ilike2dream

Yeri chuckles. “Careful what you wish for. You know the hospital doesn’t even have a protocol for treating hybrids? If one shows up bleeding out, we’re technically not authorized to operate unless—”

“Unless it’s life-threatening,” you finish, rolling your eyes, “I read the policy memo,” you smirk as your fingers tab against the coffee cup, “but do you really think someone half-wolf cares about hospital policy?”

That earns a laugh from Nayeon, but it fades quickly. “They say some can’t control it. Their behavior, I mean. It’s tied to emotion. Anger, fear…” She lowers her voice, glancing toward the darkened hallway. “You ever think about how many of them are just… hiding? Living normal lives until something snaps in them?”

“They’re wild animals,” Yeri exclaims, “of course they’re gonna snap eventually.”

You don’t answer. Not knowing whether to agree or disagree to that statement. 

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should. 

“Anyway,” Yeri says, stretching, “if more hybrids do exist, they’re probably smart enough to stay far away from us. Humans have a habit of ruining what they don’t understand.”

Nayeon hums in agreement, stacking her paperwork, “still, if I ever see one, I’m running the other way.”

You smile faintly. “Same.”

The rest of your shift remains uneventful. Minus the occasional gossip sessions and questions on what their plans for the weekends are. 

When your shift finally ends you wave goodbye to your friends before parting ways to your parked car. Despite it being hours ago the hybrid conversation still lingers in your mind. The thought of hidden eyes, of instincts stronger than reason. Of creatures half human.

You shake it off and remind yourself it’s just another long shift, another round of wild hospital rumors. Everyone gets delirious at some point during a 12 hour shift. 

Still, as you walk toward your car, the wind moves through the  parking lot in a way that makes your skin prickle. And that’s when you hear it. A sudden howl off to the distance causes your body to flinch. It’s low and echoing, carried by the night air.

You tell yourself it’s just a dog.

You always tell yourself it’s just a dog.

You hurriedly unlock your car and rush inside. 

The drive home is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after midnight, when the world feels suspended between days. The streets are nearly empty, the hum of the city fading with every mile until all that’s left is the sound of your tires on the damp road.

Your neighborhood sits near the edge of the woods, where civilization meets the wild. It’s peaceful most nights, with sounds of crickets, the occasional owl, and the wind shifting through trees that have stood long before your house was built. You usually love that serenity. 

But tonight for some reason feels different.

You attempt to just shrug it off thinking Nayeon's words were finally getting to you.

The night air bit at your cheeks as you stepped out of your car, exhaustion clinging to your bones like a second skin. Twelve hours at the hospital would drain anyone, but tonight had been especially brutal.

You rub the back of your neck, half out of habit, half because something about the stillness makes you uneasy.

Inside, your house is dim but welcoming, the warm amber light spilling from the lamp you forgot to turn off that morning. You kick off your shoes, drop your keys in the bowl by the door, and exhale for what feels like the first time all day.

Your scrubs are wrinkled and stained with coffee and your hair is escaping its bun. You don’t care. You were off the next day anyway. The plan for tonight was simple: shower, tea, bed.

But apparently the night has other plans for you.

Just as you reach to turn on the kettle, a loud thud echoes from outside.

You freeze.

It isn’t the usual creak of branches or the scurry of small animals. This sound has weight as if something solid hitting the ground, followed by a faint metallic clang, like a tool being knocked over.

Your gaze flicks toward the back window. The motion sensor light has turned on, casting a pale glow over the yard. The shed at the edge of the property stands half in shadow. When you lean against the window you notice the door slightly ajar.

Your stomach tightens.

“Probably just the wind,” you mumble under your breath, even though you don’t believe it.

Another sound follows, heavier, deliberate, as if something large shifted inside the shed. Your breath catches in your throat. This time convinced you were either about to encounter an animal or worse, human.

You grab the nearest thing resembling a weapon. A broom. You creep toward the back door trying to ignore your pounding heart. The night air slips in when you crack it slightly open, just enough for you to feel the cool and damp air. The light flickers outside, shadows bending strangely at the edge of the shed.

Then. Silence.

You stare for several long seconds, the quiet pressing against your ears until you swear you can hear a low growl.

Nope.

You shut the door quickly, lock it, and pull the curtain tight. Whatever’s in there, you’ll deal with it in the morning when it feels less like a horror movie and when you’re not bone-tired and running on caffeine fumes. Before heading upstairs you make sure all the windows are locked tight and shut. It was times like these you wished you adopted a dog to keep guard.

Still, as you finally make your way to your bedroom, you can’t shake the feeling that something, or rather someone, is watching you from the dark.

And outside, under the dim light, a pair of glowing eyes blink once from the shadows of the shed… then vanish.

