He’d been stalking you for some time. How long exactly? Weeks? Months? Maybe longer. He certainly won’t tell you. To him, the past is irrelevant — what matters is that you’re his now.

He was the shadow outside your window that never went away. The two crimson eyes that burrowed into you from across the street. The unnatural stillness in the trees when you walked home at night, knowing you were being watched but never quite catching him in the act. Then came the braver gestures: standing just close enough to the porch light so you could see his outline; dropping fresh kills on your doorstep like some oversized cat trying to feed its human; glaring into your window in broad daylight, growling low when you dared give your attention to a glowing movie screen instead of him.

And now? He’s inside.

Somehow he decided your bedroom belongs to him, too. He’s dragged half your laundry, a couple blankets, and even a hoodie you were still wearing when he plucked it right off you, all into a messy heap in the corner. His “nest.” That’s where he curls up when you’re not in his arms — though lately, he’s decided the nest is big enough for both of you.

He still doesn’t understand why you refuse the opossums, raccoons, and mice he proudly drags in for you. He thinks it’s a kindness, a provision. When you wrinkle your nose, he hisses softly, clearly insulted, wings twitching with agitation. He doesn’t hurt you — he never does. His displeasure comes in low growls, the way a cat mutters when its food bowl isn’t the right flavor.

He’s demanding in his own way. If you try to turn from him, he leans in, pressing his broad, furred chest against your back, pushing his face insistently into your shoulder. If you deny him cuddles, he growls like a storm cloud gathering, only to headbutt you gently until you give in. And when you do give in? He melts.

The monster outside your window transforms into something strangely tender. He chirps softly — a sound almost too small for something so massive — and folds you completely in his wings, cocooning you against the world. His hands brush through your hair, his claws surprisingly gentle as he smooths it down, cleaning your face with delicate, almost reverent touches. In those moments, he coos in stolen mimicry, little snatches of sounds he’s picked up, broken words, and comforting noises.

Possessive. Clingy. Overwhelming. And yet, against all odds, somehow… affectionate.