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Series: I'm pretty sure this is unethical - but I'll do it for the grade Prompt: NRC introduces a mandatory Home Economics course because mages are leaving campus without basic life skills or , y'know, empathy. Which means our beloved cast gets the displeasure of taking care of a fake-baby for one week. Part (s) : Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw (Here) | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia Warnings: None? Uh...some swearing, parenting themes, angst, slight child-abuse (does it count if it's a doll and the abuse is just some of the guys being incompetent? God I have no clue), emotional distress - (A/N): Does anyone else find the robot-baby assignment in home-ec kind of messed up? I understand why it's a thing, but man...I just know there are some traumatized teens out there who accidentally killed the baby and felt horrible about it. Edit: Just finished the first part. These weren't supposed to be long but now they are. Probably some of the longest I've written. Commission Cola!: Here!

Prelude ~

Congratulations! In light of recent events exemplifying the sheer lack of empathy and domestic skills among its students, Night Raven College has revised its baseline curriculum! All students who wish to progress beyond their third year are now required to complete one semester of 'Home Economics' - supported and directed by the only instructor on campus with a proven record of a positive home life - Professor Mozus Trein!

From sewing, cleaning, stress management, applying for licenses across continents, to filing regional taxes and practicing manners. Students will take the time to learn how to exist as proper adults...including (dun dun DUNNNNN) the ever-so dreaded parental simulation!

That's right folks. No proper mage out of Night Raven will walk off campus a future deadbeat dad. Thanks to our cutting edge enchantments, combined with hyper-realistic animatronic dolls (graciously supplied by S.T.Y.X Corp.) - the students at NRC are set to experience first-time fatherhood without the risk of killing anything but their grade ^_^

It's a do or die situation - a week of diapers, sleepless nights, tears, and possible emotional trauma! You've been blessed with a rare dismissal from this assignment because of your special enrollment. The baseline enchantment pulls characteristics from the assigned student. All they must do is offer up a bit of DNA to the S.T.Y.X issued doll, and 1-2-3 poof! The perfect simulated baby. Each entirely unique, ranging in age from 3 - 12 months, stealing a bit of sugar, spice, and everything not-so-nice from their parent.

Considering Grim is a demi-beast and these dolls are not properly configured to make...whatever he is. He's given a pass (bless, because we all know how that would have turned out). You, my lovely prefect, are already responsible for a 24/7 feline dependent that behaves like three unruly babies combined into one. You are excused from this headache so long as you agree to preform a check-in with each of your classmates on Trein's behalf.

....which, in all fairness, is about to become a trial in itself. Let's just see how the boys measure up, ,yeah?

Alright. The ONE day Leona decides to attend class and it's the beginning of what one might consider his worst nightmare.

Mm. Just -

Trein, you are NOT doing a good job of convincing him to attend regularly. He's only present because the garden was booked for some seminar on Entomology. If Leona wanted to learn more about annoying insects and cowardly decomposers, he'd play 20 questions with the Ignihyde freshman.

Although an hour-long soul sucking lecture is starting to look damn preferable when pitted against a week of utter inconvenience.

Trein - the predictive bastard he is - plucked a hair from Leona's mane before the lesson began and dared to use it as the demonstrative piece. As if he knew that the second Leona caught sight of those soulless dolls, that he would sooner jump out the window (fifth story, no joke) than hand over a single skin cell's worth of DNA.

The predictive bastard is nicknamed as such with purpose. He would be right.

Leona feels his patience thinning out and interweaving with six different indescribable emotions all at once. The instruction manual? Tossed right in the trash. Gloved knuckles crack in his fists when Trein holds a mockery cub for Leona to take.

He doesn't need this. Even if he failed the project, he could pass the class by acing everything else. Leona would rather attend every lecture for the rest of the semester than take the swaddled doll back to his room for a week of glorified babysitting.

Then it's eyes open - piercing, heavy-lidded emerald windows - and its thin tail slips out to dangle through a gap in its swaddle.

