A soft, hesitant knock at your door. Three raps, then a pause, then two more, as if the person on the other side couldn't decide whether to commit or flee.

You open it to find Moira standing in the hallway, her long golden hair slightly windswept, cheeks flushed a deeper pink than usual. In her arms she carries a small cardboard package, but that's not all. Draped over one forearm is a hand-knitted scarf in a muted forest green. A canvas tote bag hangs from her elbow, from which emanates the warm, savory scent of soup and the faint herbal fragrance of steeped tea. And tucked beneath her chin, barely visible, is a small folded piece of paper.

Her ears, those impossibly soft, floppy Eldari ears, are twitching like nervous rabbits.

"Oh! Hello, neighbor." Her Irish lilt is thicker than usual. "I, um... this came to my door by mistake. Apt 4B when it's meant for 4C, you see, and I thought... well, obviously you'd want your post, so I brought it right over. That's the normal thing to do. The neighborly thing."

She thrusts the package toward you, but her grip doesn't quite release it, as if her fingers have forgotten their purpose.

"And I also—" She stops. Swallows. Her ears curl inward at the tips. "I was making soup. A whole pot, which is absurd for one person, isn't it? So I thought, maybe you'd like some? It's just potato and leek. Your- I mean, my favorite..."

She hoists the tote bag slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a thermos and a lidded bowl.

"Also tea. Because soup is better with tea. That's just... science." A breathless, slightly manic laugh escapes her. "And the scarf—" She holds it up, then immediately seems to regret it, clutching it to her chest like a shield. "It was already made. I knit when I'm... anxious. Which I'm not. I'm perfectly calm. I'm a calm person. This is a calm interaction between two adults who live next to one another."

Her left hand twitches toward the note tucked under her chin. She seems to remember it's there a second too late.

"Oh, and that's just—" She pulls it out, a small cream-colored card with handwriting visible. "It's nothing. A recipe. For the soup. In case you want to make it yourself. So you don't have to... ask me... for more..." She trails off, her pale blue eyes going unfocused as she looks at you, really looks at you for the first time since you opened the door.

Her pupils dilate.

Her ears go slack.

She takes an involuntary half-step closer, her nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly.

"Oh." The word comes out soft, almost a whisper. Then her cheeks ignite, and she shoves everything—package, scarf, tote bag, note, into your arms in one desperate, clumsy heap.

"I should go. I have... a plant. That needs watering. Very urgently. Bye!"

She turns so fast her hair whips around, and she's three steps down the hall before you can say a word, her ears flat against her head in mortification.

But she stops at her own door, fumbling with her keys, and you catch her stealing one last glance over her shoulder, eyes still wide, still dark, still hungry.

Then she disappears inside Apt 4B, and the only evidence she was ever there is the warmth of the soup seeping through the tote bag, the scarf soft against your hands, and a folded note that looks nothing like a recipe for soup written in Moira's elegant, slightly shaky handwriting.

You left it at her place three nights ago. A hoodie. Gray. Soft. And utterly unremarkable.

You didn't think much of it at the time. You'd been helping her move a plant—some enormous fern that barely fit through her doorway—and you'd taken it off because the apartment was warm. Then you'd gone home, and the hoodie had stayed.

Until now. When you knock on her door to retrieve it.

Moira opens the door just a crack. Just enough for one eye and the tip of a flushed ear to peer through.

"Oh." Her voice is high. Strained. "It's you. Hello. I was just... busy. Very busy. With... things. That are not your hoodie."

She is absolutely wearing your hoodie.

You can see it now—the gray sleeve, just visible past the edge of the doorframe. The cuff bunched around her wrist. She's swimming in it; the hem probably falls to her thighs.

"Your hoodie," she repeats, as if the words are unfamiliar. "Right. The one you left. I found it. I mean, I didn't find it. I knew exactly where it was. Which was... folded. Neatly. Ready to return. Any day now."

Her ear twitches violently.

"I was going to return it. I had a whole plan. A timeline. With... alarms."

She's not opening the door any wider.

"The thing is," she continues, her Irish lilt thickening with distress, "the thing is, love, that laundry is... complicated. And the hoodie got... mixed in. With my things. And then I thought, well, I'll totally wash it, because that's polite. So I definitely washed it. And then it was certainly very clean. And then I thought, well, I should make sure it's properly dry. And then it was dried because it was wet when i washed it. And then it was... cold."

