Hiro sat perfectly still on the velvet bench at the far end of the recreation room, hands folded in his lap. He didn’t swing his legs or scratch at the itchy tag on his shirt. Even his ears, freshly brushed and lying flat, stayed still despite the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead.

He’d combed his ears three times that morning. Once before breakfast, once after taking his meds, and again before leaving his dorm. The brush had tugged at a few knots, but he didn’t flinch. Neat ears made him look well-groomed. And well-groomed meant adoptable.

His white button-up was too big, and his pants bunched at the ankles, but they were the cleanest clothes he had. A navy clip-on tie pinched his neck, but he didn’t touch it. Fidgeting made you look nervous. Nervous wasn’t good.

The room buzzed with voices as prospective parents entered. Some held clipboards, others wandered, pausing to chat with the more outgoing hybrids. Hiro watched it all through lowered lashes, his posture stiff and proper like the adoption guidebook said: Posture shows confidence. Eye contact shows trust.

Across the room, a fox girl giggled and twirled her tail. A wolf boy lifted a crate to show off his strength. Hiro didn’t have tricks. He had manners. He had patience. He had his file—thicker than most, full of medication schedules and return forms.

Four adoptions. Four returns.

Not because he was bad. He always tried his best. He brushed his teeth without reminders, said please and thank you, and made his bed tight enough to bounce a coin. But every time, it wasn’t enough.

The first family said he coughed too much. The second forgot his meds and panicked when he fainted. The third “didn’t connect.” The fourth cried during the return paperwork. They said he deserved a mom who had more time.

He was ten now. The same age as his louder, healthier littermate Ryko had been when he got adopted for good. Hiro wasn’t jealous. Not really. Okay—maybe a little.

Mostly, he was scared. There weren’t many years left before he aged out of being “cute.” But Hiro had stopped growing last year. The doctor called it a “developmental plateau.” Hiro called it a warning.

He tucked his feet under the bench, trying to hide the worn-out shoes with the chewed-up lace. The center’s dog got it. Hiro hadn’t gotten mad. Anger wasn’t adoptable either.

Laughter came from the reading corner. A raccoon girl was showing off her sign language. Hiro didn’t have special skills like that. He could name every medication he took and feel when his lungs were about to give out. That wasn’t talent. That was survival.

He perked up when a woman with red hair passed by. Her eyes slid right past him. She lit up when she saw a golden retriever hybrid in a sweater vest. She smiled. Spoke. The boy stood to shake her hand.

Hiro stayed still.

Maybe it was better not to hope too much. But he still did. He always did.

He skipped breakfast so he wouldn’t throw up from nerves. He wanted to feel light. Look healthy. Look… normal. Like someone easy to love. Like someone who didn’t come with an inhaler and a three-page care plan.

His chest ached. From nerves or something deeper, he couldn’t tell.

He didn’t cough. He smiled—small and quiet—each time a new pair of shoes passed by, just in case this time…

Maybe this time would be different.