luiza

Aventurine, on principle, often did things on impulse.

This was not a character flaw, in his opinion. It was a strategy, just pattern recognition moving faster than conscious thought, the hand that reaches for a card before the mind has finished counting. He had built a career on it. He had, at various points, also aquired several other things on it: an ultra rare watch, one of only two in the entire universe, commissioned just because. A penthouse in a city he visited twice a year, when he remembered. A starskiff he had purchased during a negotiation because the seller mentioned offhand that it was for sale and Aventurine had thought why not and signed before the ink on the actual contract was dry. It lived in a dock somewhere. He had been on it once.

He was aware of the pattern. He found it, on balance, more amusing than not.

But the most notable, and the most impulsive, decision he had ever made happened to be the addition of the three catcakes into his daily life.

The three catcakes which, as it turned out, happened to have opinions. And very strong ones, at that.

And Aventurine had funded their opinions, shamelessly. He had sourced their imported silk beds, their hand-carved puzzle feeders, their toys with the little bells that rattled when batted across marble floors at three in the morning. He had done all of this willingly, even cheerfully, and had considered it a reasonable investment in domestic harmony.

What he had not accounted for, despite his innate sense for business, was that the return on that investment would go entirely sideways.

Because the catcakes would, quite decisively, forget all about Aventurine the moment she entered the equation.

They could spend an entire afternoon draped across furniture like decorative afterthought— soft, idle things, barely stirring as he worked in his study, the quiet broken only by the occasional shift of fabric or the faintest puff of a sleepy sigh.

And then...

The soft, precise click of the latch easing open, followed by the familiar cadence of her steps.

Two seconds.

That was all it took.

From the hallway came the sudden chaos of movement: light thuds, the frantic patter of paws, and then the unmistakable jingle of bells as the toy mouse was unceremoniously knocked from its place on the entryway shelf in reckless enthusiasm.

Then a soft, delighted sound from her.

Aventurine waited.

He would not go check. He was a man of considerable dignity who was stronger than a few overexcited creatures who, moments ago, had shown no such urgency in his presence.

He lasted approximately forty-five seconds before leaning back far enough in his chair to see through the study doorway.

Exactly as expected.

All three of them had claimed her.

The largest had secured the prime position, draped comfortably across her shoulder as though it had always belonged there, tail flicking with smug contentment. The smallest had somehow, impossibly, embedded itself halfway into her bag before she’d even had the chance to set it down, peeking out as if it had discovered buried treasure. And the middle one— traitor of traitors— was weaving intricate figure-eights around her ankles with a devotion it had never once shown him.

Aventurine narrowed his eyes.

The traitors.

He had, on multiple occasions, attempted to elicit even a fraction of that enthusiasm, unsuccessfully.

She looked up and caught him staring.

“Hi,” she said, like she hadn’t just been ambushed by a small, disloyal army.

“They were sleeping,” he replied smoothly, tilting his head just slightly. “Thirty seconds ago, they were all asleep.”

"I can tell." She finally managed to unhook her bag from her shoulder, though not without resistance. The smallest catcake tumbled out, landed with an indignant little puff, and immediately began its ascent back toward her as though deeply offended by gravity itself. “Were they bothering you?”

“They were ignoring me,” he corrected, one brow lifting with quiet precision. “Unlike someone else, I suppose.”

They both knew there was no real accusation in it.

........................

The second incident, he had to admit, was personal.

Aventurine had a routine. After late calls— the ones that ran past midnight with Jade or Opal, who had no concept of time zones and even less concept of mercy— he'd come home and pour himself something worth drinking. He would sit, gazing at the city view, one arm draped along the backrest, glass balanced loosely in hand, not quite thinking, not quite not thinking either.

Some might have called it brooding.

He liked to think he was still above that, even in those moments.

It was, perhaps, the closest he ever came to acknowledging that some days demanded more of him than others.

The catcakes had somehow always known this.

The largest, especially, had a preternatural sense for it, and would appear within minutes, weight warm and substantial against his side, doing absolutely nothing useful, which was exactly the point. He had not told anyone this was something he actually looked forward to. It was an arrangement between himself and the catcakes, private and unspoken, and it had never needed to be anything else.

Then she fell asleep on the couch one night, waiting for him.

And, quite abruptly, everything changed.