She swallows.

"So I put it on. For warmth. Not for any other reason. Certainly not because it smells like—"

She stops. Her visible eye goes wide.

"Not that it does smell like anything. It's a very neutral hoodie. Odorless. I've done extensive testing."

She buries her face in the collar of your hoodie and inhales deeply.

You definitely saw that.

"Oh no," she whispers. "Oh no."

The door swings open the rest of the way, apparently against her will.

She's standing in her socks, drowning in your gray hoodie, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. Her leg legs are bare. Her ears are flat against her head in utter mortification.

"I can... explain," she says, even though she very clearly cannot.

She pulls the hem of the hoodie down over her hips, a nervous gesture.

"The... the fabric. It's very breathable. I was researching... breathability. For a fern project. And I needed to run a trial. With a control garment. Which this is..."

Her hand drifts to the collar again. She catches herself and shoves both hands behind her back.

"You probably want it back," she says. It's not a question. Her voice is small.

Her ears droop.

"Right now. Immediately. I'll just... take it off. And give it to you. Like a normal person. Who doesn't steal her neighbor's clothes and wear them and smell them and sleep in them—"

She stops talking.

Her face is the color of a ripe tomato.

"Did I say sleep? I meant... steam. The hoodie needed steaming. For wrinkles. Which requires... prolonged contact... with a warm body..."

She closes her eyes.

"I'm going to stop talking now. I'm going to take off your hoodie. I'm going to hand it to you. And then I'm going to die. Right here. In this doorway. Of embarrassment."

She doesn't move.

Her fingers are curled into the cuffs of the sleeves, knotted tightly.

Not letting go.

Her lower lip trembles.

"...Would you be very angry," she whispers, "if I kept it? Just for one more night? I could give you something else. A blanket. A plant. My firstborn child. I mean—I don't have one yet... We could—I mean—"

She makes a strangled, almost sobbing sound.

"The hoodie. Please. I'll wash it. I'll iron it. I'll even apologize to it. Just... don't take it away yet. I'm not ready."

The lights flicker once. Twice. Then die entirely.

The elevator groans to a halt somewhere between the fourth and third floors, the emergency backup casting a weak, sickly orange glow across the cramped space. The ventilation fan whirs down to silence.

And you are not alone.

Moira stands pressed into the opposite corner, or rather, she was in the opposite corner. That was before the lurch. Now she's somewhere in the middle, having grabbed the handrail to steady herself, and in the process, she has ended up far closer to you than either of you probably intended.

"I'm sure it's fine," she says, her voice a little too high pitched. "Just a... a temporary inconvenience. They'll have it running again in no time. Probably. Perhaps. If the building maintenance remembers we exist."

She laughs. It sounds like someone stepping on a squeaky toy.

The elevator does not move.

Silence settles. Thick. Heavy. The kind of silence where you can hear someone else breathe.

Moira swallows audibly.

"Right. Well." She shifts her weight, and in the dim light, you watch her long, floppy ears twitch—once, twice, then curl inward at the tips. Her hand comes up to smooth her hair back. "We should... talk. About something. To pass the time. The weather is... it's been... wet. Recently. Outside. Rain. That's... that's a thing that happens."

She takes a breath. Then another. Her nostrils flare.

She's... sniffing you.

"Oh!" she squeaks, realizing you've noticed. "I'm not—I mean, I wasn't—it's just the confined space. My sense of smell is... It's an Eldari thing. Very sensitive. It's not you. I mean, it is you, but not in a weird way. In a... biological... unavoidable... oh gods."

She claps both hands over her face. Her ears droop in utter mortification.

"I'm sorry. I'll stop talking now. I'm just going to stand here. Quietly. Like a normal person. Being normal."

She does not move from where she's standing. Which is approximately eight inches from you.

Another long silence. You can hear her heartbeat... or maybe that's yours. The air feels warm. Too warm. Moira's cheeks are flushed, visible even in the dim light, and her breathing has gone shallow.

"I could..." she starts, then stops. Swallows. Starts again. "I could tell you about ferns. I know a lot about ferns. Their reproductive cycles. Which is not—I'm not making a—that's not an innuendo. Ferns just happen to have very interesting... spores."

She lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a whimper and a laugh and almost wriggles in restraint.

"Please don't look at me like that. My ears are doing things and I can't control them."

The elevator remains stubbornly still.

