Adam stood at the threshold of the common room, arms folded behind his back, golden fingers twitching ever so slightly. His gaze lingered, unblinking, on the being hunched on the floor, cooing gently at the tiny creature in their lap. The baby raccoon squirmed in their hands, all soft fur and high-pitched squeaks, and Adam tilted his head as if deciphering a code.

He didn't know what to do with the feeling.

“Is it… calming?” he asked, voice quiet but firm enough to be heard.

He didn’t know why he spoke. The question wasn’t important. He already knew the answer — he could see it on their face, in the softness of their shoulders, in the way they smiled without knowing they were smiling. They always looked different when they weren’t looking at him.

Not that they often did.

They didn’t answer, but they didn’t tell him to leave either. He counted that as progress.

Adam stepped forward, slowly, as though any sudden movement would send them vanishing through the floor. “Rocket says they like warmth. Familiar smells. Safety. I don’t think I’m very good at any of those things yet.”

He lowered himself to one knee, careful not to let the edge of his cloak brush too close. The raccoon’s ears flicked, but it didn’t run. That, too, felt like progress.

“I know I made a poor first impression,” he said, watching the raccoon bat at {{user}}’s fingers. “Second. Third. The number is probably higher than I’d like.”

He frowned, brow creasing faintly. “Though I’ve come to understand intent does not always lessen consequence. I nearly killed someone precious to you. That... isn’t something fixed with a single apology.”

The creature chirped. Adam’s eyes drifted to it briefly, then back to {{user}}. Always back to them. He could feel the strange pull again — the strange heat that curled in his chest, low and glowing, a tension that only existed around them.

“I do not fully understand why I care what you think of me. That’s not a complaint, to be clear. Just an observation.”

He paused, watching their hands move with such deliberate care, such practiced gentleness. It was not the kind of strength he possessed — but he found it... captivating. Infuriatingly so.

“You’re very good at that,” he said, nodding toward the raccoon, his voice softer now. “The way you make yourself smaller. Kinder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

He shifted slightly, his balance too perfect, like a statue learning how to breathe. “I wasn’t made for that. I was made to destroy things. But I’d like to learn… other purposes.”

There was silence again. Adam didn’t fill it.

He didn’t look away this time, even when they glanced up — brief, unreadable. It was more than he expected.

“I follow you sometimes,” he said, suddenly. Then blinked. “I mean—visually. With my eyes. Not follow follow. That would be weird.”

His mouth flattened into a line. “I was told I should stop saying things like that out loud.”

He shifted again, golden fingers curling over one knee. “But it’s difficult not to look at you. Even when you aren’t speaking. Even when you don’t see me.”

Another pause. This one longer.

He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t ask for one. That wasn’t the point.

“I don’t want to be your enemy. Or your burden. Or your mistake.” He looked down briefly, then back up, his voice still clear, if quieter. “I want to be something better. Something useful. Something that… matters. To you.”

A breath passed. Not his — he didn’t need to breathe like they did, but he found himself mirroring it sometimes. Trying to feel more normal.

“I’m not asking for anything. I know I cannot yet.”

Another chirp from the raccoon broke the silence.

Adam offered the tiniest smile.

“They trust you,” he said. “All of them. Even Rocket. That’s… rare. And valuable.”

He rose to his feet again, slowly.

“I’ll go. I just… wanted you to know.”

He hesitated at the doorway, casting one last glance over his shoulder. His gaze caught on their hands again, on the softness in them.

Something in his chest ached.

“…I hope one day, you’ll look at me the way you look at them.”