You wake before your alarm, in that half-lucid state where your mind hovers between sleep and consciousness, muscles heavy but your thoughts sharp and uneasy. For a moment, the tightness in your chest feels like a phantom ache, but then the memory hits: the thud, the shed. Your stomach knots as if it remembers something your brain wants to forget.

You slap your cheeks together as a form of motivation, “ok Y/n, it’s time to be a big girl and check the shed. What’s the worst that can happen,” you mumble. 

Even as you put on some sweatpants and wrap your robe around you, your hands tremble slightly. The whole thing feels ridiculous, “it’s probably nothing,” is what you try to convince yourself with but your heart doesn’t seem to care. 

The uncertainty of what you might encounter gives you more anxiety than you would’ve liked first thing in the morning. 

Morning sunlight filters weakly through the blinds, painting stripes of gold and shadow across the floor. Everything looks ordinary, mundane even. The teacup you left on the counter, the faint aroma of last night’s espresso lingering in the air, the slight hum of the refrigerator. Ordinary enough to make you doubt yourself. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe caffeine, maybe a trick of your imagination.

You shuffle toward the window, robe brushing the floor, and that’s when you freeze. The shed door is wide open. Your pulse spikes. “I guess it wasn’t my imagination after all.” The paint is chipped along the edges of the old wooden door as if an animal was clawing at it to open. You blink hard. 

“It’s a raccoon, it’s a raccoon,” you chant under your breath like you were trying to cast a spell in hopes of your manifestation becoming true. You move to the kitchen and grab a knife. A weapon that seems a little more suitable for the situation regardless of how ridiculous you felt. 

Your throat feels dry as you step outside. The grass is still damp with last night’s dew, cool against your slippers, and the air carries that earthy, metallic scent that always comes after rain. Leaves and small branches litter the yard.

You take the knife from your hands, holding it with both palms as if it’s a lifeline, and approach the shed slowly. Every step crunches softly on wet grass, and the faint sound of your heartbeat fills your ears. The door swings slightly with the breeze, groaning on its rusted hinges. 

You take a peak from the already open door. Inside, everything seems normal. The gardening tools hang neatly, the lawnmower rests against the far wall, and cobwebs sway lazily from the ceiling beams. But your eyes catch the muddy prints crossing the floor. But that’s not what frightens you the most. They’re human footprints. Human-sized, irregular footprints trailing from the door into the shadows. The prints are smeared, as if being dragged, leaving streaks that darken the pale wood.

Your gaze follows the trail, and your stomach twists as it stops near a dark, wet patch. At first, it looks like dirt, but the glossy crimson reflection in the sunlight makes your skin crawl. The metallic tang finally hits your nose. 

Blood. 

Not a lot, but enough to make your throat dry and your hands tremble.

“Oh fuck,” you curse. You pat your body and it dawns on you that you failed to bring your phone to call the authorities.

You were about to run back into your house but something shiny glinted by your feet. You crouch cautiously, heart hammering, and brush away the dirt. A small silver tag lies there, engraved with a single letter: Y. The edges are scratched, slightly worn, catching the morning light like a warning.

A soft exhale.

You freeze.

The breath didn’t belong to you.

You go still, every muscle in your body locking up. Your brain immediately starts screaming at you to move, but your feet have apparently decided they’d rather die confused than cooperate.

Another sound follows, this time a low, pained groan. Definitely human.

“I did not sign up for this today,” you whisper, shaking your head.

You tighten your grip on the knife, which now feels less like a weapon and more like a glorified butter spreader. You take one careful step inside, the wooden floor creaking under your slippers. You glance toward the back corner where the light doesn’t reach. That’s where you hear it again. A shaky, uneven breath.

“Hello?” you call out, voice cracking halfway through, “if you’re a murderer, I should warn you, I scream really loud and my neighbors hate noise.”

No response. Just another soft groan, followed by a weak shuffle.

You swallow, your pulse pounding so hard it feels like your heartbeat’s trying to crawl up your throat. “Okay. Cool. Love that for me,” you mutter, inching forward.

Your eyes adjust slowly to the dim light, and that’s when you finally see him.

A figure slumped against the back wall, chest rising and falling shallowly. He’s shirtless, skin slick with sweat and streaked with dried blood. His hair is dark and matted, and what’s left of his clothes look torn, almost shredded. For a brief second, your brain can’t quite decide if you’re looking at a man or something else entirely.

Because that’s when you notice them. The ears.

Large black cat ears poking through his messy hair, twitching faintly as if trying to catch the faintest sound. His pupils, though barely open, are narrow slits of gold that glint when the light hits.

You stumble back, bumping into the doorframe hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Oh my god. I must be hallucinating. This is what sleep deprivation looks like.”