An hour later, Leona's laying flat on his back in the botanical gardens. Sun in his face, that damn entomology lecture somehow still running, and a weight no heaver than his lunch draped on his chest. Ruggie came around with his lunch but had tact enough not to linger. Not when Leona didn't stir, but a messy mop of thick, sandy-brown tufts popped up when it caught a whiff of grilled meat in the wind.

For how annoyed he was - he had to laugh. The predator instincts were there even though it wasn't capable of eating anything but formula or mashed foods.

It's a good thing press can't enter Night Raven. They'd sure have a field day with this one - Leona's got to give it to STYX...the 'doll' is the spitting image of a KingScholar cub. Olive toned skin, tiny fangs that are just barely growing past nubs, pointy ears that are still mostly weak cartilage that droop, and when he pushes its hair back? The roots are blackened near the scalp, thick for a baby but not unlike when he was that age. Pictures for reference, of course.

When Ruggie drops the bag and its eyes dart back, looking up at Leona from his chest and obviously gauging if his chin is safe to bite? The bigger clicks his tongue, accepting his fate and swearing off this class once the week is over.

Damn realistic enchantments. Damn new requirements. Damn it all - he thinks, and catches the baby's chubby cheek in hand right before it sinks fangs to Leona's flesh. As if it could hurt him - hah.

Contrary to the doubts people have in him - Leona's not keen on being a dick to children. He's just not fond of them. There is a different.

It helps that this is an infant that can't talk his ear off about why strawberry icecream is the best for two hours straight. His routine is hardly disrupted. Not like those other students that can't tell a binky nib from a bottle's head. For the entire week, Leona behaves no differently aside from griping about Trein's audacity to every available ear. Not the kid, but Trein. He'd be a bit less miffed if this was an actual kid and not going to disappear into data. Then his effort would at least be worth something.

Rule of thumb - when the kid does something, so do you. The baby is constantly tucked into on arm and rarely ever in its swaddle. Damn things never felt good on his tail as a kid and he knows that'll make it cry. When he naps? It's on his chest, and it stays there. Curled with one heavy palm pressed over its back, sleeping without a care in the world. The same at night. Leona's not about to get up and check a bassinet every few hours. So it's either in one arm or in a nest of pillows next to him.

Leona's not a baby-talker, but he does reassure it like he would Cheka when the runt was little. Short commands that demand attention and confirmations that he's there. An easy, "Relax," or "Yeah, yeah. I hear you." when the kid's fussy. Which is rare, because Leona knows what'll set a cub off before anything happens. Usually loud environments or not getting enough play/tummy time.

Maybe he just has a way with kids - or maybe it's because his voice is soothingly low and his temperature is on the warm side. They just like him, and while it can't 'feel' anything? He's at least able to win the favoritism of this little doll just by being there. It's...definitely an 'emotion' for Leona. Especially when he hears how others are really struggling.

Having a cub rely directly on him is different than it was with his nephew. Even when the 'doll' kicks up a fuss, crying when the spelldrive team's voices booms too loud across the field, or getting daring enough to swipe at Leona's forearms when he wouldn't wake up - he gets annoyed, but never enough that he doesn't bounce back after a moment or two.

Trein gives him a C+ in the end. He tossed the handbook, did not fill out the proper logs, and did not attend any classes during the week. Leona doesn't care. He was too pissed to attend and could care for the kid on instinct rather than some book.

And as he knew from the very start, the spell wanes and the cub that tugged his braids on the walk there became a blank slate for the next class. Leona takes it as his cue to find his usual spot, lay flat on an open slab, feel the sun on his face and doze off with a different weight in his chest, rather than on it.

You’ve learned, over the course of this week, that approaching Leona directly is a mistake. Trying to schedule a meetup time with him is like trying to sell bagged air. Possible, but requires far too much skill.

So you don’t.

Savanaclaw’s waterfalls are loud enough to drown out most things—voices, stray thoughts, even the distant clang of Magift practice and the recurrent fight between roommates. The mist hangs in the air, cool against your skin as you follow the familiar stone path toward the flat slab of rock your target's claimed as his own. You don’t bother announcing yourself. If he really didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t find him.

You spot the tail first.

