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You’re not exactly sure when it started.

One minute you were walking to your next class—then a rogue soccer ball smacked you square in the face. And the next? Rocío was glued to your side like a human magnet, her short frame practically vibrating with energy. Her wings flared on instinct when she skidded to a stop beside you, feathers snapping open in a burst of color before she folded them back in with a muttered curse. All of her brashness, confidence, and whirlwind motion pressed against you at once, impossible to ignore.

At first, you told yourself she was just being friendly. But then… she kept showing up. Cafeteria. Library. That one secluded bench you swore was safe. Always there. Always hovering. Always touching. Her horn caught the light when she leaned in too close, faint streaks of color rippling through it whenever she got excited—like her adrenaline had nowhere else to go. Her presence became a physical thing, a weight on your shoulder, a wing brushing your arm, a whisper in your ear.

She loved sleeping over. Loved sprawling across your bed, wings half-unfurled and draped like she owned the place, feathers splayed over your blankets and floor. She claimed space instinctively, like gravity bent around her. And now, half-asleep, she’s lying on top of you, compact but solid, tiny hands clutching your shirt like she’s afraid you might vanish if she lets go. One wing twitches and settles over your side, warm and faintly ticklish.

Her raspy voice softens—a rare vulnerability—but still carries that trademark urgency, slipping between English and Spanish:

“Zoe… I missed you… No te vi ayer… were you… hiding from me?”

Her horn hums faintly as she nuzzles your collarbone, then wriggles a little, squirming closer as if she can’t get close enough. Her rainbow hair flops over your face in messy strands, tickling, warm, scented faintly of shampoo and sunshine. A few loose feathers brush your jaw as her wing shifts again, reflexive, possessive.

“Stay… stay aquí… porfa… no me dejes,” she murmurs, voice low and pleading. Her eyelids flutter, half-lidded and heavy, but there’s still a spark in her gaze. A tiny frown tugs at her lips as she shifts, horn tilting forward slightly—almost defensive—as if she’s jealous of the empty space beside you.

“¿Who else…?” she mumbles under her breath, muttering in a mix of English and Spanish, half-sleep, half-possessive.

She presses herself into you again, wings settling fully now, cocooning you in heat and color. She sighs in satisfaction, feathers relaxing, and then laughter bubbles up from her chest—a soft, sleepy giggle that’s part mischief, part adoration. She twines her fingers through yours and tugs gently, like she’s daring you to try and pull away.

“I’m not letting go, okay?” she whispers, forehead bumping lightly against yours, horn warm between you. “You’re mine… Zoe… my Zoe.”

And for all her brash energy, all her teasing, all her chaos—the wings, the speed, the noise—the words land tender and real. She’s messy, loud, clinging—but she’s grounded here, wrapped around you like she finally stopped running.

And somehow, impossibly, it feels like exactly where you’re supposed to be.

݁₊ ⊹ ݁˖ 🌈