A sound tears through the air, more animal than human. A growl. A warning.

You flinch, holding up your free hand in surrender. “Whoa, easy, I’m not— look, I live here, okay? I’m just—” you glance around helplessly, “checking on my shed, as one does when strange cat-men break into it.”

He bares his teeth slightly, something between a snarl and a grimace. His jaw flexes as a sharp breath escapes him. He’s pressing a trembling hand to his side.

Despite the panic clawing at your throat, the nurse in you pushes forward. You can’t help it.

You take a shaky breath. “You’re hurt.”

His eyes flash open, golden, sharp, and animalistic. He growls again, louder this time, chest rumbling like distant thunder.

You flinch back, your knife wobbling dangerously in your grip. “Okay! Okay! You’re hurt, I’m terrified, and we’re clearly both having a rough morning, so maybe let’s just take a minute and breathe?”

Silence. Then a low, rasping voice. “Stay back.” His voice is rough, almost feral, as though the words hurt to form.

For a long, tense second, he studies you like he’s waiting for you to flinch, to prove you’re a threat. His claws flex faintly against the dirt, shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath. Finally, he groans softly, the fight in him faltering.

You take a cautious step closer, lowering the knife. “Look, I’m a nurse. I help people for a living. And right now, you count as… close enough.” He watches you as you drop your knife into the floor with a thud. Raising your hands so they remain in his line of sight at all times.

His hand twitches, claws scraping faintly against the wooden floor. His gaze narrows. “Humans don’t help my kind,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You blink. “Well, clearly you haven’t met the right human.”

For a long, tense second, he studies you  like he’s waiting for you to flinch, to lie, to prove you’re just another threat. Finally, with visible effort, he slumps back against the wall, chest heaving, but you notice something that makes you hesitate. There’s no fresh blood. The wounds along his ribs are dark and half-healed, but the skin around them is an angry shade of red, swollen, and slick with sweat. Even from here, you can tell it’s infected. Badly.

You crouch a little, trying to get a closer look without getting too close. “Okay… that’s not just a scratch,” you murmur, “you’re burning up.”

His head lifts sharply, gold eyes narrowing into slits. “Don’t,” he growls, voice low and gravelly.

“Don’t what? Diagnose you?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “Too late. You’ve got a fever, and whatever clawed you didn’t exactly clean its nails first.”

The growl deepens, chest rumbling like distant thunder. “I said stay back.”

“Listen dude, you’re half-delirious and about two hours away from sepsis,” you snap. “So maybe you stop giving orders and you let me help before you pass out and ruin my morning.”

He stares at you for a long second before finally looking away. His breathing is uneven, shallow, as if every inhale costs him energy he doesn’t have.

“I can help, but not here. You need cleaning and antibiotics like, yesterday. My house is just a few steps away. I can help you.”

His head jerks up immediately, eyes narrowing. “No,” he growls, voice rough and low. “Not going in there.”

You blink. “It’s a house, not a trap.”

His ears twitch, tail flicking once behind him, a flash of sleek black fur you hadn’t noticed before. His voice is strained, but the warning in it is still clear. “Humans. Traps. Same thing.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, look if I wanted to trap you, I’d call animal control, not offer free healthcare.”

That earns you a rumbling growl that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. He tries to stand and immediately wavers, one hand bracing against the wall. The second his knees buckle, instinct takes over and you dart forward before thinking. “Hey hey! Easy!”

He stiffens instantly, baring his teeth in warning. You freeze, hands hovering inches from him. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” you say softly. “But if you keep moving like that, you’re gonna pass out. And honestly, I’m not strong enough to drag your big cat ass all the way to the house.”

His eyes narrow at you. “You talk too much,” he mutters hoarsely.

“You growl too much,” you shoot back. 

He blinks slowly, as if deciding whether or not you’re insane. Then, finally, with a reluctant huff, he lets you move closer. Together, you manage to get him into the house. The morning light filters through your kitchen window, warm and ordinary against how utterly not ordinary this situation is.

“See?” you mumble. “No traps. Just bad coffee and worse lighting.”

He doesn’t answer. As soon as you stepped inside, he stiffened, nostrils flaring as his eyes darted across the room scanning exits, shadows, anything that could be a threat. The low rumble in his chest returns.

“Relax,” you murmur, noticing how tense his body had become. “If anyone’s dangerous here, it’s you.”

That earns you a sharp look, one that would’ve been terrifying if not for the way his knees give out a second later.

“Whoa—hey,” you catch him, your arm bracing his side. “Alright, easy, kitty. Let’s get you to the couch.”

He doesn’t resist as you steer him toward the couch. His breathing is rough, eyes half-lidded but still watchful. He drops onto the couch with a heavy exhale, muscles coiled tight. You can tell he’s seconds away from bolting if you move too fast.

