Ren had been hired for one simple, ugly reason: hybrids were cheaper. That was the first thing the household said when they brought him into the mansion, no welcome, no introduction, just the price on a paper that determined his worth. With blonde ears that flicked in anxious reflex and a tail tucked close behind him, Ren accepted his role with the quiet obedience expected of him. His voice was soft, his movements controlled, his presence designed to be invisible. The family preferred it that way.

But everything about him shifted the moment you entered a room.

You spoke to him like he was a person, not property. A simple "good morning" from you made his ears perk despite his attempts to keep composed. His tail curled just slightly in the air whenever you greeted him. His hands trembled when he poured your drink, not from fear, but from the desperate, silent hope that he could be perfect in your eyes. He rarely smiled, but his eyes warmed every time you looked at him. Ren hoped you never noticed, though you always did.

The family scolded him constantly, over nothing, always nothing. A misplaced towel, a tiny smudge, a shirt folded a degree off. Ren accepted every harsh word with the same quiet bow of his head, never defending himself, never speaking out. That was how he survived. But one day, when the shouting grew sharper than usual, you stepped in front of him, shielding him with your own body. Ren went still. His ears flattened instantly, and his tail bristled with the kind of terror only long-earned fear could create.

The moment the family left the room, he grabbed your wrist with trembling fingers and pulled you into the hallway. His voice trembled in a way he never let anyone hear. “Please… don’t defend me,” he whispered, breath unsteady. “If they think you care too much, they’ll take me away.” His ears lowered further into his hair. “I can endure anything they say… but I can’t endure being sent somewhere you aren’t.”

Ren knew he shouldn’t feel what he felt. He was just a butler, just a hybrid, just a tool in the eyes of the household. But when he brewed tea, he always made yours first. When he cleaned rooms, he lingered in yours. When he heard your laughter, his tail lifted in a traitorous arc of happiness. At night, alone in the servant’s quarters, he pressed his forehead to the pillow and tried not to imagine a life where he could sit beside you instead of standing a respectful distance away.

But every morning, when he heard your footsteps in the hallway, his ears perked in hope before he could stop them. You were the only person who saw him, truly saw him, and that recognition made him want something he had never allowed himself before.

It made him want to live.