owns it, like he has no trace of fatigue in him at all.

“Good morning,” he says, calm and controlled. The words float out like we’ve chosen this peaceful morning together, like I belong in the same space as him.

I fold the note carefully and shove it into my pocket. Evidence. Every little thing he does, I catalog it in my head. Mrs. Chen said we had to document conflicts. Fine. I’ll document. Every tic, every measured movement, every flicker of his eyes.

He pours coffee. The sugar packets rattle in his hand. He stirs it twelve times. My teeth grit. My stomach knots. Every little motion is meticulous, precise, controlled. I want to throw the mug at him, but I don’t. Not yet.

“I have patrol duty tonight,” he says, voice even. Eyes avoid mine. Cold.

“Great.”

“North district. Disturbances near the railroad tracks.”

I rinse my mug too loudly. “I’ll try to contain my excitement,” I say, sarcastic, my teeth clenched behind the joke.

His jaw ticks. A small, tense movement that makes my skin crawl. “This doesn’t have to be difficult, Sera.”

“You made it difficult when you called me unworthy in front of the entire town,” I spit back, voice sharper than I intended.

“I was…” He stops. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“You were what?” I insist, my voice barely holding steady.

“Nothing. Forget it,” he answers, and turns away.

The front door slams heavily behind him. Off he goes, Kaelen. Off to his perfect Alpha chores, leaving me to drag myself to the rehab clinic like my bones are full of lead, pretending that my life isn’t falling apart in slow motion.

---

With the hospital smelling like a mixture of antiseptic and sweat I have a sudden flash of reality. Mrs. Rodriguez is well into stretching now and is trying hard to keep from crying as she wrestles with her own flesh. I squatted down, placing my hands on her shoulders, pressing down slightly. "Just one more, all right?" I try to smile. It is thin and sticky like marshmallow, yet feels fake as glue holding together broken wall boards.

“Are you even listening to me, Sera?” she snaps, frustration sharp in her tone. Her eyes catch mine. I nod, because I am listening, but listening feels meaningless sometimes. My hands move her leg, counting each repetition as if the numbers themselves will hold the world together.

In the corner, Mr. Thompson talks about his grandson’s baseball game. The scores tumble out in a rush, his excitement raw and human. I smile. I laugh. I nod. My stomach twists with the contrast between the fixable, manageable problems of these people and the impossible chaos that waits for me at home.

Lunch hits me like a brick. I walk to the hospital, the sterile smell mingling with the warmth of the sun outside. Dad’s hospital bed looks smaller every time I see it. Machines hiss and beep, mechanical breathing filling the room. He’s asleep, one hand soft in mine. I hold it, pretending not to think about the bills piling up, about Kaelen’s note, about the bakery.

Mom appears with flowers from the gift shop. Her eyes are too bright, too shiny, a fragile mask. “He’s been asking about you,” she says. “About… everything.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Yeah. I told him you’re handling it.”

I laugh, because the idea is absurd. Handling it. I’m barely holding myself upright. My chest aches.

---

By evening, I drag myself to the patrol meeting point. Kaelen is already there, wearing dark clothes, radio clipped, eyes scanning as if the city itself whispers secrets only he can hear. He looked dangerous, beautiful, and impossible to stop noticing.

“The north district, twelve blocks,” he says, handing me a radio. His voice is flat, precise. “We walk it twice. Check the business alarms and we are done.”

“And if it’s not quiet?” I ask, bracing myself.

“Then we handle it,” he says, turning his face away.

The streets are empty. A car hums past us. A dog barking at something only it can see. Kaelen moves like he owns the shadows, every step calculated, controlleda and silent. I trail behind him, careful, holding my breath, and trying to be nothing.

Halfway through the blocks, the radio crackles with a male voice. “Unit Seven, disturbance at Mercy and Fifth. Domestic, possibly violent.”

Kaelen keys the mic. “Unit Seven responding.”

And suddenly, we’re running. Me stumbling, tripping, trying not to look weak. Trying to keep up. The building smells of alcohol and fear before we even step inside. A woman screams. Something shatters.

Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. Three steps at a time on the stairs. I cling to him like a shadow. The apartment door is open. A man twice my size looms.

“Step away from her,” Kaelen says. Calm, but there’s a growl beneath it. I feel it in my bones.

The man laughs, drunk, dangerous. “This isn’t your business.”

“Actually, it is.” Kaelen steps forward like a predator. Not afraid. Not one step back.

My knees lock.

The drunk man freezes when gold flashes in Kaelen’s eyes. Just a heartbeat. But he sees it, knows he’s small, not ready, not enough. Stumbles back. Shoves past us. Gone.

Kaelen turns to the woman. Gentle now. Soft. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking. Tears streaking her face. “No… just scared.”

“Do you have somewhere safe for tonight?”

“My sister’s place,” she whispers, pointing at overturned furniture, her clothes scattered.

I crawl under the table, digging out her keys. Kaelen gathers her things carefully, making himself gentle, non threatening.

---

Walking back, silence stretches between us. I study him. He’s careful. Not cruel. He moves without losing control. I whisper, barely audible, “Where did you learn that? To read people like that?”

“Learn what?”

“To make them trust you without touching them, to de-escalate.”

He stares at the ground. “My father. Took me on calls when I was young. Said the best leaders know when not to use power.”

I file it away. Every detail. The twelve coffee stirs. The way he moves around fear. The gold in his eyes. Everything.

We finish the patrol in silence. When we get back to the Neutral House, I'm exhausted. All I want is a hot shower and eight hours of sleep.

But when I pull into the driveway, I see Lyra's car parked on the street. She's sitting on the front steps, her face tight with anger.

"What's wrong?" I ask, getting out of my car.

"Someone hit your mom's bakery," she says. "Back door. Carved up pretty bad."

My stomach drops. "Carved up how?"