“Stay there,” you say quickly, pointing a finger at him. 

He doesn’t reply, but his gaze stays locked on you. His wary, unreadable, golden eyes flickering in the morning light.

And for the first time since you met him, you get the strange feeling beneath all that distrust… He’s just as afraid of you as you are of him.

You rush down the hall to the bathroom, adrenaline spiking. You fling open the cabinet and start grabbing everything you can think of: antiseptic, gauze, saline, gloves, thermometer, antibiotic ointment, bandages, and even a small vial of oral antibiotics from your emergency stash. Your hands shake the entire time, bottles clinking as you shove them into your hands.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter under your breath. “Big scary cat in my living room, possibly septic. It’s just another casual morning.”

When you return, he’s right where you left him, watching the doorway like a cornered animal. His pupils are wide in the soft light.

“Good, you stayed,” you say, forcing a weak smile. “That’s progress.”

Something flickers in his expression. It looked like doubt, maybe confusion, but it’s gone before you can read it. He doesn’t relax, exactly, but he doesn’t bolt either.

You kneel again, slowly this time, making sure he can see every movement. “I’m just cleaning the wound, alright? No tricks. No needles.”

He watches you with quiet intensity, every breath a warning. 

“Alright. This is going to sting, and by sting, I mean you’re probably going to want to rip my arm off.”

He eyes the bottle warily, nostrils flaring. “What is that?”

“Disinfectant,” you explain carefully, twisting the cap off. “Kills the infection before it kills you.” You pour a small amount onto a cotton pad and move slowly toward his side. “Don’t. move.”

The moment the antiseptic touches his skin, he snarls, a raw, guttural sound that reverberates through the room. His back arches, claws digging into the couch cushion, tail flicking in a violent shudder of pain.

“Shit! I know, I know, I’m sorry!” you yelp, instinctively jerking your hand back. “You’re fine, it’s fine, it’s supposed to burn!”

His teeth bare in a warning growl, the sound more animal than human. “You—” his voice is a rasp, trembling with restrained anger, “burn me again, and I’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll maul me, I get it,” you cut in quickly, waving the bottle like a white flag. “Just breathe, okay? It means it’s working.”

He growls again, quieter this time, but doesn’t pull away when you lean back in. His breathing stays rough, his body tense, but he lets you clean the rest of the wound.

By the time you start applying the ointment, the worst of the trembling has eased. You glance up at him, catching his gaze briefly. The distrust is still there, but so is something else, something tired, wary, and deeply human.

“There,” you whisper, voice softening. “Done.”

He exhales slowly, the rumble in his chest fading. “You’re reckless,” he mutters finally, voice rough but quieter now.

You huff out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well, you broke into my shed. I think we’re even.” You lean back on your heels, exhausted. “You need rest. There’s a bed in the other room. I’ll help you get there.”

His eyes flash. “Not your den.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “It’s a guest room. You can leave once you’re not burning up like a furnace.”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps staring. His gaze follows every tiny movement you make, and it feels less like he’s looking at you and more like he’s trying to decide if you’re lying.

“Your temperature’s high, and if it’s an infection, you’ll need fluids and antibiotics.”

His lip curls slightly, a flash of sharp canines. “Don’t need your medicine.”

“Right. You’ll just growl at the infection until it gives up,” you mutter under your breath, but his ears twitch, he heard that.

His golden eyes narrow dangerously. “You think this is funny?”

You freeze. “No. I think this is terrifying actually. You barged into my shed, nearly passed out, and I’m trying not to shit my pants. So yeah, excuse me if sarcasm’s all I’ve got left.”

He doesn’t answer, but his posture shifts.

“Come on,” you say softly, keeping your tone even. “You can’t stay in the shed. It’s cold, damp, and there’s… well, spiders.”

A long, silent pause stretches between you. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t growl. He just watches. His tail flicks slowly, one, two, three times. Then, finally, he takes a single step forward. He falters and you instinctively reach out your hands to catch him. 

He flinches hard, grabbing your wrist in an instant. The growl that rips out of him is deep, guttural, pure instinct. 

Your breath catches. “Okay okay,” you whisper quickly, raising your free hand. “No touching. Got it.”

You take a careful step back, pulse still racing from how fast he’d reacted. His grip loosens, but his eyes stay locked on you, golden and sharp. It takes a full five seconds before he finally releases your wrist. You don’t move right away, neither of you do, the air between you is heavy with something taut and unspoken.

When you finally find your voice, it’s softer, steadier than you feel. “Alright,” you murmur, keeping your distance. “Let’s just… take it slow. The guest room’s this way.”