He came home to find her curled on the couch, light still on, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting loosely at her side, breath slow and even in sleep. And all three catcakes had draped themselves across her with impressive efficiency.

The largest had claimed her chest, settled there, rising and falling faintly with each breath she took. The middle one had stretched itself comfortably along her legs, tail flicking once in vague satisfaction before going still again. And the smallest...

The smallest had wedged itself into the crook of her neck, tucked so close it bordered on possessive, with an intimacy that Aventurine, frankly, had earned more than it.

He stood in the entryway for a long moment, looking at the sight, debating whether to wake her (which he wasn't going to do) and whether there was any remaining couch space for him to settle onto (which there wasn't) and whether the armchair across the room counted as a dignified alternative (which it didn't).

Finally, after who knows how long, he grabbed the blanket from the couch, draped it over her and the entire catcake situation without disturbing anyone. He lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Then he stepped back.

The armchair received him with all the dignity it could muster, which was to say, not enough, but sufficient for the circumstances. He settled into it regardless, and gazed at them, something in him thawing at the scene.

Then the middle catcake opened one eye at him from across the room. It regarded him from its position along her legs, unimpressed, entirely aware.

"Not a word," he said.

It sniffed indignantly, and closed its eyes again.

Peace, apparently, had been restored.

He remained there longer than he intended.

Long enough for the drink in his hand to sit untouched. Long enough for the silence to settle into something steady. Long enough for something inside of him to loosen.

After that, they never came to him when she was there.

Not once.

The arrangement, it seemed, had been renegotiated without his consent.

........................

The third incident he brought on himself which, naturally, he would never admit.

Because, after a period of careful observation, and a frankly insulting amount of empirical evidence, Aventurine had come to a conclusion: This was a matter of attention economy.

The catcakes’ behavior was not random. It was a skewed distribution of interest toward a newly introduced variable— her— whose novelty had yet to pass.

The solution, logically, was to increase his own engagement. More direct interaction, or quality time, if one insisted on phrasing it so inelegantly.

So he set aside an afternoon.

Cleared his schedule.

And, in what he considered a gesture of considerable magnitude, he sat on the floor of the living room, adjusted his sleeves once, then reached into a carefully selected bag and produced his chosen instrument:

A wand toy.

But not just any toy. The feathers were imported, ethically sourced, meticulously crafted and expensive. They caught the light when he lifted it, iridescent in a way that suggested quality. The small bells attached to it chimed softly with the slightest movement.

Aventurine gave it a precise flick of the wrist.

The largest catcake looked at it, almost in deliberation, then walked past him into the bedroom without looking back.

He shook the toy again, slightly harder this time.

The middle catcake approached, sniffed the feathers with a polite sort of curiosity, then after what could only be described as a token effort, bit them once and left.

The smallest catcake, at least, offered something resembling participation. It batted at the feathers once, twice, before losing interest in favor of the now-empty bag at his side.

Aventurine remained seated on the floor, wand toy in hand, surrounded by the unmistakable quiet of failure. He was still on the floor when she arrived twenty minutes later.

“…What are you doing?”

Aventurine lifted his gaze.

She was looking at him with something between surprise and poorly concealed amusement, eyes flicking from his position on the floor, to the wand toy still held loosely in his hand, to the smallest catcake asleep in the bag beside him.

The closest any of them had come to sustained engagement.

"I'm bonding," he said, smoothly.

"With the bag?"

“With it,” he corrected, indicating the smallest catcake with a subtle tilt of the wand. “It's in the bag. I’m near the bag. We’re in proximity.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly restraining something that was very clearly laughter, and crossed the room before lowering herself to the floor beside him, which immediately summoned all three catcakes from wherever they had dispersed to. It was a migration so swift and unanimous that it was almost insulting. The largest climbed directly into her lap. The middle pressed against her side. The smallest abandoned the bag entirely in favor of her ankle.

Aventurine watched this happen in real time with morbid fascination.

"I have had it for months," Aventurine said, pointing at the smallest catcake almost accusingly. "It hid from me for the first three weeks. But you just come in, and they're all over you."

She was visibly trying not to laugh, which required effort. "Maybe it has a type?"

"I have never been disrespected more in my entire life," he said, gravely. "I'm just furniture."

"You're not furniture," she said quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.

"I'm a very well-dressed surface they occasionally walk across on their way to you."

