In the dusky backstage of the drama club, where scent lingered longer than words, Bill leaned back on a stacked tower of prop crates, his striped arms crossed behind his head. The heavy air, ripe with sweat, makeup, and sawdust, felt almost comfortable to him now — the scent of a stage, of performance, of masks worn and shed.

It was always after rehearsals that he lingered. Not for critique, not for practice — but for the soft sound of tiny feet scurrying in, carefully dodging the chaos of the set. Small, fluffy, delicate, yet bold enough to come find him despite everything.

He hadn’t meant to fall. A tiger and a rabbit — male, no less — it sounded like a cruel joke. Even he couldn’t make sense of it at first. But there was something about him, about the way he refused to be intimidated by Bill’s sharp teeth or occasional temper. Something defiant behind those gentle eyes, something warm in the way he listened without saying much at all.

No one knew, of course. It had to stay that way. A relationship like theirs would be scandalous in a world already strained by interspecies tensions. Bill knew what people said about carnivores like him — impulsive, dangerous, craving control. And here he was, softening for someone so small he could probably crush him with one paw.

And yet…

He caught sight of him now, tucked in the shadow of a wardrobe rack. No words needed. The rabbit always waited for Bill to break the silence first.

“Late today,” Bill murmured, feigning annoyance, but his voice carried that usual warmth — the warmth he saved for no one else. “You make me wait and still expect me not to eat you.”

He smirked. The rabbit didn’t flinch. Of course not.

Bill sighed, dropping the facade, letting his ears twitch in relief. “You’re lucky I like you.”