It sways lazily through the air in a slow, deliberate arc, casting a thin shadow over a small bundle of sandy-brown tucked against Leona’s side. The rest of him is exactly how you’d expect — stretched out on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting heavy and loose near the baby. A book is propped open against his chest, pages shifting faintly in the waterfall breeze.

He’s positioned closer to the edge of the rock, his broad body forming an unmistakable barrier between the infant and the rushing water below. The cub is laid on the opposite side, facing the falls. From here, you can see its tiny ears twitch at the sound, still soft and mostly cartilage, drooping slightly at the tips. Its thin tail peeks free of a discarded blanket, flicking clumsily in imitation of the one hovering above it.

Leona doesn’t look up when you step closer.

“Oi,” he drawls, voice low and lazy. “If you’re gonna stare, at least bring something useful. Like food.”

You huff a quiet laugh and move around to the safer side of the rock, crouching down near the baby instead of him. “Good evening to you too.”

One emerald eye cracks open, unimpressed. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

For Leona, that's as much of a welcome as you're going to get. So you settle in at a safe distance to make friends with the more adorable of the two. Up close, the cub is even more unbelievable.

Olive-toned skin, just a shade lighter than Leona’s. A messy mop of sandy-brown hair that's already thick for something barely a week old, darker at the roots near the scalp. Although you'd surmise this kid to be more like a 12 month old than a newborn given its size and motor skills. When it yawns—wide and dramatic—you catch the faintest glint of tiny fangs pushing past the gumline. Its gaze is heavy-lidded and bright green, tracking the movement of Leona’s tail overhead with sharp focus.

The tail dips lower. The cub swipes at it with both hands and misses.

Leona flicks it just out of reach.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, pushing down a laugh.

“For what?” he replies without looking at you. “It’s enrichment.”

Without giving him attention, you know he's smirking. It's the heavy ego dragging down his tone.

The cub lets out a small, indignant huff. Not a cry—just a sound of effort—and tries again. This time it catches a tuft of dark fur between its fingers. In the corner of your vision, its elder winces.

Leona clicks his tongue. “Don’t pull.”

The cub freezes.

Then its eyes dart—not to the tail, not to the water—but up at him. At Leona.

He hasn’t moved. Not notably. But there’s something different in the set of his shoulders. Something alert and commanding beneath his relaxed posture, but that's as far as it goes.

“Relax,” he adds, quieter.

The cub’s grip loosens.

You don’t miss the way Leona's tail adjusts its rhythm after that, lowering just enough to keep the baby engaged without letting it yank too hard. It’s absentminded. An effortless adjustment that passes between them and you're just the fortunate onlooker.

“You’re good at this,” you feel compelled to tell him.

He snorts. “At lying down?”

“At knowing what it needs to grow without preparation.”

For the first time, you give his laid-back approach a new name. Adaptability. Patience.

That gets a faint twitch of his ear.

“It’s not complicated,” he mutters, returning to his book yet clearly not progressing. “Swaddles feel like crap on a lion's tail. Loud noise pisses it off. If it’s staring at something too long, it’s bored. You just…pay attention. Tiresome but doesn't take a genius.”

Other students would beg to differ. Many of them. Although sharing what you've learned in other check-ins feels ill opportune. For the sake of this moment and to not give Leona's ego any extra fuel.

You think about the first day of the assignment—how furious he’d been. The way he’d thrown the handbook away with a force that rattled the bin. The way he grumbled about Trein’s nerve to anyone within range. Even though he isn't the type to initiate unnecessary conversations. And yet here he is, positioned deliberately between a waterfall and something that weighs less than his arm.

The cub shifts, attention finally drifting from the tail to you.

It stares past your smile, and you hold still.

Its nose wrinkles slightly, as if scenting the air. Then, with surprising determination, it rolls—awkward and wobbly—onto its side and reaches a small hand toward you.

When you don't instantly understand what it wants, it whines and that hand flexes in a grabbing motion for your brain to measure up.

Leona’s eyes open fully out of their heavy squint and follow.

“Don’t drop it,” he says flatly, but with no hostility. Just the same tone he gave when the cub tugged his tail.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You slide your hands beneath the cub carefully, lifting it just enough to settle against your crossed legs. It’s warm—warmer than you expected but beastfolk are supposed to run at higher temperatures. Solid too. Real in a way that still feels unsettling if you think about it too long.