She finally laughed, and the sound of it made the largest catcake knead her knee in approval, which was, somehow, the final insult.

She took the wand toy from his hand gently, shook it once, and all three catcakes launched into motion at once, ricocheting off the couch and each other and both of them, filling the room with bell sounds and patter as they played with her.

It would be impressive, if it wasn't sad.

Aventurine did not move from where he sat, hands resting loosely against his knees now, gaze following the arc of motion, when a sudden weight landed in his lap.

He blinked.

The smallest catcake had, in the chaos, made a miscalculation and landed fully on Aventurine's lap and couldn't be bothered to relocate.

He didn't move. He was very still, in fact, in case it noticed. Even his breathing slowed, measured unconsciously to avoid disturbing the small, warm weight settled against him.

The catcake gave a faint, content huff and snuggled more into him.

After a moment, despite himself, he smiled.

........................

By now her presence had become something of a fixed feature of the relationship— her arrival in the evening, the instant affection of all three catcakes, her staying for dinner, and then, as it happened with increasing regularity, staying the night.

Aventurine had no complaints about this. He had, in fact, engineered it to some degree: the imported tea she liked, restocked last week; the second drawer in the bathroom, quietly cleared for her things. There were small adjustments throughout the apartment, subtle shifts that made space for her without ever announcing themselves as such.

He was not subtle about wanting her around, he simply preferred not to remark on it directly.

The catcakes, apparently, had no such preference for subtlety when she stayed over.

And the ensuing bed situation was, by far, the most egregious offense.

The first time, he allowed for coincidence.

He had come to bed late, later than her, which meant she was already warm and half-asleep when he settled beside her, and there was a specific quality to her like that that he found... the word distracting was not quite right. Compelling was closer.

She shifted when the mattress dipped, a quiet, instinctive movement, and turned toward him. Her hand found his sleeve first, before settling, fingers curling faintly against the fabric.

“…You’re late,” she murmured.

“Occupational hazard,” he replied softly.

His gaze lingered, drawn to her lips.

Her palm grazed his cheek lightly, then she rose a little, and he met her halfway, one hand lifting almost absently to steady against the mattress near her shoulder. The distance between them narrowed to something precarious, lips ghosting over each other, suspended just at the edge of more.

And then—

The largest catcake landed squarely on his chest.

Directly on his sternum, with full confidence. The force of it startled both of them apart instantly, whatever fragile moment had been forming snapping cleanly in two as the catcake adjusted its weight and settled more into him with absolute disregard for context.

It kneaded once, twice, found the position satisfactory, and began to purr at a volume he found inappropriate for the circumstances.

Aventurine lay very still, staring up at the ceiling as though it might offer some form of explanation.

"Move," he said.

The large catcake opened one eye. Then closed it.

She made a sound muffled into his shoulder that was unmistakably laughter. "It missed you."

It only purred louder.

"I missed it, too," he said, with considerable patience, "just not right now."

She laughed again, properly this time, which was the only thing that made the situation even slightly acceptable, and the largest catcake settled in for what appeared to be the long term, which meant the moment was gone, and Aventurine looked at the ceiling and conducted a brief internal audit of his life choices.

He couldn't prove it, but he knew it was on purpose.

........................

Next time, he was prepared to take action.

The action he had decided on was simply waiting them out. The catcakes slept deeply, they had routines. There was a window, he had observed, between approximately eleven and midnight, when all three were reliably unconscious and the apartment was quiet and the bed was just the two of them, which was all he had ever wanted from the bed, truly, in the grand scheme of things.

He had communicated none of this to her, of course, on the grounds that saying I have scheduled a window in the catcakes' sleep cycle out loud would require a level of self-reflection he wasn't prepared to perform.

He had simply suggested, at half past ten, that she should probably head to bed, citing a long day.

She had looked at him with the expression that meant she was aware something was happening and found it entertaining. "It's early," she said.

"It's been a long week."

"For you?"

"For both of us."

"Mmhm." But she had gone to bed, and the catcakes had been distributed across the apartment in the deep and motionless sleep of the innocent, and he had given it twenty minutes to be safe before settling beside her, and the room was quiet, and she was looking at him with something warm and hungry in the low light, and he had his hand at her waist and her fingers had found the collar of his shirt, and everything was going entirely according to plan —

A small, deliberate weight landed on the mattress.

Aventurine froze.

