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"The things that matter," I say instead. "The people who matter."

Before she can ask me to elaborate, the lights dim and the conductor takes his place. The first notes of the overture fill the opera house, and I watch Belle's face as the music begins.

La Bohème is the perfect choice, I realize as the story unfolds. It's about artists struggling to survive, about love that transcends circumstances, about the way beauty can exist even in the midst of poverty and hardship. The music is lush and emotional, carrying the story forward with a power that words alone could never achieve.

But more than the opera itself, I'm captivated by Belle's reaction to it. She leans forward in her seat during the dramatic moments, her face reflecting every emotion the characters express. When Mimì and Rodolfo fall in love in the first act, her scent spikes with something sweet and hopeful. When the story turns tragic in the final act, I can smell the salt of tears she's trying not to shed.

During intermission, we walk to the lobby for champagne, and Belle is practically vibrating with excitement.

"Theo, this is incredible," she says, accepting a glass from the server. "I had no idea music could be this powerful. The way itmakes you feel everything the characters are feeling, even when you don't speak the language..."

"That's the point," I tell her, watching the way her eyes shine with enthusiasm. "Music is a universal language. It goes straight to your emotions without having to pass through your rational mind."

"Is that why you love it? Because it bypasses all the analytical parts and just makes you feel?"

"Maybe," I admit. "I spend a lot of time analyzing things, assessing threats, thinking through worst-case scenarios. Music is one of the few things that can make my brain shut up and just exist in the moment."

She steps closer to me, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. "What moment are you existing in right now?"

"This one," I say honestly. "Standing in an opera house with the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, watching her discover something new that brings her joy."

Her scent shifts again, becomes richer and more inviting, and I have to grip my champagne glass tighter to keep from reaching for her.

You're absolutely right! If Theo rescued her during her heat, she would trust him, not be scared of him.

"Theo," she says softly, "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"I was so confused about tonight. About spending time alone with you again after everything that happened at the ball, after all the revelations about the pack bond. I didn't know what to expect from myself, from you, from... this."

My chest tightens with something that might be uncertainty. "And now?"

"Now I'm realizing that being confused was pointless," she says. "Because you sharing something you love with me is exactly what I needed."

"What you needed for what?"

"To understand that what I feel for you isn't just heat-induced gratitude or pack bond confusion," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's real. You're real. This thing between us is real."

The admission hits me harder than any physical blow ever could. "Belle..."

"I know we're taking things slowly," she says. "I know there are complications with the pack dynamic and my own fears about alphas and all of that. But Theo, sitting here watching you watch the opera, seeing the way your face changes when the music gets emotional, understanding that you chose this because you wanted to share something meaningful with me..."

"What about it?"

"It makes me want to stop being so careful with my heart,” she admits.

This is more than I expected from her, more hopeful than I dared to let myself imagine. Before I can respond, the lights flicker to signal the end of intermission.

"We should get back to our seats," I say, though what I really want is to find somewhere private where we can continue this conversation.

"Yes," she agrees, but she doesn't move away from me. "But Theo? Thank you. For this, for sharing something so personal with me."

"Thank you for being open to it," I reply. "For trusting me enough to try something new."

The second half of the opera is even more emotional than the first, and I find myself watching Belle more than the stage. She's completely absorbed in the story, her emotions shifting with every aria, every dramatic moment. When Mimì dies in Rodolfo's arms, Belle openly cries, not caring who might see.

As the final notes fade and the curtain falls, the audience erupts in applause that seems to go on forever. Belle is on her feet immediately, clapping enthusiastically, her face radiant with the kind of joy that comes from experiencing something truly beautiful.