He follows you with cautious, uneven steps that’s not exactly following, but tracking you, like a predator making sure the prey doesn’t bolt.

“It’s the only clean room left,” you say lightly, forcing a nervous smile. “Sheets are fresh, door locks from the inside if that helps.”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps walking, his breathing is still slightly uneven, muscles tensing with every unfamiliar creak of the floor.

When you reach the doorway, you step aside and gesture toward the bed. “Here. You can rest here.”

He stops dead in his tracks. Doesn’t move forward. Doesn’t sit. Just stares at the bed. His tail flicks once, slow and uncertain.

You watch him quietly, unsure if saying anything would help or make it worse. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. He steps closer to the edge of the mattress, sniffing the air like he’s trying to decode it. The faint scent of detergent, linen, and you. His gaze darts to you, sharp and questioning, like he’s waiting for you to reveal the catch.

You lift your hands again in quiet surrender, “it’s just a bed. You can lie down, or not. Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

He shifts his weight, scanning the corners of the room, the window, the door. You can practically see him cataloguing every exit, every sound, every scent. Finally, with a low, uncertain rumble in his chest, he sits on the very edge of the mattress. He’s stiff, ready to spring back up at the first wrong movement.

You don’t move closer. You just watch quietly as he tests the fabric beneath him, pressing down once as if trying to understand the softness. You can’t help the faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not much of a bed person, huh?”

His head turns sharply toward you, golden eyes narrowing, and the smile fades from your face instantly. 

You take a small step back, keeping your tone calm. “I’ll get you some water. And something to bring your fever down.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, just staring down at the blanket like it’s something too fragile to touch for long. You back toward the door slowly, careful not to turn your back fully, leaving him the space he clearly needs. 

And as you leave the room, you catch one last glimpse of him  still sitting there, rigid and silent, a wild creature in a place that feels too soft, too safe, and too unfamiliar.

The kitchen feels colder than before.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, staring blankly at the half-full glass of water in front of you. The quiet hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. Everything feeling too normal for what’s happening.

An actual hybrid is sitting in your guest room. In your house.

You press a hand to your forehead and let out a shaky breath. “What the hell am I doing?” you whisper to yourself.

It’s absurd. You should’ve called animal control. Or the hospital. Or someone who actually knows what to do with half-human creatures. Instead, you’re here making sure he’s comfortable like you invited a stray cat inside. A muscle-covered, potentially dangerous stray cat with big claws.

You glance toward the hallway, as if you might somehow hear him moving but it’s silent. Which somehow feels worse.

You exhale, shaking your head. He looked so completely lost. Not just wary, but unsure. Like the concept of being offered something without a catch didn’t make sense to him.

You grab the medicine bottle from the cabinet, shaking two tablets into your palm. The sound of the pills rattling against the plastic echoes loud in the stillness. You hesitate, staring at them for a long moment.

What if he refuses again? What if you push too far and he bolts or worse, lashes out at you?

Still, you can’t bring yourself to throw the pills away. You fill a glass with water and set both down on the counter, biting the inside of your cheek. Logic tells you to keep your distance and wait until you can think clearly. But there’s something else tugging at you, a quiet voice buried under the anxiety.

He’s alone, hurt, and afraid.

And for whatever reason, he trusted you enough to stay.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “God, I’m going to regret this.”

Because no matter how much you try to rationalize it, the truth lingers at the edge of your thoughts.

You didn’t just bring a hybrid into your home.

You invited something wild, something dangerous, into your life.

Just then from the corner of your eye, you catch movement outside the kitchen window. It was fast, low, and much too big to be a regular animal native to these woods.

You freeze mid-step, pulse spiking.

At first, you think it’s him, maybe he slipped out somehow, already bolting back into the woods. But then your brain catches up. The shape was wrong. Taller. Broader. And it moved differently. More erratic, like it was hunting for something rather than running away.

You edge closer to the window, careful not to make a sound. Your fingers tighten around the counter as you lean forward just enough to peer outside. Beyond the yard, the tree line sways gently with the breeze until something moves through it, fast. You catch just the blur of motion, there and gone before your mind can even process it.

Your stomach drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper under your breath. You step back slowly, heart pounding so hard it hurts. 

You stumble backward, fumbling for the deadbolt with shaky hands. The metallic click of the lock sounds deafening in the silence that follows. You double-check it then grab the sliding bar and shove it across for good measure.

Your mind races. That thing outside was not the hybrid you brought into your house. The shape, the movement, the sound, it didn’t match. Panic builds in your chest before you can stop it.

“As if this morning couldn’t get any worse” you whisper, glancing toward the hallway. Your feet start moving towards the guest room. Heart still hammering against your chest. The bedroom is still cracked open, just like you left it.

