The lights were off. The world was still.
But I wasn't asleep.
Neither was Nine.
I could feel it in the way his body rested against mine—soft but too careful. Awake, alert, watching me beneath those lowered lashes. We hadn't said much since returning from the banquet. I hadn't tried to explain again, and he hadn't asked me to.
He just stayed close. Holding me. Quiet.
I had nearly dozed off when I heard it.
A sound.
Soft. Tentative.
It wasn't humming. Not exactly.
It was… melody.
My eyes blinked open slowly. The room remained cloaked in silver-blue moonlight, but Nine—curled into my side—was staring straight ahead, voice low and barely audible.
He was singing.
I froze.
Not because it was bad. But because I'd never—never—heard him do this before.
Not once. Not in all our time together. Not even when he was playing or joking or relaxed.
It wasn't perfect. His voice trembled at the start, cracked softly on a few notes, and at one point he stopped altogether, blinking like he'd forgotten where he was. But then, just when I thought he would stop for good, he began again.
And this time, it was smooth.
Ethereal.
Haunting.
A little too polished.
My heart clenched.
"...Nine?" I whispered when he stopped.
He turned his head toward me, violet eyes searching my face as though trying to figure out if he'd done something wrong.
"You sing."
A small nod.
"You've always been able to?"
Another nod.
I sat up a little, brushing his hair behind his ear, stunned. "Why didn't you tell me?"
His gaze dropped to the bedspread. "The boss wanted me to be perfect," he said quietly. "For the Supreme Leader."
My stomach twisted.
"Singing was the first thing I ever learned. Before talking. Before... anything else." He said it without bitterness, but it felt carved out of bone. "They made sure I had the right tone, the right control. I used to sing for the mirror. For the walls. For hours."
My chest ached. "And then?"
He glanced at me, then looked away again. "One of the lady heads found out. She made me sing through training. Through meals. Through punishments. Until my throat gave out."
I swallowed thickly.
"I couldn't speak for days. I bled." He touched his neck absently. "So I stopped. I was afraid to make any sound at all. After that, the boss tried to fix it. He punished me when I sang wrong. When I cracked. When I was off-tempo."
A pause.
"Eventually, he gave up."
I had no words. Just rage curling in my gut and guilt seeping in through the cracks. My hands trembled against the sheets.
"You're not perfect," I whispered, shifting closer and cupping his cheek. "You're real."
He leaned into my palm.
"And your voice," I murmured, "is beautiful. Even when it cracks."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. "Why now?"
His eyes flicked to mine. "Because you looked like you needed something soft."
My heart shattered.
I pulled him into my arms and held him so tightly he let out a little noise of protest—then melted into me anyway. His fingers twisted into the back of my shirt, anchoring himself there.
"You shouldn't have to comfort me," I whispered. "Not when you've gone through—"
He shook his head fiercely against my shoulder.
I didn't press him to speak. I knew what that gesture meant.
He wasn't comforting me because he had to.
He was comforting me because he wanted to.
And that meant more than I could say.
"I want to hear more," I said after a long moment. "Someday. When you're ready."
Nine didn't answer.
But I felt the nod against my neck.
And I held him until sleep found us both.