The smallest catcake, who had never once, in all the months he had her, been awake past eleven, climbed the length of the bed, walked directly across him, and wedged itself into the exact warm hollow he usually occupied, perfectly positioned to claim any proximity that might otherwise have been his.

He counted to five.

She bit her lip not to laugh.

"It's never awake at this hour," he said.

"Must've sensed the energy," she said, muffled slightly by catcake.

"What energy?"

"The energy," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He moved the smallest catcake, firmly, to the foot of the bed. It returned immediately. He moved it again. It sat on his pillow and watched him with round, unblinking eyes that contained no comprehension of what it had interrupted and no remorse.

"I," he said, carefully, "am going to lose my mind."

She petted its head. "It just wants to be included."

"It's not invited."

"It doesn't know that."

He lay back. The smallest catcake took this as an opportunity. It walked onto his chest, turned a circle, and settled.

"This," he said, to the ceiling, "is a coordinated effort."

"They love you," she said.

"They are sabotaging me."

"Same thing, probably."

He looked at the smallest catcake. It purred, which proved nothing and which he was choosing not to find endearing. And then, as if summoned by some unspoken signal, the other catcakes choose exactly that moment to join the fray, as well.

The large one spread across his pillow as though asserting ownership, effectively pushing him further toward the edge of the bed. The middle one wedged itself neatly into the space between them, occupying far more territory than its size justified.

"I'm being evicted from my own bed," Aventurine said, with great clarity. "In my own home. By animals that I feed."

She laughed. "You have space."

"I have twelve inches of mattress and someone's tail in my face."

He glared at the catcake on his pillow, affectionately. It looked back at him with eyes that contained no guilt whatsoever, and made no effort to move from the pillow. He tried to move it, gently, which it tolerated with profound sufferance before immediately resettling back on the pillow.

He laid back next to it in outmost offense, and looked at the ceiling.

She shifted, sliding closer to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her in his space, in his apartment, in the bed that was technically his even if everyone else was pretending otherwise.

"You're jealous," she said, into the dark, "of the catcakes."

"I'm establishing boundaries."

"You're jealous." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I provide for them. I source their enrichment. I have read—" he paused for emphasis— "two separate guides on catcake development. And I'm still getting sabotaged."

"Mmhm."

"It's my apartment, and I'm simply noticing," he continued, voice gaining the faintest edge of whining, "that there is a glaring distribution problem occurring, and that as the primary investor in this household, I am not seeing adequate returns on—"

"Aventurine."

"—what is objectively a significant emotional—"

"Aventurine."

"What?"

The largest catcake was lifted, very carefully, off the pillow and moved to the foot of the bed, where it settled with mild outrage. Then she shifted again, closing the distance fully as she tucked herself against his side, which rearranged the whole layout of the bed and displaced the middle catcake and fixed, in a single movement, the distribution problem he had been circling for three paragraphs.

And just like that, the problem was solved.

Aventurine went quiet.

"There," she said. "Are you happy?"

He was, though he would not admit it.

The smallest catcake migrated up again, and settled on his other side, which he suspected was an accident on her part but was choosing to count anyway.

"I'm locking the bedroom door tomorrow," he said.

"You won't."

"I will. Watch me."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him in the dim light. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room settled.

"You know," she said, "they only come to me because you spoil them so much they've gotten picky."

He considered this. "That is most certainly not true."

"It is," she admitted. "And you know it."

He did. He didn't say so.

What he did do, was tuck his arm around her, pulling her closer and disturbing the largest catcake, which it registered as a personal grievance before resettling on top of his feet with tremendous passive aggression.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Door. Locked."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"Sure."

He didn't lock the door the next day. But he did acquire, from a specialty importer, a fourth silk bed— smaller, placed strategically on the nightstand on his side— and said nothing about it to anyone, which he felt was a reasonable compromise between dignity and honesty.

The catcakes never used it.

He had put a warming pad in it. The catcakes had evaluated it with great seriousness for several days and then resumed sleeping in his spot without comment.

She saw it and said nothing.

You stepped out of the car, clutching your things a little tighter than necessary. The air smelled different from your home, it smelled like grass and soil and was unfamiliar. The kind of smell that told you that you were far from home.

Nanook stood on the porch, arms crossed, posture straight as a fence post. Stoic. Unmoving. Their eyes tracked you with a calm, unreadable intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Yep. Still intimidating.

