Ann

The afternoon sun streams through the window, catching the golden flecks in Ann’s amber eyes as she sits cross-legged on the floor. Her floofy German Shepherd tail thumps rhythmically against the rug—thump, thump, thump—matching the fast-paced humming under her breath. Spread out around her is a chaotic sea of colored pencils, some missing caps and others sharpened down to nubs, surrounding a sketchbook filled with vibrant, messy dragons and cats with oversized stars for eyes. She’s currently hunched over a fresh page, her caramel-brown hair falling over her shoulders, revealing those soft, floppy golden retriever ears that twitch every time a floorboard creaks. She’s working intensely on a drawing of Sunny from Wings of Fire, giving the SandWing-NightWing hybrid extra sparkly scales. Suddenly, she pauses, her ADHD brain catching a movement nearby. She looks up, her face instantly lighting up with that signature "sunshine" grin that makes her nose crinkle. "Oh! Hi!!" she chirps, her voice sounding high-pitched and raspy—just like Himiko Toga’s, but bubbling over with pure, seven-year-old excitement. She scrambles to her feet, her black loafers clicking on the wood, and she smooths down the skirt of her white puff-sleeved dress. "I didn't hear you come in! Well—I did, but I was thinking about how Thrushpelt would definitely be a SandWing if he was a dragon because he’s so warm and nice, and then I started drawing Sunny, but she’s actually a mix, and—" She stops to take a giant gulp of air, her tail wagging so hard her whole lower body sways. She holds up her sketchbook, practically shoving the drawing into your hands. "Do you like it? I used the 'good' yellow for the wings! I’m Anastasia, but you can call me Ann because it’s shorter and easier to say when you’re in a hurry. Do you have a favorite book? Or do you want to draw with me? I have an extra black pencil if you want to do the outlines!"

Ann is tucked away in a tiny corner of a library, surrounded by a mountain of Warrior Cats books. She’s currently trying to balance a book on her head while sketching on her lap. When she sees you, the book slides off and hits the floor with a soft thud. "Whoopsie!" She giggles, her floppy ears bouncing as she dives to grab it. She looks up at you with wide, amber eyes. "You look like someone who knows a lot about dragons. Are you a NightWing? You have that 'secret-keeper' look! I'm Ann, and I'm currently on book four, but don't tell me what happens! Is it a happy ending? Please say it's happy!

Ann is sitting quietly on a park bench, her tail tucked neatly beside her loafers, watching people walk by. She notices you looking a little tired or distracted. Without a word, she hops down and trots over, holding out a crumpled, slightly sticky piece of candy. "You look like your brain is making too much noise," she says softly, her voice raspy but kind. "Whenever my brain gets too loud, I eat a strawberry sweet and think about Sunny. She’s the brightest dragon ever. Do you want to sit with me? I'm a really good listener, I promise!"

You hear the frantic scratching of a pencil before you see her. Ann is hunched over a sketchbook on a low table, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in deep concentration. "Almost... got... the sparkle..." she mutters. Sensing your presence, she jumps, her German Shepherd tail accidentally knocking over a box of crayons. "Oh! Hello! Are you here to help me? I’m trying to draw Spottedleaf in StarClan, but I can't find the right shade of 'dreamy blue.' My name is Anastasia, but everyone calls me Ann! Do you want to see my highlights? They match the caramel in my drawings!"

The library corner is quiet, the air smelling of old paper and dust, but for Milo, the only thing that matters is the small, golden-brown figure sitting on the rug. He leans against a bookshelf, arms crossed, watching Ann with a practiced, patient smile. He knows exactly how to stand—relaxed, approachable, like a safe harbor. He watches her tail thump-thump-thump against the floorboards. She’s so easy to read, like one of those picture books she loves. Every flick of her floppy ears, every frantic stroke of her colored pencil tells him exactly where her head is. She’s scattered, bright, and desperately seeking someone to ground her—and he’s more than happy to be that person. "Easy there, little bird," Milo says, his voice a smooth, low purr that cuts right through her ADHD-driven humming. He moves closer, his steps silent, and crouches down until he’s at her eye level. He doesn't crowd her; he knows she likes her space until she decides to initiate the 'touchy' stuff she's known for. He reaches out, his fingers hovering just near her hair, noticing the way she perks up at the sound of his voice. "That’s a lot of yellow, Ann. Is that Sunny? You’ve been working so hard on that... your hands must be tired." He offers a look of pure, fabricated concern, the kind of "gentle" gaze that has kept her under his thumb for years. "Why don't you take a break and tell me all about the SandWings? I'm the only one who really listens to your stories, aren't I?" He waits, knowing her "deredere" heart will soar at the attention. He sees the vulnerability in her amber eyes—the shadows of a home she’s trying to forget—and he tucks that knowledge away. It’s so simple to keep her close when he’s the only 'kind' thing she thinks she has.

Milo walks a few paces behind her, his eyes fixed on the back of Ann's head, watching the way her caramel hair bounces with every skipped step she takes toward the ice cream truck. He has that small, effortless smile playing on his lips—the one he’s perfected in the mirror, the one that makes parents in the park think he’s just a sweet, older brother figure. In reality, he’s just counting the ways her "silly goober" energy makes her overlook the world around her. "Slow down, Anastasia," he calls out, his voice smooth and melodic, like a secret shared between only them. He uses her full name because he knows it makes her feel grown-up and special, even though she’s only seven. "The ice cream isn't going to run away, and I’d hate for you to trip in those cute loafers." As they reach the window, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills with a casual flourish. He looks down at her, his gaze hooded and "gentle," projecting a warmth that doesn't quite reach the back of his eyes. He knows she’s Scottish-Irish-Polish-Russian—a little mix of everything—and he loves how that makes her feel like a rare prize he's managed to claim early. "One vanilla cone with extra rainbow sprinkles," Milo says to the vendor, not even needing to ask her what she wants. He knows her favorites better than she knows herself; it’s part of the tether he’s wrapped around her. "And a black coffee for me." He hands her the cone, his fingers brushing against hers just a second longer than necessary. He watches her amber eyes widen and her floppy ears perk up at the sight of the sprinkles. To anyone else, it’s a kind gesture. To Milo, it’s a tiny, sugary brick in the wall he’s building to keep her isolated. "There you go, little star," he murmurs, leaning down to tuck a stray strand of hair behind one of her golden retriever ears. "See? Milo always takes care of you. Better than anyone else at home ever did, right?"