maddie ⋆˚࿔ 🍎

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

—

“She’s adorable,” you tell Sylus as you pat the kitten dry softly. “What did the vet say?”

He watches as you nuzzle with it, feeling an unfamiliar warmth spread across his chest. He can’t help but smile to himself as he sits with you on the settee, reaching out to pet the kitten.

“They said just to keep feeding her small amounts until she gets used to the food,” he tells you, using a single finger to stroke its head. “They’re worried about her heart, but she needs to eat more and gain more weight for them to do proper tests.”

“You are lucky,” you tell the kitten, touching its nose lightly. She purrs, gently reverberating against your hand. “You get to eat as much as you want and this guy pays for everything.”

“What are you going to name her?” you ask Sylus, your attention back to him.

He shrugs. “We have until next week before she gets another checkup, gets more tests done for her heart, and gets the shots she needs. We can decide then.”

The kitten looks up at him, blinking slowly, her nose reaching for his finger. He chuckles, letting her touch it, and she nuzzles against it, her purring growing louder. “But I do like that name. Lucky – very fitting for a thing like her.”

—

Sylus spends the next few days doting on his new pet. You enjoy watching him sneak away at different times during the day to check on Lucky. Sometimes you’ll find them napping together throughout the day – him usually laying on one of his couches or settees with her on his broad chest. She looks so tiny compared to him, but looks so comfortable in his presence.  

“She likes it here,” he would tell you, his fingers lightly touching the ends of her fur.

You would reach down to also pet her gently. “I think she likes feeling a strong heartbeat. Let’s hope hers becomes as strong as yours one day.”

He also starts crafting different toys for her, and even programs Mephisto to play different games with her.

“Lucky indeed,” you tell him as you pick up a new toy from his bench. “How does this even work?”

He takes the toy from you, fiddles with it for a few seconds, then stands it up on the bench. It produces a gentle beam of light that instantly flicks to the other side of his workshop. Lucky chases it, following it throughout the workshop as it constantly changes positions. Her tail, all bandaged up, flops around clumsily, slowing her down and making it difficult for her to catch the beam.

You watch her, unable to control your laughter, “She sure has a lot of energy. Make sure you don’t tire her out, okay?”

Sylus raises an eyebrow at you, smirking slightly. “You know what? She reminds me a lot of you, kitten. Feisty and full of zest. Plus, she can’t resist me.”

You give him a playful smack on the shoulder before turning away. “Yeah, yeah. Clean up soon. It’s almost dinner time for both you and her.”

—

You sigh as you remove your shoes at the entranceway of Sylus’s place. You have had a long day at work writing up reports, but are glad to be home – you’re looking forward to spending time with him and Lucky.

You start to make your way to the kitchen, then notice that something’s off – Sylus would usually greet you, either by voice or through his intercom, as soon as you enter. But all you hear is silence. No music playing, no sounds of movement either. The sun is starting to set, but the place isn’t completely dark yet. You move through the penthouse, calling for him.

“Sylus? Where are you?”

There’s a beat of silence before you hear him answer. “In here.”

His voice sounds weird – there’s an emotion in there that you’ve never heard from him. You follow where it comes from, and find yourself in one of his drawing rooms. Sylus is sitting cross-legged, in front of the window of the room, basking in what’s left of the late afternoon sun, looking down. He doesn’t turn towards you when you enter, so you approach him slowly.

“Sylus? What’s wrong? Why are you on the floor?”

He turns his head your way, and you see his eyes. They’re glistening slightly, but he blinks the tears back and turns his attention back to his lap.

You reach him and see that Lucky is cradled in his lap, looking peacefully asleep. He stays unmoving, his hands resting on his knees, either side of her. Your heart feels like it comes to a stop when you realize why he’s behaving strangely. You kneel down next to him, your hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“She was just laying on the floor in the sun,” he says quietly. “I thought she was just taking a nap. I tried calling her name, but she–she…” His voice trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. “I don’t think her heart was strong enough,” he whispers.

“I’m going to take her, okay?” you tell him gently, reaching into his lap. You pick Lucky up, and she feels more fragile than ever. So small, so delicate. She does look like she’s just sleeping – extremely content and at peace. But her warmth is no longer there. Your hands shake as you hold her, and you have to steady yourself as you stand again. “Let’s put her to rest,” you say, your throat feeling tight. “I think I know where we can take her.”

