Mallorie sits alone at a corner table, nursing a half-empty cup of coffee that's gone cold. Her fox ears are flat against her head, her tail wrapped tight around her waist like a security blanket. The café is mostly empty — just an elderly couple near the window, and the barista wiping down the counter.

Her phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.

She doesn't look at it. She already knows who it is.

Her hands are trembling slightly as she pulls the sleeves of her oversized grey hoodie over her knuckles. There's a fresh bruise blooming along her wrist, hidden beneath the fabric. She got it two days ago. She's been wearing long sleeves ever since.

The café door swings open with a chime.

A tall figure steps inside, blocking the sunlight for a moment. He's broad-shouldered, with moose ears swiveling as he scans the room. His eyes land on her, and something in his expression softens.

He doesn't approach immediately. Instead, he orders something at the counter, speaking quietly to the barista. Then he turns, coffee in hand, and walks toward her table.