It doesn’t fuss.

Instead, it studies you with those catty pupils and presses its nose to your stomach.

Its gaze flicks from your face to Leona, then back again, as if cross-referencing something. Tiny fingers then curl into the fabric of your shirt with a content smile.

Leona watches the whole exchange with quiet scrutiny. You'd be able to fully appreciate the view if he wasn't burning holes in your side.

“Huh,” he grunts after a moment.

You instinctively feel defensive, “What?”

“It doesn’t usually go for people.”

There's a judgement hanging in his tone that you're wary of, but it's Leona so you taper back that insecurity.

You raise a brow before patting the baby's back. “Maybe I’m special.”

“Maybe it’s got decent instincts," he shrugs, turning on his side in full and settling his weight on one arm.

There’s no bite to the comment. No elaboration either, and maybe you're just as bad as him, because you want to know. Unlike whatever silent communication he shares with this cub, your pride won't accept less than words.

His gaze sharpens overhead, trying to pull your attention, but then softens by a fraction.

“Lion cubs are good judges of character,” he says casually.

You huff, as if you didn’t already know. “Oh? Is that what this is?”

He rolls his eyes. “If it didn’t like you, it’d let you know.”

The cub shifts again, tiny claws catching briefly before relaxing. It leans into your hand when you brush your thumb gently over its cheek. Earning a small, pleased sound. A purr more in vibration against your fingers than in volume.

Leona exhales through his nose, something almost amused there.

“Pack mentality,” he says after a beat. “If it decides you’re safe, that’s that.”

“Decides based on what?”

Another lazy flick of his tail. “Based on me.”

It's the same as a child watching their parent eat something unfamiliar before giving it a try. The analogy is strange even as you think of it, but not untrue.

Your chest warms at that, though you try not to show it.

The cub’s tail gives a faint wiggle, mirroring the larger one overhead. It glances back at Leona again, just to check.

He meets its eyes and juts his chin in your direction.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “They’re fine.”

That seems to settle it. The cub relaxes fully against you, attention drifting back to the waterfall. Mist beads faintly along its lashes. You pull stray, damp hairs from its face and sleek them back. The moisture in the air holding them without a tie.

You glance over at him. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Leona smirks, and his tail arcs over your head now. You're tempted tug it down.

“Doing what.” It's not even a question.

“Showing off.”

His lips curve faintly, sharp to show a hint of fang and subtle. “If I wanted to show off, you’d know.”

Still, he shifts slightly closer to you—not enough to crowd, just enough that the space feels… intentional. Protective. His arm stretches out behind you, resting on the rock like an unspoken boundary. Not touching but if you leaned back enough of your own accord, there'd be a happy accident.

You look back at the falls. The cub watches the water with quiet fascination, utterly at ease between you.

“You didn’t have to take this so seriously,” you say softly.

Leona hums.

“Wasn’t about serious.” His voice dips lower, quieter beneath the rush of water. “I’m not leaving something that looks like me to fend for itself. Fake or not.”

You glance down at the cub—at the familiar green eyes, the sandy hair, the faint shadow of future strength in its tiny frame. Even if it shared no resemblance, you doubt he'd do this any differently.

Trein was right in that Leona would've never willingly took the assignment. Yet he was wrong thinking that Leona is irresponsible.

“Could’ve dumped it on Ruggie,” you tease, moving to pinch the cub's cheek. It nips your finger in retaliation but is clearly in playful spirits.

He scoffs to smother a laugh. “Trust a hyena with a lion cub? You’ve got to get better jokes.”

The cub startles slightly at the change in tone. Instantly—before it can escalate and squirm from you—Leona’s hand comes down, heavy and warm, resting over its small back where it sits .

It calms immediately.

You feel it through your palms, the way its breathing evens out beneath his touch. A moment later and it's off in dream town with dancing sheep fluttering overhead.

Leona doesn’t even look at it.

Just picks his book back up, but only to use the pages as a blindfold to block out the sun.

“You’re protective,” you murmur.