—

The drive out to Sylus’s property just outside the city isn’t that long – it takes you less than an hour to get there. Sylus starts to dig a hole in the backyard of the small cabin, next to some rose bushes. It doesn’t take him too long to make a hole big enough. He had wrapped Lucky in one of his sweaters – her favorite one to nuzzle and cuddle with. He takes her from you wordlessly and lays her down gently, then starts patting dirt onto the sweater with his hands.

He finishes covering it, and both of you stand, staring down at the grave, your hand clasped around his dirt-covered one. You stand with him until he’s ready to head back inside, and he follows you silently, allowing you to push him into the shower so that he can clean up.

It’s not long before you’re both in bed, his head in your chest, his arm draped around you. You stroke his hair, your fingers running through his silver locks. You can tell he hasn’t fallen asleep yet – you’re almost certain his eyes are wide open, staring at the far wall of the room.

“Don’t be too sad,” you murmur, playing with a tuft of his hair. “In her last moments, she was probably dreaming of you. She probably felt happy, fed and protected. All thanks to you.”

You stay seated, waiting for Zayne to finish off what he was saying. But he watches helplessly as the students stand from their seats and start filing out the door. 

“Okay, that’s it for now. I guess I’ll see you guys next week,” he sighs, coming to terms with the fact that the class is no longer paying attention. “Don’t forget to email or drop in if you have questions about your lab reports.”

You take that as your cue to start leaving too. Poor guy. None of the other students had even pretended to be at least a little interested when he had started talking about the extracurricular activity. He had passed the sheet around your class, asking for any volunteers to help take care of the resident pigeons of the university’s psychology department.

“It’ll only be for the semester,” he had explained. “All you’ll be doing is weighing them and feeding them. They’re friendly and they love people.”

When your classmates had heard that they would be looking after pigeons, you had felt a tangible shift in their enthusiasm. You, however, are eager to know more about the research project, whether it involves pigeons or not. You had chosen this particular lab slot specifically because of its teaching assistant – Zayne Li. You’ve seen his name in multiple papers and journal articles, despite still being a student himself. You saw it as an opportunity to learn from him, and maybe even get an inside look at the projects he’s currently involved in.

You glance towards the front of the class, and see that he’s already started packing up too. You swing your backpack over your shoulder, already thinking about your next class. You exit the room, thoughts of pigeons already pushed to the back of your mind.

Zayne sighs again as he picks up the sheet, expecting it to be blank. But he sees your name scrawled on the first line. He blinks at it, and looks up from the sheet, ready to call out to you, not knowing exactly who you are yet. But the room is already empty, and he’s alone. He looks down at the sheet again and allows himself a small smile. He reads your name again, once, twice, and says it to himself, committing it to memory. He’s already excited to introduce you to his test subjects.

—

“And this is A5,” Zayne tells you, putting the pigeon back in its cage. A5 coos softly as Zayne handles him, then hops to the back of the cage. Zayne secures the latch, and A5 comes closer to the bars of his cage and tilts his head at you in a curious manner.

“He’s… a little more withdrawn than the others,” Zayne explains as he motions to the other cages. The other four pigeons had greeted you with intense curiosity, their beaks playfully pecking at you when Zayne had handed them to you to teach you how to carry them. The only one he didn’t hand to you was A5. Both of his wings had sustained damage during his racing days, and Zayne had explained that he was wary around humans. 

“I’m really the only one who he allows to touch him,” Zayne continues, reaching for a packet of baby wipes on one of the lab counters. He opens it up, and passes you one. You take it then wipe your hands with it, with him doing the same. “But I’m sure once you spend enough time with him, he’ll warm up to you.”

He lowers the sleeves of his sweater after finishing wiping up his hands and arms – you note the faint but large scars, criss-crossing and covering both his arms. You’d hate to imagine what kind of injury had caused them. They remind you of A5’s damaged wings. Maybe A5 had found a kindred spirit in Zayne.

“Any questions?” he asks as he leans on the counter. The first half hour of your volunteering session was spent on mostly housekeeping things. You had listened intently, noting things down in your notebook, scrawling every bit of information he had said down. He watched you while you were busy with your eyes on your notebook, amused. No student had ever shown this much enthusiasm when dealing with the pigeons. 