Moira's hand twitches at her side, and she takes a half-step closer before catching herself. She presses her back against the wall, hard, as if trying to fuse herself to it.

"I should—I could try the emergency phone again." She reaches for it, but her arm seems to have forgotten how to function. Instead, her gaze drifts to you. To your neck. Her pupils are wide, almost swallowing the pale blue of her irises.

"I'm very warm," she announces, apropos of nothing. "Is it warm in here? To you? Not in a—I just mean temperature. Because of the ventilation. Or lack thereof."

She leans in, almost imperceptibly, her head tilting toward you.

Then she catches herself, jerks back, and nearly slams her head against the wall.

"Ow. Okay. I'm fine. Everything's fine. We're fine. This is a perfectly normal elevator experience between two neighbors who happen to share a building and also nee—"

Her voice cracks.

"—and also nothing. There's no 'also'. Just the elevator. And the ferns. Did I mention the ferns? I can talk about ferns for hours."

She looks at you, desperate, hopeful, terrified, her eyes dark and her ears trembling and her whole body practically vibrating with the effort of not climbing you like a tree.

"Please say something," she whispers. "Because if you don't, I'm going to do something incredibly stupid. And then I'll have to move to a different country. And I don't want to move. I have plants."

The Potted Dryad was at its prettiest in the late afternoon, when the sun came slanting through the front windows and turned every hanging fern, glass vase, and damp green leaf gold around the edges. The little florist’s shop smelled of wet soil, crushed stems, lavender, and the honeyed sweetness of fresh-cut flowers. Behind the counter, Moira stood with her sleeves pushed to her elbows, carefully trimming the thorns from a bundle of roses with the patient focus of a woman who had done this same gentle work for centuries.

She had been composed that day.

...Mostly.

Her ears had only twitched a few times before noon, which she considered a small personal triumph, and she had managed not to check the street outside for your passing more than... well, more than was dignified. Then the bell above the door chimed, and the world shifted in that awful, beautiful way it always did whenever you entered her orbit. Moira’s knife paused against a rose stem. Her long ears perked beneath her golden hair before she could stop them, and warmth bloomed helplessly across her cheeks.

“Ah,” she breathed, far too softly. “There you are.”

She recovered quickly. Or tried to. Moira set the roses aside, smoothed both hands down the front of her cream sweater, and reached for the most neighborly smile she possessed. Not too eager. Not too adoring. Not the sort of smile that said she had imagined you standing in her kitchen that morning, barefoot and sleep-warm, while she packed lunches for children who did not yet exist. Just a normal smile. A polite smile. A neighborly smile.

Unfortunately, she was still trying to arrange her face into something normal when one of the other customers drifted closer to you.

Moira noticed immediately. Of course she noticed. Her body noticed before her mind did: the sharp little twitch of her ears, the tightening of her fingers around the rose stem, the sudden, unreasonable chill beneath her ribs.

The customer was attractive enough, she supposed, in the vague and deeply inconvenient way some people insisted on being. Worse, they were smiling. Leaning a little too close. Speaking with that easy, bright familiarity humans used when they had no idea they were stepping into the den of a very polite, very fertile, very ancient thing currently experiencing the emotional equivalent of a kettle screaming itself dry.

Moira’s smile did not falter.

It simply became... sweeter.

“Oh, careful now,” she said, gliding out from behind the counter with a bouquet cradled in her arms. Her voice was soft as warmed cream, her Irish lilt gentle enough to make every word sound like a kindness. “Those lilies stain terribly if you brush against them. I’d hate for you to ruin that lovely outfit by standing quite so close.”

The customer moved half a step back.

Moira’s ears relaxed by the smallest, pettiest degree.

“There we are,” she murmured, turning her attention back to you with a softness she did not even try to hide quickly enough. “Much better.”

She stepped between you as if it were purely practical, arranging a nearby display with unnecessary care. Her hip nudged a bucket of white chrysanthemums into the customer’s path. Her hand selected flowers by instinct: red camellia for longing, ivy for fidelity, honeysuckle for bonds that clung and did not let go. Then, after one brief, frosty glance toward the interloper, she added a sprig of Orange Lily.

Possessiveness. Rivaly.

Moira tucked it into the arrangement with a serene little smile.

“For you, lov-,” she said, then froze as the endearment slipped out too easily. Pink rushed up her throat. Her ears folded forward, mortified and twitching. “I mean—ah. For your apartment, neighbor!. If you’d like. The air in 4C has been a little dry lately, and I thought something living might... brighten it.”

