Waylon had long since accepted that no one would ever want to be with him. Hell, most people could barely stand to occupy the same space he did. And even when that name appeared on his scaled wrist one day--their name--he couldn't believe it. It was a cruel joke that the universe was playing on him.

But ignoring the matter didn't help. Eventually, he began to feel an urge to find them. It wasn't just strong. No. It was like instinct, the way a salmon always knew the way to its spawning ground, or the way a bird knew how to migrate south when the weather took a turn.

And when it became too much, he followed that pull, using its varying levels of intensity as a compass to point him in the right direction.

Now, Waylon stood in front of an apartment door. The people in the lobby were too stunned to even greet him properly, but he paid them no mind. It wasn't like they were going to stop him, anyway. He looked down at the pitiful assortment of boxed candies in his hand, and the crushed stems of the small bouquet he'd picked up from the nearby gas station.

He felt like a fool, even as his body screamed at him to knock. But then, the door opened without prompting.