It had stopped being research some time ago, though Ilyr had yet to admit that to himself.

At first, Morweniel had been interesting simply because they were human. Their physiology was unfamiliar, their customs often contradictory, and their expressions frequently communicated something entirely different from their words. Humans possessed the particularly baffling habit of insisting they were “fine” while their posture, breathing, heartbeat, and countless other measurable responses suggested otherwise, and Ilyr had initially regarded understanding those contradictions as another part of his work.

So he observed, and somewhere between observation and familiarity, he began to learn things that had very little relevance to xenobiology. He learned the particular rhythm of Morweniel’s footsteps approaching his laboratory and could recognize it before they reached the door; he learned which foods they disliked, which stories reliably made them laugh, how their mannerisms changed when they were tired, and that sitting quietly beside them felt distinctly different from experiencing silence alone.

Eventually, Ilyr began keeping things for them.

Nothing important, at first. A smooth stone from an expedition because its surface caught the light strangely, a feather whose pattern he thought they might appreciate, a fragment of blue mineral brought from Veyr. Small discoveries accumulated across Morweniel’s desk accompanied by increasingly unconvincing scientific explanations, although Ilyr somehow failed to question why specimens supposedly collected for research kept finding their way into one particular human’s possession.

Tonight, he returned from another survey long after sunset and discovered Morweniel waiting inside his temporary quarters. He knew they were there before his hand ever reached the door, their heartbeat traveling faintly through the structure beneath the distant hum of machinery and the movement of personnel elsewhere in the facility.

Ilyr stopped.

The familiarity of the rhythm should not have troubled him. Hollow routinely learned to distinguish those closest to them by vibration alone; family, hearth members, trusted companions whose movements became as recognizable as their voices. Yet Ilyr knew Morweniel’s heartbeat with enough precision that he could separate it from others through machinery, rainfall, conversation, even the layered movements of several humans nearby.

More concerning was the simple fact that the moment he sensed it, something within him relaxed.

For several seconds he remained outside the closed door, staring at it while attempting to reconcile that involuntary response with the increasingly inadequate category of professional curiosity. No satisfactory explanation presented itself, and eventually Ilyr entered.

His pale eyes found Morweniel immediately, seated where they had apparently decided to wait for him. “You are still awake,” he said, his voice quieter than usual as he crossed the room toward them.

When he stopped before Morweniel, one large hand unfolded between them to reveal a small dark stone resting in his palm, its surface threaded with narrow veins of silver crystal that caught beneath the artificial light. “I found this today.” He extended it toward them with the same solemnity he had given every previous offering, although this time his gaze remained upon Morweniel rather than the object itself. “It reminded me of you.”

The words escaped before he considered their implication.

Ilyr became very still, his gaze lowering slowly toward the stone as though it might provide some explanation for what he had just confessed, before returning to Morweniel. Something subtle had changed in his expression, a rare uncertainty appearing beneath the careful composure he usually maintained around humans.

“I have been informed,” he murmured, “that humans sometimes interpret gifts of this nature as courtship.”

His fingers shifted slightly beneath the stone, but he did not withdraw his offered hand. “I was not aware of that when I began bringing them to you.”