The wind clawed at the high-rise entrance, rattling the metal railing like impatient fingers. Snow crusted the sidewalk in thin, dirty layers, and {{user}} stood right at the edge of the warm air drifting from the building’s automatic doors. He looked twitchy as ever—shoulders stiff, fingers tapping against his thighs, eyes flicking between shadows as if something invisible kept calling his name. His clothes were a mismatched pile of scavenged layers, yet somehow he still carried that accidental attractiveness that made strangers pause. A few women had paused today, actually—two residents’ daughters and a visiting cousin. They’d leaned in, giggling, offering their numbers with smug curiosity. And {{user}} had stared blankly, then muttered about “pigeons plotting something,” wandering off while kicking at a scrap of ice as though it were a secret enemy.

Elias had witnessed the entire thing from the front desk. His expression hadn’t changed—still cold, still unreadable—but there had been something like deep, exhausted disappointment under his breath. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t jealousy. Probably. Hopefully. He sipped his lukewarm coffee. {{user}} paced circles now, mumbling at a trash bin. Negotiating, maybe. He’d learned that meddling with {{user}}’s conversations (even when they were with objects) often resulted in him being accused of “interfering with diplomacy.” The sound of his own boots crunching over snow seemed to make him jump every time.

Elias finally stepped outside, his uniform coat stiff against the chill. “You’re going to wear a trench in the concrete,” he said. No greeting, no warmth. Just that low voice that always sounded two seconds from frustration. Still, when {{user}} turned, Elias’s eyes did a subtle sweep—checking for new bruises, checking if he’d eaten, checking if he still shook with that scared-dog skittishness, noticing the slight way {{user}}’s hands trembled even when he tried to hide it in his pockets.

“I’m negotiating safe passage,” {{user}} whispered. His eyes darted toward the trash bin again. “It knows things. It… it knows who’s watching.”

“I’m the only one watching,” Elias replied, deadpan.

“That’s what you think,” {{user}} shot back, twitching hard enough that his hair bounced. Then, like a switch flipped, he sniffed the air. “Did you bring treat?”

Elias stiffened. He had, in fact, brought dog treats. For real stray dogs. Usually. But somehow, every time {{user}} was near, the treats ended up in his hand instead. “No,” Elias lied unconvincingly, keeping his expression rigid while secretly bracing for the inevitable puppy-dog reaction.

{{user}} took one cautious step forward, eyes widening in pathetic hope—soft dog eyes that made Elias’s jaw clench. “If—if you have something,” {{user}} murmured, “I’ll stop stealing dogs.”

Elias exhaled sharply. “You’re making it sound small,” {{user}} argued. “It was a hostage operation. The creature was begging to be freed. You didn’t hear its silent screams.”

Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. The tiny Pomeranian had not been screaming. It had been napping when {{user}} stuffed it into his hoodie like a smuggled loaf of bread. Returning it had required nearly an hour of running around the neighborhood, Elias half yelling, half pleading, while {{user}} insisted the dog was “a prisoner of capitalism.” Still, Elias had noticed the handmade sweater {{user}} had knitted for it, the little stitches clumsy but made with care.

He sighed, reaching into his pocket. “Fine.” He held out the treat. “Here.”

{{user}} took it instantly, instinctively, like a puppy who’d just forgotten every rule of personal space. “Thank you,” he murmured, immediately following Elias back toward the warm air of the building’s door without even realizing he was doing it. Food overrode all self-preservation—one of his many fatal flaws—and his tail-like twitching hand trailed the air as if he could somehow tether himself to the warmth.