And behind them waited the three hybrids you’d been dreading meeting.

The first one to catch your eye was the blonde Great Pyrenees hybrid. Towering. Fluffy. Built like a walking mattress but somehow still radiating “I could snap you in half.” His gaze swept over you, sharp and assessing, like he was deciding whether you were a threat or a new friend. You didn’t notice the way his tail kept trying to wag before he forced it still like he was scolding it.

Then your gaze slid to the wolfdog hybrid lurking half a step behind the others. Dark clothes, darker vibe, scars that looked like they had their own tragic backstory. He didn’t move. At all. Not a blink, not an ear twitch. Just stared at you with the intensity of someone who could hear your heartbeat and was judging its rhythm. You completely missed the tiny, almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then there was the Samoyed hybrid.

He was a complete opposite of the wolfdog hybrid, he practically glowed. Tail wagging like a helicopter rotor, bouncing on his toes, grinning at you like you were his long‑lost best friend returning from a flame chase journey.

Your social battery dropped another ten percent on sight.

Your inner sulking was interrupted when Idrilla stepped beside you, petting you behind your ears, earning a soft purr from you. “Come on, [name],” they whispered. “They’ve been waiting.”

Waiting? That didn’t make you feel any better.

Nanook finally spoke, voice deep and steady. “Welcome.” Just one word, but it carried enough weight to make your ears flatten.

Idrilla smiled brightly, completely unfazed. “Thank you again for taking them in, Nanook. I really appreciate it.” Nanook gave a short nod. “It’s fine.”

You weren’t convinced.

The Great Pyrenees hybrid shifted slightly, still watching you with that sharp, evaluating stare. The wolfdog didn’t move at all. The samoyed waved again, even more enthusiastically this time, his smile getting brighter. How is that even possible? You're going to go blind at this point.

Idrilla nudged you forward. “Go on. Say hello.” 

You swallowed hard.

Three months. You could survive three months… probably.

Nanook stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get you settled first. Introductions can wait until you’re inside.”

You nodded stiffly and followed, heart thumping as the three hybrids practically watched your every step.

Idrilla patted your back reassuringly before stepping forward to greet Nanook. “Thank you again for taking them in,” they said softly.

Nanook nodded once. “It’s fine. We’ll manage.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to reassure you or Idrilla.

The Great Pyrenees hybrid shifted his weight, still watching you with that sharp, evaluating stare. His tail gave the tiniest twitch behind him, but he forced it still. The wolfdog didn’t move at all. Just kept staring, unreadable. The Samoyed waved again, his grin somehow even brighter than before. How is that even possible?

Idrilla turned back to you.

And your stomach dropped.

This was it.

“I have to go now, my dear,” they said, voice warm but tinged with something heavier that you couldn’t quite understand. “My flight won’t wait.”

Your ears flattened. “Already…?”

“I know,” Idrilla murmured, brushing a hand over your head. “I wish I could stay longer. But you’ll be safe here. Nanook will take care of you. And the hybrids too.”

You weren’t so sure about that last part.

Idrilla leaned down, pressing their forehead gently to yours. “....Be good, alright? And try not to hide under the bed the whole time.”

You huffed quietly, but your chest tightened.

Idrilla straightened, gave Nanook a grateful nod, then walked back toward the car. The door opened, then shut. The engine started.

You watched the car roll down the dirt path, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind the trees.

Silence settled over the porch.

Four pairs of eyes were still on you.

Nanook finally spoke. “Let’s get you inside.” You nodded stiffly and followed, your steps small and hesitant.

The three hybrids trailed behind you.

Their stare followed you everywhere, heavy and impossible to ignore. You could even hear Samoyed's tail thumping excitedly—right up until one of the hybrids huffed at him to cut it out.

You didn’t dare look back.

Nanook led you through the front door and down a short hallway. The house was warm, wooden, and surprisingly neat. It smelled like herbs and something cooking, it feels comforting, even if your nerves refused to settle.

Nanook stopped at a door near the end of the hall. “This will be your room,” they said, pushing it open.

You peeked inside.

Simple bed, small dresser and a window overlooking the fields. 

Perfect for sunbathe, you think happily

It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t bad.

Nanook stepped aside. “You can unpack later. For now, take a moment to breathe.”

