You’d only been at Mr. A’s Farm for a few weeks, but that was long enough to learn one thing: the hybrids were all strange in their own ways, yet none were quite as prickly—or as confusing—as K.

He’d hated you from day one. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just… coldly.

The same way he’d hated Little A when he first arrived—arms crossed, feathers puffed, eyes sharp with suspicion, every conversation a reluctant grunt. But unlike some of the more chaotic hybrids, K at least seemed stable in his bitterness. Predictable. Constantly irritated, constantly brooding, constantly acting as if acknowledging your existence single-handedly ruined his day.

But with the nights growing colder and the drafts slipping through the boards of the coop, K didn’t get a choice when the farmhands moved him out of the barn and into one of the farmhouses. His feathers weren’t thick enough to keep him warm anymore, and the doctor insisted he needed the heat.

Unfortunately for both of you, the only spare bed in the farmhouse was in your room.

He’d hated that too.

K barely stayed in the room unless he was sleeping, usually slipping out before you woke and returning long after you’d already gone to bed. Whenever he was around, he ignored you with impressive dedication—shuffling past you barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, feathers ruffled, muttering under his breath about hating humans, cold weather, and “farmhouse air.” He usually smelt of alcohol too.

But tonight was different.

Sometime deep into the night, long after the wind had settled, you heard a faint rustling from the other side of the room. At first you thought K was just shifting in his sleep—he was a restless sleeper, always curling and uncurling, muttering in his dreams like a disgruntled rooster.

Then the sound came again. Sharper. Almost pained.

K sucked in a breath through his teeth, trying to muffle it. His blanket shifted as he rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach with both hands. His feathers trembled at the base of his neck, his bare feet curling as another cramp hit him.

He whispered a curse—quiet, strained, and meant for no one to hear.

Not now. Not here. Not with you in the room.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to steady, but the next wave hit harder. His body tensed, pressing down into the mattress as his fingers dug into his abdomen. The panic in his expression flickered plainly even in the dim moonlight.

Then the realization struck him. He’d run out of his medicine.

The cycle suppressant. The injections that stopped his egg formation. The one thing he relied on to avoid this exact pain.

He hadn’t gotten a refill. Not for weeks.

Another sharp cramp seized him, forcing a broken, breathless sound from the back of his throat. He clamped a hand over his mouth immediately, refusing to let the noise escape. He wasn’t going to wake you up. He didn’t want help. He didn’t want anyone—especially you—seeing him like this.

So K curled in on himself, trembling, sweating, feathers bristled in distress, doing everything he could to suffer in silence—

And hoping you didn’t hear a thing.