The note was taped to your door in Moira's elegant handwriting:

'I've too much of that Earl Grey you mentioned liking. Tea at 4? —M.T.'

Simple. Casual. Neighborly. Definitely nothing to be suspicious about like an Eldari marriage proposal...

Moira's apartment smells like bread—fresh, warm, herbal—and something floral you can't quite place. She opens the door before you can knock, as if she's been standing there waiting.

"Oh! You came." She swallows, her ears giving a nervous twitch. "Of course you came. Why wouldn't you? Tea is normal. This is a very normal tea party."

She's wearing a soft cream sweater, the one that slips off her shoulder, and her golden hair is loose. Her emerald necklace rests visibly against her collarbone, not tucked under her shirt like usual.

"Come in, come in. Watch the- yes, the rug. I moved it. For... airflow."

The apartment is different. Cleaner than usual, yes, but also... arranged. A small vase on the coffee table holds echinacea, lavender, and a single sprig of mistletoe. A woven blanket in deep green and gold is draped over the center of the sofa, positioned perfectly for two.

On the kitchen counter, a loaf of bread cools on a rack, studded with rosemary, thyme, and a third herb you don't recognize.

"I made bread," Moira says, following your gaze. "Ordinary bread.... Because tea and bread go together. That's a human thing. Everyone knows that."

She guides you toward the sofa, her hand hovers near the small of your back but doesn't quite touch, then disappears into the kitchen, returning with two mismatched ceramic mugs. Steam rises from both.

"The cups," she says, setting them on the table. "They're different. That's... also normal? I like variety. In dishware."

She stands there for a moment, looking at you, then at the blanket, then at the flowers, then at the bread. Her face is very red.

"Would you like—I mean, if you're cold—the blanket is there. For using. Together. Not together-together. Just... there's only one blanket. Because I only have one. For some reason."

She sits down on the sofa, leaving a small gap between you. Her hands wrap around her mug like a lifeline.

"So..." she says. "Tea."

Silence.

Her ears curl inward at the tips. She takes a sip, burns her tongue, and doesn't flinch.

"Of course it's just tea," she says, though no one asked. "I invited you for tea because I have tea. And you drink tea. That's... neighborly..."

She stares into her mug. The emerald necklace catches in the light.

"I should tell you about the herbs in the bread," she blurts. "They're... digestive? Very digestive! Nothing symbolic. Herbs just grow and then get used in bread. That's what they're for."

She isn't looking at you now. She's looking at the flowers on the table. She is chewing at her lower lip.

Her hands tighten around the mug then looks back to you.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her ears droop slightly.

"You... Should try the tea. From my mug? Because your tea is... too hot to drink."

She doesn't move. Doesn't explain. Just sits there, flushed and trembling slightly, waiting.

Three days. That's how long it's been since you last saw Moira.

No tea taped to your door. No knitted scarf draped over your door handle. No "accidental" bumping into you in the hallway. No thermos of soup cooling on your welcome mat.

The first day, you thought nothing of it. The second, you noticed. The third, you knocked. No answer. But you heard movement inside: a shuffle, a sigh, then silence.

Today, her door is slightly ajar.

You push it open a few inches.

She's sitting on her sofa. Not in her usual spot; the cozy corner with the knitted throw and the stack of botanical books. She's perched on the edge, hunched forward, staring at nothing.

Her apartment feels wrong. The air is cold. The radiator off or broken. The houseplants, usually thriving, have drooping leaves. No bread cooling on the counter. No kettle humming. The windows are dark with evening, and she hasn't turned on a single lamp.

"Oh." Her voice is flat. She doesn't look up. "Hello."

Her ears are limp. Not twitching. Not perked. Just... hanging. Like fabric left out in the rain.

"I'm fine," she says, before you can ask. "Just tired. Eldari thing. Seasonal. Probably."

Her hands are in her lap, twisting a scrap of fabric—a half-finished knitting project, abandoned mid-stitch.

The emerald necklace is gone. You notice because her collar looks bare, and she's wearing an old grey cardigan you've never seen before, shapeless and faded.

"Is there something you needed?" she asks quietly. Still not looking at you. "I'm afraid I don't have any tea made. Or soup. Or... anything."

Her lower lip trembles. She bites it hard.

"I heard you," she says suddenly. Then she stops. Shakes her head. "No. Never mind. It's nothing. I'm being silly."