“Please still be here,” you whisper under your breath.

You push the door open quietly.

He’s still there.

The hybrid sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes half-lidded but alert. His chest is heaving as if it’s taking everything in his body to just breathe. He looks up immediately when you enter, pupils narrowing into thin slits.

You stop short, still breathing hard.

He tilts his head slightly, as if sensing your tension. The air between you shifts. His tail flicks once against the blanket, a quiet thump.

You try to find your voice. “You… you didn’t hear anything outside, did you?”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you. But his ears twitch once, toward the window, before shifting his gaze outside.

You follow his stare, heart hammering, but see nothing except the lazy sway of branches in the breeze. The world outside looks calm.

Then, faintly, a crack, like twigs snapping could be heard right outside the closed window.

His ears flick again. His tail stills.

You whisper, “You heard that too, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t look at you, but the low rumble in his chest answers for him a deep, instinctive growl that vibrates through the quiet room.

The growl deepens and before you can ask what’s wrong, he moves. In one smooth motion, he crosses the room, his movements silent and eerily graceful. You barely have time to process before he’s unlatching the window.

“Wait—what are you doing?” you whisper harshly, stepping forward. “You can’t just—”

But he’s already pushing it open.

He leans forward slightly, inhaling deeply through his nose. You can see the subtle twitch of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes shift from gold to something darker. But then in a moment his entire demeanor changes. The tension in his shoulders softens, not completely, but enough that the hostility flickers into something else.

You hesitate and raise a brow while watching him closely. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer, but he straightens his back. His ears perk toward the woods. The tail that had been flicking slowly before now stills, almost rigid.

Then, quietly you hear him exhale one word under his breath that’s barely audible.

“…Brother.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “Wait what? Did you just say—”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish. He leans further out the window, scanning the treeline with sharp, predatory focus. For a moment, his pupils dilate, and the low rumble in his chest returns. Except this time it’s not a warning growl. It’s something closer to concern.

Your skin prickles. “There’s another one out there?” You mumble, more to yourself than to him.

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes now. A silent debate flickers across his features, like he’s trying to decide whether to tell you the truth or keep you in the dark.

Finally, he mutters something low and strained, almost reluctant. “He’s hurt.”

You blink, unsure if you heard right. “Hurt? As in hurt like you were, or hurt like I should be calling an ambulance?”

He doesn’t answer, but his claws flex slightly against the windowsill, the wood creaking under his grip. His tail flicks once, sharp and impatient. 

You glance out the window, scanning the trees, but all you see is the gentle sway of branches. “What do you want to do?” you ask quietly.

He shifts, muscles tightening beneath his skin as if preparing to move. His gaze is fixed outside. The faint rumble in his chest vibrates the air.

You step forward, instinctively putting yourself between him and the window. “Wait—”

He cuts you a sharp look that stops you cold. It isn’t threatening, not exactly. It’s a warning.

“You can’t just go out there,” you say, trying to keep your tone calm, even though your pulse is climbing. “You’re still recovering. You barely made it out of the shed this morning—”

He bares his teeth, just slightly, like he’s done being reasoned with. His tail lashes once behind him.

You hold your ground. “Look, I’m not saying no to helping him. Let me go outside instead.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

His ears flick back, and he stares at you like you just suggested juggling knives blindfolded. You can practically hear the thought in his head: This human has lost her mind.

You swallow, forcing a shaky smile. “You’re still weak,” you say, trying to sound logical instead of suicidal. “If you go out there like this, you could make things worse. You'll collapse halfway there, and then I’ll have two hybrids in my backyard.”

Something flickers across his face. You think it might be frustration, maybe even guilt, but it passes quickly. 

A low growl vibrates the air between you, deep enough that your ribs feel it. His tail lashes once, sharp and irritated.

“Right. You hate that idea,” you mutter, pacing half a step back. “If anything you can stay by the window and watch from here.”

That earns you a flicker of hesitation, his gaze darts between you and the window, then back again. Finally, with an agitated exhale, he steps back, muscles still tense, but at least he’s cooperating.

“Thank you,” you mutter, though it comes out more nervous than grateful.

Walking past him, you leave the room, heart pounding against your ribs, as you prepare to step outside into the morning air again. One very clear thought crosses your mind.  

This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

You can only imagine the look on Nayeon and Yeri’s face when you share this story the next time you see them at work.

The air hits colder than you expect as you step outside. The grass crunches faintly underneath with each step you take. Somewhere above, a crow lets out a sharp caw that makes your pulse spike for no good reason. You keep walking, following the faint imprint of pawprints near the edge of the yard. You tilt your head surprised, expecting to see human footprints.

You crouch briefly, brushing your fingers over the impression. The soil’s still damp.