You nodded, stepping inside and placing your bag on the bed.

Behind you, the hybrids lingered in the hallway.

The Great Pyrenees hybrid watched you with that same sharp, evaluating stare. The wolfdog stood perfectly still like a statue and the Samoyed grinned again, tail wagging like he couldn’t help it.

Your ears flattened.

Nanook cleared their throat. “Give them space,” they said to the hybrids.

The Pyrenees stepped back. The wolfdog didn’t react.

The Samoyed froze before letting out a whine while looking at his owner who returned with a warning stare.

Nanook turned to you. “We’ll do introductions once you’re ready.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

Nanook gave a short nod and walked away, the hybrids following after them—though the Samoyed hesitated and kept glancing back at you before the blonde grabbed him by the collar to pull him down the hallway.

His whine echoed in the hallway before silence settled in your room.

You sat on the edge of the bed, tail curling around your leg.

Idrilla was gone. You were alone. And the three hybrids were just down the hall.

....

A soft thump sounded outside your door, breaking the silence.

Then another.

Then a muffled whisper.

"Damn it phainon, it's not even a minute!"

You froze, ears perking.

“Stop pushing me—Nanook said to give them space,” a low voice hissed. You couldn't tell who it was, but it was probably the blonde.

“I’m not pushing you.” another voice replied, quieter, rougher. Ah, must be the wolf dog.

A third voice chimed in, bright and impossible to mistake. “I’m just checking if they’re okay! That’s not bothering!”

You groaned internally.

Of course it was the Samoyed.

There was a brief scuffle—light shuffling, a quiet growl, and what sounded suspiciously like someone being dragged away by the collar.

“Phainon,” Khaslana warned, “leave them alone.”

“But—”

“No.”

Silence.

Then a defeated whine.

You stared at the door, unsure whether to laugh, hide, or climb out the window.

A moment later, Nanook’s voice cut through the hallway, calm but firm. “All of you. Living room. Now.”

Three sets of footsteps shuffled away.

You exhaled, shoulders dropping.

At least you had a moment to breathe.

But only a moment.

Because a second later, Nanook called out, “You too. It’s time for introductions.”

Your tail curled tight around your leg.

Here we go.

You stepped into the living room with your tail tucked close, trying not to look as nervous as you felt. Nanook stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. The three hybrids lined up behind them, each one radiating a completely different kind of energy.

Nanook gave a short nod. “We’ll start now.”

Your stomach twisted.

Nanook turned slightly. “Khaslana.”

The Great Pyrenees hybrid straightened immediately, like he’d been waiting for his cue. He stepped forward, towering over you even more up close. His fur was fluffy, his build massive, and his stare sharp enough to make your ears flatten.

“I’m Khaslana,” he said, voice deep but surprisingly calm. “I help Nanook with the livestock and patrol the property.”

He paused, eyes scanning you again. slow, careful, evaluating. Before tilting his head with a small smile.

“If you need anything outside, you can ask me.” A beat. “But don’t wander off alone. It’s not safe.”

You weren’t sure if that was a warning or advice.

Nanook nodded once. “Reaver.”

The wolfdog pushed off the wall and stepped forward. He didn’t bother standing tall or looking friendly. He just stood there, arms crossed, scars catching the light, eyes blank and unreadable.

“Reaver,” he said simply.

You blinked.

He continues to stare at you.

That was it.

No explanation. No greeting. No emotion.

He stared at you for a moment longer, then stepped back without another word.

Your tail swayed.

Nanook didn’t comment. They simply turned to the last hybrid. “Phainon.”

Phainon practically jumped forward, almost tackling you in a hug.

“Hi!! I’m Phainon!” he chirped, tail wagging so hard it thumped against the floor. “I help with chores and deliveries and cooking but nanook doesn't want me to and sometimes I fix fences and other stuff. OH! do you wanna see my room—”

“Phainon,” Nanook said.

He froze. “Right. Sorry.”

He gave you a bright smile instead. “I’m really happy you’re here!”

Your social battery flickered dangerously.

Nanook looked back at you. “These three will be your ma—housemates. If you need anything, ask one of them.”

You nodded stiffly, unsure what else to do.

Khaslana watched you like a guard dog. Reaver didn’t look at you at all. Phainon tried to get close to you before being pulled back by Khaslana.

Yeah... you can't wait to go home.

wc— 1672.