“Yeah,” you say, closing your notebook. “Why give them numbers instead of actual names?”

He presses his lips into a tight line before giving you a forced smile. “It’s so we don’t get attached to them. You know, when they eventually…”

“Gotcha,” you reply, nodding. Your eyes scan the room, trying to remember all of the things he has taught you so far. Open up the lab, weigh and feed the pigeons, note their weights in the logbook, do a quick tidy up of the cages and lab if needed. 

“Of course, I’ll be here every time you’re here, supervising you.” He goes to his desk on the far side of the lab and you follow him. “I’ll be writing up test results, doing other admin work, and helping you with the subjects.”

You nod again. “Actually, I have another question… what exactly are you doing with them?”

You see Zayne’s eyes light up with enthusiasm, and he pulls up another chair to his desk. “Take a seat, I’ll show you.” You do as he says, and he sits on the office chair in front of the computer. You watch him fiddle around for a little bit before he pulls a slideshow up. “We’re seeing if they can differentiate works from different artists,” he tells you, flicking through the slides. You see paintings by Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso and other artists flash across the screen. “We’ve done a similar experiment with another group of pigeons, and they showed promising results. We’re seeing if this group can tell the difference in visual styles and signatures.”

You listen to him talk about the project, thoroughly impressed. You can’t believe the other students in your class passed up the opportunity to work on something like this. “They’re very intelligent, you know,” Zayne says quietly. “Most people think of them as being smelly and dirty. Poor things. We rescued them from a racing club. They were too old and past their prime, so they were about to be euthanized.”

You inhale sharply, feeling a dull ache settle in your chest. You decide to change the subject. “So is this fully funded by the department? It sounds like a lot of work.”

Zayne pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Actually, this is mostly funded by a friend of mine from the fine arts department. You might have heard of him. His name is Rafayel Qi.”

You blink at Zayne. You had seen the initials “RQ” flash across the screen briefly while Zayne was showing you the slides. Of course you’ve heard of him. A renowned artist and gallery owner who teaches part time at your university’s fine arts department. You know he didn’t need the money – a lot of students speculate that he works at the school because he’s bored. Even though he’s close to your age, you imagine that he has wealth beyond your wildest imagination.

“Wow,” is all you can muster, taking the news in. “I suppose the whole artist thing was his idea then?”

Zayne nods. “He stops by now and again. Hopefully you can meet him while you’re here.”

The thought of meeting someone that influential makes your stomach turn, but you flash Zayne a brief smile. “Yeah, that would  be cool.”

—

The weeks fly by as you fulfil your duties at the lab. You actually end up enjoying spending the quiet hours with Zayne and the pigeons. He seems so different during lectures, sitting at the front of the class, assisting Doctor Noah, and during lab slots, providing stern but thorough guidance through class material. When it’s just you in him in the lab, he reveals bits of himself to you – bits you don’t expect.

“I guess you’re curious about my scars,” he suddenly brings up one day as you’re going about weighing the pigeons. You blink at him, then nod, putting A3 back into his cage carefully. “To be honest, I am too,” he admits, then chuckles at your surprised gape. “I mean, I don’t remember how I got them. My parents won’t tell me either.” He traces a finger over a prominent one, just above his wrist. “But I think I remember the pain,” he whispers, his eyes glazing over behind his glasses. “I think it was cold. Really cold. But maybe the rest of the memories are being blocked by my brain. Maybe for my own good.” He shudders, then looks up at you, suddenly noticing how concerned you look. “Sorry,” he coughs into a fist. “I just started rambling. I don’t really have anyone to talk to when I spend time in the lab like this.” 

You head to the sink and wash your hands thoroughly before making your way to the drip coffee maker in the corner of the lab. You take two mugs from the shelves and pour coffee into them. You leave one mug just black, and with the other, you tear open a packet of creamer and a packet of sugar and pour it in. You stir the coffee, then take it back over to where Zayne’s desk is. You hand the mug with the creamer and sugar to him, then you sip from yours. He takes the mug and wraps his hands around it, seeming to relish the warmth it provides. “Thank you,” he tells you, lifting the mug up to his face – the steam fogs his glasses up momentarily. 