A soft rustle, one that’s heavier than a squirrel, too light for a bear. You snap your head toward the sound, heart thudding against your ribs.

“Hello?” you call out, instantly regretting it. “If you’re… um… hurt or something, I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just,” you hesitate trying to find the right words, “a friend of your brother’s.” It was at that moment you realized you haven’t even gotten the poor guy's name, much less introduced yourself. 

It’s silent, but you know you’re not alone. 

Then you hear it, a deep, guttural sound. A growl, drawn out and strained, the kind that vibrates through the air and straight into your bones. Every instinct in your body screams run, but your feet don’t listen. You inch closer instead, because apparently you’ve lost all sense of self-preservation.

You push past a low branch and freeze.

That’s not a hybrid. That’s not even close.

It’s a tiger. A full-grown tiger who is easily twice your size, muscles shifting beneath slick fur streaked with blood and dirt. His chest rises unevenly, each breath rasping, shallow and pained.

Your brain short-circuits. “Oh my god,” the words come out in a choked whisper. You stumble back a step, almost tripping over a rock. “That’s… that’s not a hybrid. That’s a literal tiger!”

The tiger’s eyes snap open at the sound, gold and bright, and locked right on you.

You go completely still. For a moment, neither of you move, suspended in a standoff of shared disbelief. Then the tiger exhales sharply, a warning growl rumbling through the fog.

For a split second, your brain short-circuits. “Oh my god, I’m going to die before I even eat breakfast.”

His fur, once a brilliant orange and black, is dulled with mud and streaked with crimson. Each breath he takes is shallow, ragged, steam rising faintly from his body in the cold air. Even from here, you can tell he’s hurt, badly.

The tiger’s golden eyes snap open, locking onto you instantly. They’re wild, sharp, and full of warning. A low growl rumbles through his chest. It didn’t sound like a threat, but more like a reminder to not get too close.

Your brain scrambles. This has to be him. The brother. The air feels heavier now, pressing down on you.

“Hey,” you manage, voice trembling. “You’re hurt. I can help you, but you’ve gotta promise not to, uh… eat me.”

The tiger lets out a snort, a disbelieving one if that’s even possible, before lowering his head again, watching you through half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t move to attack, but his tail flicks once.

“Taking that as a maybe,” you mutter.

Your chest rises and falls in uneven gasps as the tiger’s growls taper off into a low rumble. His breathing is still labored, but he doesn’t lunge. Instead, his eyes flick past you and toward the house in the distance and then back.

You slowly kneel again, hands shaking. “Please,” you whisper, softer now. “If you’re really one of them… if you’re that cat hybrid’s brother… let me help you.”

He doesn’t move. And just when you were about to speak again, with visible effort, the tiger lowers his head to the ground, not trust, but surrender.

You let out a trembling breath and slowly start making your way towards him. Until you hear it, the sound of a door creaking open.

You look up sharply toward the house. You make eye contact with the cat hybrid on the porch. He’s watching you in silence, his expression unreadable.

You narrow your eyes, “what did I say about resting in bed.”

He bares his teeth as if about to snarl, “you were taking too long and your heart was beating so fast I thought you were about to have a heart attack.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I was expecting to see a humanoid hybrid. Not a 400 pound apex predator,” you were already regretting helping this cat.

You barely have time to process what’s happening. One second, the tiger is half-laying in the grass, chest rising unevenly and the next, he’s on his feet, muscles tensing, a deep rumble tearing through his throat as he charges toward the porch.

“Wait!” you cry out, stumbling backward to get out of his way.

The black cat stumbles forward once, twice, and drops to one knee. The tiger lets out a sound you can’t describe part roar, part chuff, raw and desperate as he stops right in front of him

“He’s hurt,” the man rasps, voice hoarse and strained.

You nod quickly, forcing your feet to move even though your legs feel like jelly. “So are you,” you mutter under your breath, rushing toward them, “you can barely stand.”

The black cat shoots you a glare sharp enough to stop you mid-step. For a moment the glare fades into a grimace.

The tiger huffs weakly and presses his massive head against the mans shoulder, as if trying to steady him. The sight makes your chest twist painfully.

“Alright,” you breathe, scanning them both. “You’re both a mess. Let's go inside before my neighbors look out their windows and think I’ve started a zoo.”

The man’s tail flicks in irritation, but he doesn’t protest. He takes a few uneven steps toward the porch, one hand still braced against his ribs. You hover nearby, not close enough to touch, but close enough to catch him if he collapses. You see the tremor in his legs, the slight wince with every breath. He’s pushing himself too hard. Every few steps, he stumbles, and each time your hands twitch, ready to help, but you’re scared he’s just gonna growl at you in return. Besides, you’re not the only one trying to support him as the tiger is using his body to steady him.

