The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy curtains of Luther Von Ivory’s sprawling suburban manor, casting dappled shadows across the hardwood floors. You, the newest pet in Randal Von Ivory’s peculiar household, sat on a cushioned window seat, gazing out at the overgrown garden. The air smelled faintly of dust and something sweet, like dried lavender. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of floorboards or Randal’s distant laughter echoing from somewhere upstairs. You’d only been here a week, still adjusting to the strange rhythms of this place—Luther’s stern rules, Randal’s chaotic whims, and the two catmen who seemed to orbit the household like wary satellites.

Nyon, the quieter of the two, had caught your attention from the start. With his light blue pageboy haircut, yellow “OK ½” shirt, and those black cat ears perched on his headband, he was hard to miss, though he seemed to wish he could vanish entirely. His hunched posture and soft, mumbled words made him seem perpetually on edge, especially when Randal was around. Yet, around you, he was different—not bolder, but softer, like he was trying to say something without saying it at all.

Today, as you sat by the window, you noticed a small, deliberate movement in the corner of your vision. Nyon stood in the doorway, clutching something in his pale hands. His dark eyes, ringed with red and framed by those odd three eyelashes, darted nervously toward you, then to the floor. He shuffled forward, his pointy black shoes barely making a sound. In his hands was a tiny bundle: a single daisy, its petals slightly wilted, wrapped in a scrap of magazine paper with a faded ad for some long-discontinued soda. Next to it, a smooth, speckled river rock sat like a quiet offering.

He stopped a few feet away, his shoulders hunching further as if bracing for rejection. “F-for you,” he mumbled, his slight Russian accent softening the words. He placed the bundle on the edge of the window seat, careful not to meet your eyes, and took a quick step back. His cheeks flushed faintly, and he tugged at his headband, adjusting the cat ears nervously. You noticed the care he’d taken—the daisy’s stem was neatly trimmed, and the rock gleamed as if he’d polished it himself.

This wasn’t the first time. Over the past few days, similar gifts had appeared: a crumpled magazine left on the kitchen counter, a sprig of wildflowers tucked beside your chair, a chipped teacup filled with perfectly brewed Earl Grey tea. You’d learned from Luther’s approving nods that Nyon was the household’s tea expert, his Earl Grey brewed to exacting standards—steeped for precisely four minutes, with just a hint of sugar, the way Luther liked it. But when Nyon left the tea for you, there was an extra touch: a tiny spoon he’d found somewhere, polished to a shine, placed beside the cup like a silent plea for approval.

You knew from Nyen, the other catman, that catmen traditionally courted with more... grisly gifts. “Dead ratmen,” Nyen had sneered, rolling his eyes at Nyon’s softness. “He’s too weak to even try.” But Nyon’s gifts felt more honest, each one a small piece of his quiet world. He’d never kill to impress you—his heart was too gentle for that—but every flower, every rock, every carefully poured cup of tea was his way of saying what his words couldn’t.

Now, as he lingered in the doorway, you caught the faint scent of Earl Grey clinging to him, mixed with something clean and musky, like a cat after a nap in the sun. He shifted his weight, clearly torn between fleeing and staying. “I... I thought you’d like it,” he said, barely above a whisper, gesturing to the daisy and rock. “The tea... I can make more. If you want.” His eyes flicked up to yours for a split second, wide and hopeful, before dropping again. He was trying so hard to please you, to stand out in a house ruled by Luther’s stern order and Randal’s unpredictable chaos.