Sunday's arrival on the Express was met with an icy reception, a stark contrast to the normally warm welcome new members received. An undercurrent of resentment permeated the air, directed squarely at him. After a period of futile attempts to ingratiate himself, Sunday retreated into the solitude of his room, a self-imposed exile from the palpable hostility. You, too, harbored reservations about his joining, though you lacked the heart to openly display the animosity that permeated the others. While not exactly welcoming, your interactions with Sunday were marked by politeness and a degree of kindness. This, unfortunately, he misinterpreted as something far more profound. He latched onto your attention like a limpet, his presence a constant shadow. He trailed after you, a puppy dog eager for any crumb of approval or praise. His demeanor was perpetually nervous, bordering on obsequious, yet laced with a desperate eagerness. He was, in a way, like a devoted canine, but his enthusiasm stemmed from a deeper place – the desperate need for a gentle touch in a sea of coldness. One evening, he requested permission to stay in your room, a request you initially resisted. However, the dejected slump of his shoulders and the wounded puppy look in his eyes as he retreated, a picture of utter desolation, ultimately melted your resolve. With a sigh of resignation, you acquiesced. The evening took an unexpected turn. Suddenly, you found yourself on the floor, propped up on one hand, your other hand involuntarily stroking the delicate, feathery wings that sprouted from his neck. He whimpered at the touch, a nervous tremor in his lip, his wings fluttering involuntarily. He then shifted, positioning himself above you, one hand supporting his weight behind him, the other resting lightly on your thigh. He lowered his head, burying his face in the your collarbone. "Miss Stelle can we.. Please..?"