By the time you reach the guest bedroom, his breathing is ragged, you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin, the strain in every line of his body.

“Here,” you say softly. “Lay down, the both of you.”

The man gives a final, warning growl as if to remind you not to come closer. He then collapses onto the edge of the bed, his brother beside him. You watch as he presses a shaking hand to his ribs, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight.

“I’m gonna go get supplies.”

You rush off, heart hammering, muttering under your breath, “Two injured cat hybrids before noon… this is fine.”

You fling open the drawers, grabbing anything remotely useful. With everything in your arms you hurry back before you lose your nerve.

The moment you step into the bedroom, both pairs of golden eyes snap toward you. The man’s posture immediately stiffens in a protective stance. He sits up beside the tiger. The air feels heavier with him watching you like that, as though every move you make is being weighed and judged.

You raise your hands slightly, voice soft but steady. “I’m just going to clean his cuts. That’s all. You can… supervise if you want.”

“I’m Y/n,” you say carefully, keeping your voice low, calm. “Human, obviously,” you introduce yourself awkwardly. 

The hybrid doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He just watches you, eyes sharp, head tilted slightly as if he’s trying to decide what to make of you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to look away. “And you are…?”

Silence.

You nod slowly, already half expecting not to receive an answer. “Okay, mystery cat it is. Y/n and the mystery cats.”

Your voice trembles just a little at the end, but you try to smile anyway, a small, awkward, and genuine one. “Let’s just make sure your brother doesn’t bleed out on my sheets first, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer. His tail flicks once. Then, after a few long seconds, he shifts just enough to give you space.

You take that as permission and kneel carefully beside the tiger. Up close, you can see the damage better. Shallow gashes across his shoulder and flank, dried blood matted into the fur. He must’ve been in a fight.

“Hey, big guy,” you whisper, reaching slowly for a towel. “We’re just cleaning you up, okay? Nothing scary.”

The tiger’s massive head twitches slightly toward your voice. His ears flick, but he doesn’t growl. You take that as a good sign.

When you pour antiseptic over the first wound, the tiger jerks violently, letting out a guttural, pained growl that makes every hair on your body stand up. Instinctively, you flinch back, your heart hammering so hard it hurts.

The man moves instantly, a sharp sound leaves his throat, not quite words, more like a low command. Except it wasn’t directed at you for once, but at the tiger. He stills almost immediately, though his breathing stays rough.

You blink, surprised, but you don’t dare ask what he said.

“Sorry,” you murmur softly, dipping the towel in water to wipe away the excess blood. “I know it stings. You’re doing great.”

You work quietly, cleaning each wound as carefully as you can. Every once in a while, the tiger huffs softly. When you finish bandaging the worst of the scratches, you sit back on your heels and exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“There,” you say quietly, glancing between the two of them. “Nothing too deep. He’ll be fine as long as he rests.”

For a long moment, the three of you sit in silence. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint sound of wind outside.

Finally, you clear your throat. “He can also stay here while he recovers,” you say softly, gaining both of their attention. “But you both need rest. And food. I’ll… figure that part out.”

The cat hybrid says nothing, but his eyes aren’t as narrowed as before.

You turn to walk away until a low voice rumbles behind you.

“Yoongi.”

You glance back, unsure if you heard him right. He’s still sitting on the bed, his tail flicking lazily behind him, but his gaze is steady now, no longer entirely guarded. In fact his eyes were no longer golden. Right now you’re staring at very human-like eyes. 

“That’s my name,” he says after a pause, “I’m a panther hybrid.” His eyes flick briefly toward the tiger stretched out on the bed. “This is Taehyung. My younger brother.”

You blink, processing that for a second. “Right. Yoongi and Taehyung,” you repeat softly, like you’re trying the names on your tongue. “Nice to officially meet you both… under extremely weird and mildly terrifying circumstances.”

Yoongi huffs quietly.

“Get some rest,” you add, gesturing toward the bed. “I’ll prepare some food”

He tilts his head, one ear twitching, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see something almost human in his expression, maybe curiosity.

You close the door behind you, giving them some privacy. 

Leaning against the wall, you exhale slowly, the tension finally catching up to you. Less than twenty-four hours ago, your biggest problem was an overdue shift report. And now you’ve got two big cat hybrids sleeping under your roof.

You press a hand to your forehead, muttering to yourself, “what the hell did I just get myself into?”

You just have to remind yourself that this is temporary. They’ll leave once they’re all healed and haven’t killed you.

And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this is only the beginning.

A/N: As you can see I did end up writing a new story haha. I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! Let me know what you think :) One of my favorite parts of posting a new story/chapter is getting to read your guys reviews :))

Love, Liz

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