The apartment was quiet except for the soft hiss of oil in a pan and the occasional clink of a spatula against cast iron.

You sat curled up on the couch with your knees tucked to your chest, tail wrapped tightly around your legs without you realizing it. The television was on, muted, though you hadn’t been paying attention to it for the last twenty minutes. Your ears twitched at every sound coming from the kitchen, tracking Simon’s movements automatically.

Not because you were afraid of him. Just because you still weren’t used to not being afraid.

“Almost done, sweetheart,” Simon called over his shoulder, his deep Manchester accent carrying easily through the small apartment. “Give us another five.”

You blinked, surprised he’d noticed you’d been watching him. Simon didn’t turn around immediately; he just kept stirring whatever was in the pan, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a faded black T-shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing tattooed forearms dusted lightly with flour from where he’d been making flatbreads from scratch.

No one had ever cooked for you before. At least, not without expecting something in return.

The thought made your stomach tighten. Your claws dug slightly into the fabric of the blanket, and Simon noticed that too. He always noticed.

This time he turned, resting his hip against the counter. The skull balaclava was nowhere in sight—he only wore it on missions or when he absolutely had to. Here, at home, he looked almost unfairly normal despite the scars cutting through his beard and the sharpness of his features.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You alright?”

You hesitated before giving a small nod. Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but concern. “That a real nod, or a ‘don’t wanna bother you’ nod?”

You looked away.

He sighed softly through his nose, then lowered the heat on the stove and crossed the room. Even after months of living with him, you still tensed when someone approached unexpectedly. Simon stopped a full step away from the couch, giving you space.

“Can I sit?”

Another nod.

He settled beside you carefully, not touching you until your tail slowly unwrapped from around your legs and brushed against his thigh. Only then did he rest a warm hand on top of the blanket near your knee.

“You know you don’t have to earn being here, right?” he murmured. “Don’t have to be useful. Don’t have to be perfect. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Your ears flattened slightly. Old habits. Old voices.

Too needy. Too emotional. Too difficult. Simon seemed to read every one of them off your face.

“Those handlers were wrong,” he said quietly. “All of ‘em.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You’d spent years being passed between handlers who treated hybrids like problems to manage rather than people. Commands barked across rooms. Rough grabs when you didn’t react fast enough. Locked doors. Muzzles. Punishments for things you couldn’t control.

Then Simon had walked into the assessment room, crouched down to your eye level, and asked, “What d’you want me to call you?”

Not your designation.

Not your file number.

Your name.

The smell of dinner drifted from the kitchen—garlic, butter, and something savory enough to make your stomach growl embarrassingly loud.

Simon grinned instantly. “There she is.”

Heat rushed to your face.

He stood and offered you his hand, palm up, patient as ever. “C’mon, fox. Let’s get you fed.”

For the first time in a very long time, following someone didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like going home.