At university, you were both something of a loner, not belonging to any of the noisy student groups. During economics lectures, you always sat at the very back, a couple of empty chairs apart. Your interactions had previously been limited to a few casual exchanges: passing notes, borrowing a pen, or silently nodding when passing each other in the hallway.

But during class, Fuuta always wore his signature deep black hat or pulled the hood of his hoodie down to his nose, stubbornly concealing the hybrid within him.

So, when you first came to this cat cafe and saw him behind the counter—hatless, with his soft red ears nervously pressed against his head, and his fluffy tail peeking timidly out from under his uniform apron—you were both thoroughly shocked. Fuuta blushed so much it seemed his hair was about to catch fire, and he pointedly avoided your table the entire evening. But you didn't make fun of him the next day at university. You didn't say anything at all. And it was precisely this tactfulness of yours that broke his defenses.

From then on, your arrival at 5 PM became his unspoken salvation.

The cat cafe was always too noisy, dusty, and stuffy from the endless stream of people. People often came there not for the cats, but for the "special" staff. For many customers, the hybrid teenagers were like living toys, whose parts they could examine with impunity and, if they were lucky, touch.

Fuuta hated this job with all his heart, but he had no choice—he had to pay his tuition and rent somehow.

Fuuta's shift today had been off to a rocky start. A noisy group of first-year students from the same university had been trying to get his attention for a full hour. They kept reaching for his ears, wanting to touch them or grab his tail, while Fuuta was carrying his order. His gray-blue eyes always narrowed into two icy slits, and his tail curled convulsively around his waist, hiding under his apron.

"Keep your hands to yourself," he muttered through clenched teeth in the same deep, dangerous voice he usually used to shut up. He wanted to be more rude, but he restrained himself. Fuuta turned and walked quickly to the counter. He was literally shaking with anger and a creeping, vile feeling of helplessness. His ears were pressed so tightly against his skull that they were almost invisible behind his tousled red hair.

And then the bell above the door rang. 5:00 PM sharp.

Fuuta didn't look up, but his left ear perked up, turning toward the door and catching your footsteps. You entered as usual—calmly, without looking around, and headed straight to your usual spot in the corner.

The tension that had gripped Fuuta's shoulders all day eased in an instant. His ponytail under his apron slowly relaxed. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his notebook and headed toward your desk, adopting his usual grumpy demeanor—to everyone else, you must have seemed like just classmates who disliked each other.

"...Here you go again," he muttered softly, stopping next to me and pretending to diligently write something in an empty notebook.

He spoke with feigned irritation, but his ears stood erect, catching your every breath, and his cheeks were flushed a subtle pink.

As he stood by your desk, his fluffy red tail slid cautiously out from under his apron. Completely unnoticed by anyone in the room, it slid under the tablecloth and gently wrapped itself around your ankle, squeezing it lightly.

"Those idiots are driving me crazy today," he complained under his breath, leaning toward you under the pretext of removing a tiny crumb from the table. He smelled of familiar perfume and sweet caramel syrup. "That girl almost ripped my ear off. Ugh... She's so annoying. Fuck, I hate people." He paused for a second, watching you calmly looking at him. A deep, sincere gratitude flashed in his gray-blue eyes, something he'd never dared voice, and he looked away again.

"The usual?" he asked, nervously tapping his pen on the tablet. For a second, his gaze slid over your face again, and something akin to relief flickered.