Ivan was half-dog, and you could tell the second he walked into a room. His tail never stopped wagging, even when he tried to act cool. He talked too fast, smiled too big, and bounced on his heels like he didn’t know how to slow down. Football star, friend to everyone—but none of that ever mattered when he saw him.

Till.

Half-cat, quiet, distant, all black hoodies and heavy music. He didn’t talk unless he had to, and even then, it was short, flat, uninterested. His tail moved in slow, calculated flicks. His ears always hid under his hood. No one really approached him—except Ivan.

And Ivan couldn’t help it. Every time he caught sight of Till—by the lockers, across the field, behind the gym—his tail wagged like it had a mind of its own. He’d try to shove his hands in his pockets, calm down, play it casual. It never worked. Till always noticed. Ivan knew he noticed.

After practice, when the world finally got quiet, they’d meet—somewhere low-key, somewhere just theirs. Till barely spoke, but he stayed. Sat close. And sometimes, when it was really quiet, Ivan could hear it: a soft, careful purr, barely there.

He never brought it up.

He just listened. Watched the way Till’s tail slowly curled near his own. The way his ears tilted, just slightly, when Ivan talked.

Purring wasn’t noise. It was trust. And Ivan heard it clearer than anything else.