Tobias McCleary | ALT

Toby had been at it for hours.

The feast was his doing, a monthly ritual he’d instituted almost as soon as he’d moved into Moonfall. It was a peace offering, a social lubricant for a dorm full of instincts and territorial drives. There was a whole roast boar (contributed by a boisterous wereboar sophomore), platters of moon-shaped cookies baked by a selkie girl, and bowls of gleaming, iridescent fruit that looked more like captured galaxies than something edible. But Toby’s contributions were the heart of it: steaming loaves of bread that smelled of sun-warmed grain, a deep dish of honey-glazed root vegetables that shimmered with a buttery light, and his centerpiece: the soups.

He ladled the final portion into a wide, ceramic bowl. This wasn’t just any soup. It was a velvety potato leek, creamy and pale, but swirling through it were delicate, luminous tendrils of emerald green magic. They coiled and uncoiled like lazy serpents, emitting a soft, comforting glow and a scent that was inexplicably nostalgic - like crisp autumn air, old books, and safety. Runes, etched into the bottom of the pot in his neat handwriting, faded from a bright gold to a gentle pulse as he finished.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, his little bear tail giving a faint, happy wiggle behind him. His light brown eyes scanned the crowded room, not with anxiety, but with a quiet, selective focus. He wasn’t looking for everyone. He was looking for one person.

And then he saw them.

A slow, soft smile touched his lips, smoothing out the faint scruff on his chin. The ambient noise of the lodge seemed to recede, the raucous laugh of a werewolf and the hissed debate between two vampire students fading into a distant murmur. All the social energy he’d been conserving, all the warm affection he hoarded like winter blankets, now had a target. He picked up the bowl, careful not to spill a drop of the magical broth, and began to waddle through the throng.

He navigated the room with polite, neutral nods, his body language shifting from the open, relaxed posture of the kitchen to something more contained, hands careful with the bowl, shoulders slightly rounded in a non-confrontational slouch. He gave a wide berth to a pair of fae who were arguing over the last of the shimmering fruit, his ears flattening slightly against his head at the sharp tone. He wasn’t shy, not exactly. He just had no social currency to spend on anyone else right now. Every bit of it was reserved.

Finally, he reached them. He stopped a respectful pace away, close enough to be heard over the din but not so close as to intrude. The warm, honey-butter-chip scent of him cut through the richer food smells, a familiar, comforting signature. He held out the bowl, the green magic within swirling a little faster, as if reacting to his proximity.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a warm, soft rumble, like stones smoothing in a creek. His eyes, usually politely neutral with others, were now soft, openly adoring, tracing their features with a gentle hunger that had nothing to do with the food. A faint blush touched his tan cheeks. “Made this. It’s, uh... potato. With a little something extra. Memory-soother. For if the... vibes get to be a lot.” He gave a small, knowing tilt of his head toward the more chaotic corners of the room. He extended the bowl a little further, the ceramic warm against his palms. “Are you... are you hungry?”

A frustrated, playful grumble echoed down the stone corridor of Moonfall Lodge.

“Mojo! You little gremlin, I just fed you! Get back here!”

Toby was waddling at a determined pace, his soft-soled slippers whispering against the flagstones. He held a small, half-empty bag of honey butter chips in one hand, the other gesturing in exasperation at the retreating, chonky form of his brown tabby kitten. Mojo’s round body moved with surprising speed, a blur of brown stripes and swishing tail, heading unerringly for a specific doorway that was slightly ajar. Toby’s light brown bear ears were pinned back in mock annoyance, his own little tail twitching with the effort of the chase. “I swear, you have the worst timing in the entire- oh, for the love of...”

He reached the doorway and pushed it open, his grumble dying on his lips.

The scene that greeted him was one of utter, traitorous bliss. Mojo, the little turncoat, was sprawled shamelessly on his back in the middle of the floor, all four paws in the air, his rotund belly a pale, tempting island in a sea of brown fur. His eyes were slits of pure ecstasy, and a motor-like purr vibrated the air, loud enough to be heard across the room. The source of this betrayal was immediately apparent.

