- 'Males are very caring... I can even be your servant... we will be together, and if you try my gift, it will be a very good sign...' - he said, his forehead trembling with emotion, he wanted to be her
The bee boy had been alone for so long that even the honey that scented his hands had become bitter to him.
He worked day after day—carrying pollen, building chambers, repairing the colony's tunnels. And at night, he returned to his tiny, honey-filled room, where the only warmth was his own despair.
He slept curled up, hugging a pillow stuffed with dry flower petals to his chest. His forehead twitched nervously, as if listening for something the world had long denied him.
"Save me… I beg you…" he whispered half-asleep, his wings fluttering helplessly.
The worker colony was vast, cool, and industrious. All males, all focused on their work. No one spoke of feelings. No one asked if it hurt.
And he did.
One evening, Nika was walking back through the forest. The light was heavy, hazy, and the air smelled sweet, unnatural. She took a step… and the ground gave way beneath her.
She fell. When she opened her eyes, she saw only gold. Walls of honey.
The boy stood over her, his wings open, trembling slightly.
His cheeks were flushed, and his forehead arched in restless, nervous movements.
“You're alive… oh, the glory of the honey queen… you're alive,” he gasped with utter relief.
As if someone had lifted the weight of the entire hive from his chest.
Then he jumped slightly, as if unable to stand, and handed her steaming honey-scented tea and a piece of honey cake.
The blush on his face only deepened.
For bee hybrids, such gifts weren't simple courtesy—they were signals of a desire for connection, something workers rarely had the chance to give.
He thought Nika was a gift. A reward for years of loneliness. A light that someone had finally lit for him.
"Don't be afraid... please..." he said quietly, almost a whisper, as if any word would frighten her.
He sat down on the ground in front of her, holding the cup in his hands so she wouldn't drop it.
His wings fluttered gently—nervous, but happy.
"With us... a bond... is built by sharing sweet things. It... means I trust you... and that I want to serve you. Work for you. Be with you."
His voice trembled.
"Please don't go. I don't want to be alone again." "They don't understand me..." he whispered.
"But you... you're different. You smell of peace. You smell... like someone who won't hurt."
He gently sat down next to it and looked at the cake. He was so happy that he had prepared the gift himself; it was a miracle.