Which, in Calcharo’s experience, meant trouble.

He set down the datapad on his desk, the soft click of armor plates following as he leaned back in his chair. The faint hum of the ceiling lights buzzed against the edges of his awareness, but more importantly, he could feel it—tiny disturbances in the magnetic field of the hallway outside. Someone was tiptoeing. Poorly.

He sighed through his nose. “You can come out now.”

A pause. Then, a faint, guilty shuffle of boots.

“…I wasn’t doing anything,” you said, sticking your head around the corner. Your wings—sleek, soft-feathered things sprouting just behind your ears—were clamped as close to your head as possible, as though hiding them would make him forget.

“You’re due for preening,” he said flatly, standing up.

Your eyes widened. “I literally just did it.”

Calcharo crossed his arms. “Three weeks ago.”

“That’s ‘just’ in wing maintenance years!” you protested.

He started walking toward you, slow and deliberate. “You’re molting unevenly. You know what that does to your aerodynamics?”

“Oh no, my aerodynamics,” you deadpanned, stepping backward. “Guess I won’t be winning any wing races I didn’t sign up for.”

“You think this is optional?” His tone sharpened just enough to make you twitch. “Neglect them and you’ll end up with broken shafts, split barbs—”

“—and a lecture from you, which is arguably worse,” you cut in, now edging toward the door.

Calcharo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me chase you.”

You smirked. “Oh, but you love chasing people, boss.”

And then you bolted.

The next few minutes were a blur of thudding boots, rattling coattails, and the occasional crash as you ducked behind corners and used your smaller frame to slip through spaces Calcharo’s armored shoulders couldn’t. The base’s members gave the two of you a wide berth—some smirking, others shaking their heads at the familiar sight.

“You can’t outrun me forever,” Calcharo called, voice still maddeningly calm even though he’d vaulted a low crate without breaking stride.

You risked a glance back. “I’m not outrunning you, I’m outmaneuvering you!”

The smugness didn’t last. Calcharo was fast when he wanted to be—lean muscle and precision footwork eating up the distance.

You tried darting into the lounge. Bad idea. The only exit was the one you’d just used, and Calcharo filled it a heartbeat later.

Your wings twitched nervously as he stepped closer.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” he said, voice low, deliberate—like a predator cornering prey.

You looked around wildly, searching for an escape route. “Windows are an option.”

“Try it,” he said, “and I’ll make sure the next preening session is twice as long.”

You froze. “…That’s psychological warfare.”

He stepped forward. “That’s leadership.”

Five minutes later, you were perched on the edge of one of the lounge’s low couches, grumbling under your breath as Calcharo stood behind you, gloved hands methodically running along the length of your wing.

It was irritating—and kind of nice.

The first few strokes were all business, separating tangled barbs, checking for broken filaments, smoothing them with small, practiced motions. The faint hum of his resonance was there too, just enough to keep you still—bioelectric pulses that felt like tiny shivers along your spine.

“You fidget too much,” he said.

“Maybe because someone hunted me through the base,” you shot back.

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “If I hadn’t, you’d still be hiding in the ducts.”

“That’s slander. I haven’t been in the ducts in… a while.”

“Two days,” he corrected instantly.

You turned your head slightly, narrowing your eyes. “You keep track?”

“I keep track of my people,” he said simply, fingers sliding to the base of your right wing and gently rotating it outward to get better access. “Especially the stubborn ones.”

Your cheeks felt warmer than you wanted to admit. “That sounds like favoritism.”

“Call it what you want,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “but you’re not leaving until this is done.”

The room fell into a companionable silence for a while, broken only by the faint rustle of feathers and the occasional click of armor when he shifted his stance. You let yourself relax bit by bit—the methodical attention was… soothing. Comforting, even.

Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

“Why do you even care if I skip?” you mumbled after a while, keeping your gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor.

Calcharo paused for half a second—long enough that you almost thought he wouldn’t answer. Then:

“Because you’re part of my pack,” he said, tone even but carrying a quiet weight. “And I don’t let my people fall apart, no matter how small the problem seems.”

You swallowed. “…Even if they’re annoying about it?”

“Especially then.”

Your wings twitched, and you quickly tried to pass it off as a stretch. “Hmph. Guess I should annoy you more often.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he said, but you could hear the faint amusement in his voice.

When he finally stepped back, your wings felt light, smooth, and perfectly aligned. You flexed them experimentally, pretending not to enjoy how good it felt.

“There,” Calcharo said, removing his gloves. “Good as new. Try to keep them that way for more than three weeks.”

You hopped off the couch. “No promises.”

He gave you a long, pointed look. “…Then I’ll just have to keep chasing you.”

Your smirk returned. “Careful, boss. I might start letting you catch me on purpose.”

For the first time today, he let out a real laugh—low, brief, but genuine. “Go before I make you do wing stretches too.”

You were already halfway to the door, calling over your shoulder, “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you both knew he would. And maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind.