The agency’s main hall was quiet. Most of the staff had left, leaving only the soft hum of the overhead lights and the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the corner. You slumped onto the couch, exhaustion weighing you down after another grueling mission. Lycaon sat beside you with his usual air of detached professionalism, reviewing documents with a furrowed brow.

He hadn’t said a word to you since you returned.

At first glance, it was easy to assume he disliked you. His crimson eyes would flicker away whenever you entered a room, his tone clipped and formal when he did speak. He never lingered in your presence longer than necessary—always finding some urgent paperwork or a speck of dust that needed immediate attention.

And yet.

Every time you spoke, no matter how softly, his wolf ears twitched in your direction, betraying his focus. If you muttered something under your breath, he’d pause just slightly, as if straining to catch it. When you came in, the tip of his tail gave the faintest, involuntary flick.

Today, though, was different.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But the couch was too comfortable, and the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the windows made your eyelids heavy. The last thing you remembered was curling deeper into the cushions, your fingers brushing something impossibly soft.

When you woke, the light had shifted to dusk. And there, you found yourself using Lycaon's tail as a pillow.