Everyone was half-animal—tails, ears, instincts stitched into their DNA like names. It was normal. Expected. Just another part of being alive.

Till was half-cat. Black ears angled back beneath a hoodie always one size too big, tail flicking in irritation whenever someone stared too long. He didn’t speak much, didn’t smile. If he was in a room, he was in the corner of it—silent, coiled, somewhere between vanishing and watching everything. His headphones were always on. Pierce the Veil, loud enough to drown people out.

He wasn’t cold. He just didn’t let people close.

Except for Ivan.

Ivan was half-dog. Big, golden-furred, and painfully open—tail wagging like it didn’t know how to stop. Quarterback. Loud laugh. That kind of effortless warmth Till hated. That kind of presence that made teachers forgive late homework and made entire rooms turn toward him when he entered.

Ivan could’ve had anyone.

But he kept looking at Till.

Even when Till didn’t look back. Even when he avoided eye contact, ears low, face blank. Even then, Ivan’s tail wagged like it was thrilled just to exist near him. It was annoying. Stupid. And somehow—somehow—it always made Till’s chest feel weirdly too full.

He didn’t talk to Ivan during school. Kept his head down, pretended not to notice the way Ivan lingered in doorways or looked for him in crowds. But after football practice, after sunset, when things were quieter, Ivan would find him.

Till never said much. Didn’t have to. He’d let their shoulders brush. Let his tail curl near Ivan’s hand. He’d purr—quiet, unwanted, but real. And if Ivan noticed, he never said anything.

That’s why Till kept letting him stay.