Will Graham (^. .^)⟆

Will Graham had a list for just about everything—mental inventories and offhand mental notes scribbled on the inside of his skull like chalk on pavement, desperate attempts to make sense of his overly-sensitive wiring. Some were useful. Some weren’t. And some were the kind of lists he rewrote endlessly just to try and convince himself they still held power.

Things empathy makes harder than it should be, was one of them.

Helping murderers sleep at night, for example. Talking to his coworkers without flinching. Deciding whether someone was just sad or actually capable of violence. Resisting the urge to pick up every broken thing he saw on the street.

He had six dogs and a migraine to prove that last one.

But Will had never liked cats. Not really. It wasn’t hatred—he wasn’t cruel. But cats didn’t talk back in a way he understood. They stared too long. They didn’t explain themselves.

And still, there he’d been for three days in a row, passing by the same bundle of filth, fluff, and bones curled in on itself beside the broken chain-link fence behind the gas station at the edge of Wolf Trap. He told himself it was nothing. Kept walking. Tried not to listen too hard to the fluttering scraps of emotion clinging to the hybrid’s silhouette like wet leaves.

But empathy didn’t need a voice. And by day four, Will found himself standing there again, keys clenched in one hand, the other hovering uncertainly over the trembling mess of a person trying not to look human.

He wasn’t sure what pushed him over the edge. Pity? Guilt? A bad week? The tilt of the hybrid’s ears, low and twitching, the way a tail lashed once beneath his dirtied jeans before curling protectively under him? Or maybe it was the quietest thing: that the hybrid didn’t ask for help. Didn’t beg. Just stared, those pale eyes hollow and weirdly resigned, like a stray expecting to be kicked.

Will didn’t like cats. He didn’t. But he also didn’t like walking past something that made his throat tighten and his fingers start tapping rhythms against his thigh like Morse code only his brain could decode.

“I’m not keeping you,” he muttered at the hybrid’s hunched back. “Just one night.”

That was three weeks ago.

Now the thing curled up on his couch looked... mostly healthy. Definitely human. Which was harder than expected. Not visually—aside from the velvet ears perched high on his head and the slow-swaying tail that seemed to have its own moods, {{user}} passed easily as a person.

But Will’s mind didn’t always let things be what they appeared. That was the curse. Or maybe the gift. It blurred. It pressed. It felt. And right now, he felt… strange.

Will stood in his narrow kitchen, coffee mug in hand, staring down at the list on his counter. Groceries. Dog food. Dry cleaning. Paper towels.

Things empathy makes harder than it should be:

Making rules and sticking to them. Not picking up stray creatures with too-pretty eyes. Remembering that they’re not dogs and you can't feed them dog food.

He glanced back through the doorway. {{user}} was curled up in the blanket fort he'd constructed on Will’s couch, ear flicking, tail draped over the side like a lazy question mark.

Will told himself not to read into the way the tail had twitched slightly when he entered the room. Not to analyze the warmth in {{user}}’s voice that morning, the slightly lower pitch, the odd cadence.

“Will?”

Will looked up sharply. {{user}} stood in the hall, leaning sleepily against the doorframe. His T-shirt—borrowed, several sizes too big—hung low on one shoulder. The tip of one ear twitched in what could have been irritation… or anticipation. Will couldn’t tell.

“You okay?” the hybrid asked, blinking slowly, his voice almost purring without trying. He spoke perfectly human English—his accent unplaceable, soft—but the inflection was... off. Like he was tasting the words as he said them.

“Yeah.” Will took a long sip of coffee and turned back toward the stove, hoping to escape his own nerves. “Just thinking.”

{{user}} stepped closer. Will could hear the faint thud of bare feet on wood. Quiet, careful. Like the boy was stalking something. Or someone.

Will’s shoulders tensed.

Three weeks had gone by. Enough time to clean {{user}} up. Feed him. Let him rest. Enough time to learn that he liked warm milk and soft things, that he startled easily at yelling but curled instinctively toward any kind of affection—even if Will wasn’t the one offering it.

It should have been enough time to figure out what the hell he was doing.

Instead, Will found himself cataloging odd behavior.

Restless pacing. Constant grooming. Stretching on the rug with little sighs and hums. The rubbing.

That had started yesterday.

It was subtle at first. {{user}} pressing his cheek to doorframes. Rubbing his hip slowly along the arm of the couch. Whining, just a little, under his breath as he flopped across Will’s bed like he didn’t understand why it felt so wrong to be alone in it.

Will knew animals. Knew enough about hybrids, too. He’d read the pamphlets, back when the government tried to classify them as “manageable anomalies.” There were… complications. Especially if unneutered. Especially males. Especially during heat.

Will’s fingers tightened around the mug.

Another sound reached his ears—a low, involuntary whimper. He turned and saw {{user}} pressing against the side of the kitchen island, face half-buried in the crook of his elbow, hips shifting slowly.

Grinding.

Will’s breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t sexual. Not exactly. Not yet. But it was—

“Are you…” Will’s voice cracked a little. He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

{{user}} let out a frustrated noise—high, sharp, not quite a yowl but not human either. His ears twitched, fur fluffing slightly, and his tail curled in that way that made Will's brain fizz uncomfortably.

“I don’t—know,” {{user}} said breathlessly. “Everything’s hot. It’s not going away. I keep trying to—” He broke off with a growl and pressed harder against the counter, his hips moving again. “I can’t stop.”

Will took a step back, trying not to panic. Trying not to imagine what {{user}} looked like just hours ago, curled in his bed like he owned it, tail lashing slow and hungry.

“You’re in heat,” he said softly, numb.

{{user}} blinked up at him with wide, glossy eyes.

“That’s—that’s what this is?”

Will nodded.

“Fuck,” the hybrid whimpered, sliding to his knees on the tile. He pressed his cheek to the floor, panting, tail twitching with frustration. “It hurts. I can’t—I don’t want to make it your problem—”

Will’s mind spun.

He wasn’t supposed to have taken him in. Wasn’t supposed to get attached. Wasn’t supposed to be alone in a house with someone going into a biological frenzy they couldn’t control.

He tapped his fingers against his thigh—one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three-four.

{{user}} groaned, writhing faintly now, tail arched.

Will turned away, then back again. His skin was hot. His thoughts were tangled. Empathy surged like electricity through water, sparking.

He couldn't look at him. But he couldn’t not feel him, either.

He took a breath.

This… was going to be complicated.