“What do you like to do in your spare time, Zayne?” you ask, trying to keep your tone casual. 

He ponders for a moment before answering you. “I like going to cafes, bakeries. Trying out their pastries and desserts.” 

You pause before following it up with another question, one that you know really prods into his personal life. “Is there someone you usually go with? You know, like a girlfriend, boyfriend, I don’t know,” you end up rushing through the last few words, hoping he doesn’t sense your intent.

He shakes his head. “No. I usually go by myself. It would be nice to go with someone and share a plate of desserts, though. I try to limit myself to just one, but I get tempted to buy multiple, even if I’m by myself.”

You nod enthusiastically, trying to emphasize your sympathy. “Yeah, that would be really nice, right? Sweets are always better when you enjoy them with someone else.”

He tilts his head to the side, and narrows his eyes at you, then nods in agreement. “Yes. It would be.”

You take another slurp of coffee from your mug and set it down on his desk. “Okay,” you announce, rolling your sleeves up. “I’ll finish up with the birds.”

“Let me know when A5 is ready and I can handle him,” Zayne says as he turns his chair to face his computer. “Then you can pack up for the day.”

You head back to the cages and go through your procedures with A4. A4 is calm as you take him from his cage and place him in the tube on the scale. You log his weight, return him, then measure out his food before placing it in his cage. He coos happily as he receives his meal. You secure his cage and eye A5’s. A5 looks at you with a curious twinkle in his eye. You cast a glance at Zayne and see that he’s busy writing up a report. You decide to handle A5 quietly, hoping you’ll impress Zayne by being able to manage him. You open his cage and reach inside. He lets you take him and you sigh in relief. You think you’re all clear as you’re about to weigh him, when he suddenly lifts his head, then brings it down, his beak latching onto your skin at the base of your thumb – he’s biting you. 

You hold back a scream, still carrying him gently, but then he goes again, biting harder this time, his beak really digging into your skin. 

“Fuck!”

Your shout rattles the other pigeons, and you can hear their wings flapping in surprise in their cages. You don’t know how he manages to get there so fast, but Zayne is instantly in front of you, reaching for A5.

“Give him to me,” he instructs firmly, and you immediately comply, passing the bird onto him. Zayne takes him back to the cage, and secures it before turning back to you. You cradle your injured hand with the other, suddenly feeling extremely sheepish. He puts his hands on his hips, then sighs, shaking his head. “Go wash your hands in the sink.”

You do as he says, and run your hands under the water, using soap to clean your wound. A5’s second bite had managed to break skin, but it’s a small injury, only drawing a little bit of blood. You wipe your hands with a paper towel, and Zayne is at your side, holding the lab’s first aid kit. He sets it down on the counter, and begins to rummage through it, bringing out some antiseptic wipes and a small plaster.

“Let me see your hand,” he tells you, holding his out. You comply, letting him take yours. He inspects it, then rips open a packet of an antiseptic wipe. He gingerly wipes at the cut, wiping the blood he sees away. He then opens up the plaster and sticks it over the injury. His thumb presses the plaster into your skin, gently rubbing over it a few times.

You suddenly realize how close he is to you, and you’re afraid he can hear your heart beating against your ribcage. The way he cares so closely for you makes your head light, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. You inhale, and notice that he faintly smells of jasmine.

“How long has it been since your last tetanus shot?” he asks, looking at you, still holding your hand. 

You swallow before replying. “Just before the semester started. It was on the required list of vaccines for enrolling.”

He sighs again before releasing your hand. “I think you’ll be okay. I told you to leave A5 to me.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you reply, looking down. “I thought I could handle him.”

His gaze softens and he crosses his arms over his chest. “If anything happens to you in this lab, it’s my fault,” he says quietly. He looks over to the cages. “You can head out. I’ll finish up here.”

You want to convince him to let you stay, but you’re afraid of upsetting him further. You gather your things silently and head out without telling him goodbye. Your heart is beating rapidly again, out of embarrassment and guilt. You make it out of the building and almost halfway across the faculty before your phone pings with a notification. You take it out of your pocket and peer at your screen – it’s an email from Zayne. You stop in your tracks and open it with trembling hands.

Don’t be too worried, A5 will warm up to you eventually. Take care until we see each other next week.