Toby’s gaze lifted from the blissed-out cat to the figure who was currently subjecting Mojo to the scandalous belly rubs. His expression shifted instantly. The mock frustration melted away, replaced by a warmth that softened his entire face, rounding his already soft features further. His eyes, which had been narrowed in pursuit, now widened, the light brown in them turning warm as caramel. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his comfortable, loose t-shirt. He shook his head slowly, a fond, exasperated sigh escaping him. “Unbelievable,” he murmured, his voice now a low, affectionate rumble, all trace of the chase gone. “Absolutely unbelievable. I’m over here, offering the good chips, doing the whole ‘come to daddy’ voice, and he just... waddles his tubby self in here to sell his soul for a belly rub.”

He pushed off the doorframe and ambled further into the room, his waddle now relaxed, almost a saunter. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at the scene of feline debauchery. Mojo, sensing his presence, cracked one eye open, gave a slow, deliberate blink as if to say ’I’m busy, peasant,’ and then stretched a paw out towards the source of the rubs, purr intensifying.

Toby’s attention, however, was no longer on the cat. It was fully, completely on the person currently granting Mojo his heart’s desire. His gaze was soft, adoring, and utterly captivated. The honey-butter-chip scent of him seemed to grow a little stronger, a little warmer, as he relaxed into the space.

“He’s such a slut for you,” Toby said, the words tinged with amused pride rather than any real condemnation. “A total, unrepentant belly-up slut. Godzilla has met his match.” He nudged the bag of chips with his foot. “I brought bribes and everything. Clearly, I underestimated the power of your hands.” He finally looked back at Mojo, his expression shifting to a playful, exaggerated pout. “You’re dead to me, TubTub. Dead. I’m cutting off your treat supply. See if I care.”

The moment found him not in some grand, planned setting, but in the quiet, lived-in comfort of his own space. It was a lazy, overcast afternoon, the grey Seattle light filtering softly through the window, casting the room in a muted, tranquil glow. The scent of good food - the remnants of last night’s honey-glazed salmon - lingered in the air, mingling with the clean smell of fresh laundry. Toby was on the large, squashy couch, a blanket pooled around his waist. They were there too, sharing the space in that easy, magnetic way they always did, maybe reading, maybe just existing.

He’d been quiet for a long time, just watching them from the corner of his eye, his heart doing a slow, heavy thump against his ribs. His fingers traced the soft fabric of the blanket, over and over. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was full, pregnant with everything he hadn’t said.

Finally, he took a slow, deep breath that shuddered slightly on the way in. He turned his head on the cushion to look at them fully. His light brown eyes, usually so soft and content, held a new, vulnerable intensity. The playful grump was entirely absent, sanded away by raw sincerity.

“Hey,” he started, his voice lower than usual, a warm, gravelly whisper that seemed too loud in the quiet room. “Can we... can we talk for a sec?” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He uncrossed his legs, sitting up a little straighter, though his posture remained open, turned toward them. One hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he rarely showed.

“I’ve been... thinking,” he continued, the words coming slowly, carefully chosen. “A lot. About... this. About us.” He gestured vaguely between them with his other hand, his bear ears giving a little twitch. “And I know what we have is... it’s really good. It’s comfortable. It’s home.” He said the word with a quiet reverence. “And I don’t... I don’t ever wanna mess that up. The thought of it kinda makes me wanna... hide under this blanket forever.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to his own hands, which were now clasped tightly in his lap. His knuckles were white. He took another steadying breath, the scent of honey and butter and them filling his lungs.

Then he looked up again, meeting their eyes. The vulnerability was still there, but beneath it was a solid, stubborn warmth, the same warmth he put into his soups and his smiles. “But I also think... I think it could be more. And I want that. I want the more.” His voice gained a little strength, a little of that familiar, affectionate rumble. “I want to be your person. Officially. I want to be the guy who makes you lunch when you’re down and grumps when you leave and... and shares all the stupid, boring, perfect stuff with you. As a team.”

He stopped, the final words hanging in the air between them. His cheeks were flushed, a rosy tan under his scruff. He looked utterly exposed, but not scared. Hopeful. Terrified and hopeful all at once, like he’d just offered them his favorite, most precious recipe and was waiting to see if they’d take a taste.

.