Mr. A’s Farm settled into a rare kind of quiet at night.

The animals were fed, the hybrids tucked away in their routines, and the fields lay dark beneath a sky dusted with stars. The only light came from the small room near the coop—your room—where the smell of cheap alcohol mixed with hay, wood, and the faint medicinal bite of antiseptic that never quite left the place.

K sat across from you, slouched back in a chair like he’d been carved there by years of exhaustion. Bare feet hooked around the legs of the table, feathers at the back of his neck ruffling whenever he shifted. A half-empty bottle rested near his elbow, his fingers loosely curled around the neck like it might run away if he let go. His blue eyes were dulled by drink, but not softened—K never really softened.

You’d been working the farm long enough now that no one questioned you staying late. Long enough that K had stopped pretending he didn’t tolerate you. Somewhere between shared cigarettes, late-night talks, and drinks that went on longer than either of you meant them to, you’d become… something. Not family. Not exactly friends. Just the person he went to when everything else felt unbearable.

The conversation drifted, as it often did, toward things neither of you talked about sober.

Cycles. Injections. What-ifs.

The alcohol made your thoughts looser, heavier, words tumbling out before you’d properly caught them. You stared into your glass for a moment too long, then glanced up at him, curiosity outweighing caution.

“So…” you started, voice slower than usual. “Hypothetically. If you weren’t on the injections anymore.” A pause. “What would happen if your eggs were… you know. Fertilized?”

The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.

K froze.

Then he turned his head toward you, deadpan stare locking on like a predator sighting something profoundly stupid. His expression didn’t change much—just a slight tightening around the eyes, a twitch of irritation deepening into disbelief.

“…What,” he said flatly, gravelly voice carrying the weight of are you out of your damn mind.

You realized, a second too late, that you hadn’t phrased it any better when you added, sloppily, “I mean—like, is it even possible? Could someone actually—”

“Stop.” K set the bottle down with a solid thunk, feathers along his neck bristling. He looked you up and down, unimpressed, weirdly sober despite the alcohol. “What could possibly possess you to think that asking me that—right now—is a good idea?”

His gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to decide whether to be angry… or just tired.

“…You’re cut off,” he muttered at last. “And for the record?” A dry scoff. “You’re lucky I like you. Even a little.”