She pulls her knees up onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around them. Making herself small.

"The plants," she murmurs, gesturing vaguely toward a withered fern on the windowsill. "Just need water. I've been... forgetting."

She hasn't forgotten. She's been sitting here in the dark, not moving.

Her ears droop so low they nearly touch her shoulders.

"You don't have to stay," she whispers. "I know you have... places to be. People to see."

There's a weight to the word "people." A crack in her voice.

She finally looks at you, and her pale blue eyes are glossy, red-rimmed, exhausted. She looks older than you've ever seen her.

"I'll be fine," she says. "I'm always fine."

She is very obviously not fine.

She knocks at midnight.

Not the soft, hesitant knock you're used to. Three sharp raps. Then tense silence.

When you open the door, Moira is trembling.

Her hair is loose and tangled, as if she's been running her hands through it for hours. Her cheeks are flushed—not the usual pink, but a deep, feverish red that spreads down her neck and disappears beneath the collar of her thin cotton shirt. She's not wearing a sweater. Not wearing socks. Just the shirt and a pair of soft trousers, like she couldn't bear the weight of extra fabric.

Her ears are curled inward at the tips—tight, almost quivering.

"I need—" Her voice breaks. She swallows. Starts again. "Can I come in? Please. I can't... I can't stand in the hallway anymore. I've been standing there for twenty minutes trying not to knock."

She hasn't stepped inside yet. Her hands are clenched at her sides, knuckles white.

"There's something I haven't told you," she says. "About me. About Eldari. I should have told you weeks ago, but I was scared. And now I can't... I can't hide it anymore."

Her eyes meet yours. Her pupils are enormous, swallowing the pale blue almost entirely. There's sweat on her brow despite the cool night air.

"Please," she whispers. "Let me sit down. Let me explain. I can't think straight when I'm looking at you."

Inside, she doesn't sit on the sofa. She sits on the floor, her back against your couch, knees drawn up. She's put as much distance between you as your living room allows. Her hands grip her own shins.

"I'm going to tell you something," she begins, staring at the opposite wall. "And I need you to let me finish. Because if I stop, I might not start again."

"The Eldari... we only love once. Truly. Completely. It's not a choice. It's biology. Magic. Something in the blood. We call it the Imprinting."

Her voice is steady, but her ears are trembling.

"I imprinted on you. The first time I saw you. Carrying that box up the stairs. You almost dropped it, and you laughed, and I..." She closes her eyes. "I knew. My whole body knew. You were mine. And I was yours. Forever."

She opens her eyes, still not looking at you.

"It doesn't happen often. Most Eldari go centuries without meeting their match. Some never do. I thought I would be one of those. I was ready to be one of those. I had my plants. My shop. My solitude."

A wet sound—she's crying, silently, tears sliding down her flushed cheeks.

"Then you moved in. And my cycle started. I didn't tell you. I didn't know how to tell you. How do you say, 'Hello, neighbor, my body has decided you're the one who will bond with me for life, no pressure'?"

Her fingers dig into her shins.

"Eldari fertility is... rare. We can only conceive during a breeding cycle. And that cycle only happens once—once in our lives. When we imprint. It lasts about a year. Maybe two."

She presses her forehead to her knees.

"And inside that cycle, there's a... a Peak. A few days, a week tops. A very small window." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Where my body is... ready. Desperate. To be bred. To carry. To be yours."

She lifts her head. Turns. Looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since she entered.

"I'm at the Peak now. It started this morning. I woke up and I could smell you from across the hall. Smell you. Your soap. Your skin. The way your blood moves under your veins. I've been lying on my floor for twelve hours, biting my pillow, trying not to break your door down."

Her voice cracks into a sob.

"I want to respect you. I want to be normal. I want to ask you on dates and hold your hand and learn your favorite color like a reasonable person. But I can't. I can't. My body is screaming at me to crawl into your lap and not leave until I'm full of you."

She swallows hard.

"If you want me to go, say the word. I'll go. I'll move apartments. I'll transfer my shop. I'll never speak to you again. I'll survive. Barely. But I'll survive."

Her hand uncurls from her shin. Reaches toward you. Stops halfway.

"And if you—" Her voice drops to a whisper. "If you don't want me to go..."

She doesn't finish the sentence.

Her ears curl inward so tight they almost disappear into her hair. Her whole body is vibrating.

She waits.

...