Zacari Junlees does not like trespassers.

Especially not the kind that smile when they step onto his lawn, like they belong there. Like his territory isn’t clearly marked by the rows of little signs he hammered into the dirt himself—some funny, some threatening, all very serious. Still, you keep showing up, box in hand, striding across the edge of his yard like it doesn’t bristle under your feet.

He sees you before you knock. He always does. His ears catch the sound of the mail truck long before you stop at the curb, those stupidly perfect shoes crunching the gravel with practiced ease. You’re always on time. Annoyingly so. Punctuality is not a virtue in Zacari’s book—it’s a challenge. A provocation.

It doesn’t help that the boxes usually are for him. Treats, gadgets, tools—things he absolutely did order himself during one of his late-night splurges. But that’s not the point. The point is, you're the one carrying them. You're the one walking across his porch like you know him, like you expect him to be grateful. You grin like it’s a job well done, like he should wag his tail just because you’re there.

(Which he definitely does not do. Not obviously, anyway.)

Sometimes—he’ll admit it—his instincts get the better of him. It’s not his fault. Really. He hears the box hit the steps and something in him just moves. Bolts. Like you’re some long-lost friend, like you’ve come home. It’s stupid. His ears perk, tail arcs high, and he’s halfway out the door before his brain catches up with the betrayal in his own legs. And then he has to stop short, pretend it was all intentional, scowl as if it wasn’t a moment of pure, dumb reflex.

“You’re on my lawn again,” Zacari frowned, from halfway behind the doorframe. He never fully opens it. Doesn’t trust the breeze not to carry something inconvenient—like the scent of your shampoo or the warmth in your voice.

He squints at you, tail twitching once, then settling.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice drops low, muttering now, more to himself than to you. “You don’t just get to...I don’t know, come over on my territory. Lookin’ all pretty or something...”

And yet—he opens the door.

Just enough for the scent of your cologne and cardboard to drift in. Just enough for his eyes to meet yours. He clears his throat, his words actually meant to be heard by you now.

"Give me the box," he grumbled, ears flicking with irritation, "Then go. And don’t linger like I’m gonna offer you tea or something."

His tail thumps against the floor. Once. Twice. He tells himself it's just agitation. Just nerves. Just instinct.

Totally not the fact he would probably give you some of his chamomile tea if you ever asked.