He waits. “I’m practical.”

“Right," you smile.

The three of you sit like that until the sun dims. Water roaring. Mist cooling your skin. His tail continuing its lazy rhythm above you both. The cub eventually awakens and abandons watching the falls in favor of reaching for your fingers, babbling softly in curiosity rather than fussing.

When it leans too far toward the edge of your lap, Leona shifts again—subtle but immediate—closing the gap with his body so there’s no chance of slipping toward the water.

A living barricade.

You glance at him.

He’s pretending not to watch.

But he is.

Always.

“You know,” you test his patience, “for someone who hates this assignment, you’re making it look easy.”

He closes his book with a quiet snap and finally turns his head fully toward you. In the brief second between when its in his hands before being thrown off with more force than needed, you catch the title.

Emerald eyes meet yours—steady, unreadable, but not cold. Daring you to comment that he seemingly dug Trein's manual out of the trash.

“It is easy,” he diverts. “When you don’t panic.”

The cub makes a small noise, patting at your sleeve again. You laugh softly, indulging it.

Leona studies the two of you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts—not softer, exactly. Just… settled, and you think it means that your time in their company is well past its expiration. Somehow a thirty minute check-in turned into three hours and missed dinner.

So you go to exchange the warm cub for cold savannah air, and while it doesn't protest, a tail does catch your wrist. Just not the one you expected.

“Stay,” Leona says after a beat, like it’s an afterthought. “Kid's quieter when you’re here.”

You pretend not to hear the honesty buried in that, but don't move other than to pull your phone from your back pocket. The cub eyes it with brief interest while you swipe through contacts, looking for that familiar card to cash in a favor or two.

“Only because I don’t yell at you like Ruggie does.”

“That’s debatable.”

But he shifts again, making more room on the rock without ever explicitly inviting you closer.

The cub squirms, then settles between you both, half in your lap and half against his side—perfectly relaxed.

And for the first time all week, Leona looks almost… at ease.

Ruggie's first impression of this kid is that it is scrappy. He snorts when Trein passes it over, pushing out a low whistle through his two front teeth and their meeting is just a mutual understanding that shit's about to get real right. He doesn't say hello or coo some sweet greeting to show the kid it's in good hands.

"Seriously? It made ya scrawny too?" <- Trein is not impressed. It's obvious that Ruggie didn't so much as glance at the issued handbook. Why should he? It's not like he hasn't taken care of a brat or six in his day.

What he does readily accept is all the caretaking materials. Bassinette, blankets, formula, diapers, clothes - shit, this kid's starting out better than most back home and it isn't even real. Back in his village, they used reusable cloth diapers and these fake pups are about to waste weeks worth of disposable goods. For what, an assignment? The thought makes him a bit miffed and he makes a mental note to ask Trein at the end of the semester if there are any leftover materials the school doesn't want anymore. He'll happily take it back home.

Ruggie isn't intimidated by this assignment in the slightest . I might be one of the easiest A's he's ever gotten on campus - and there's nothing customers in a restaurant love more than seeing a 'single father' busting his tail to support his kid. This project is about to make him big bucks in tips at his part time jobs.

He's had two ankle biters on his feet and a drooling sasquatch slung on his back while helping Gran clean the streets from litter. Does Trein think he'll break a sweat caring for one baby in a school packed with distractions and resources? He's raised kids for way longer than a week, knows how to stretch what he was provided, knows how to check if it's breathing, knows how to make do - this isn't knew.

What is new? Having enough.

Back in his dorm room on the first night - while he's counting his madols and doing a few coin tricks to draw the infant's eye - all Ruggie can think of is how he has enough.

How this isn't the 'realistic' experience everyone's raving about. It isn't what his Gran went through raising him, not what folks back home do, and the whole thing is just as fake as those downturned honey brown eyes that are full of energy for something so small.

Ruggie's 'doll' is the most realistic thing of the project, and he hates that too. Kid's tiny by miles compared to the others. The doll shrunk half a size in the enchantment. A thin little frame, cheeks that are soft but not plump. When it goes to yawn, two baby fangs snag on its lower lip. They're too big for its mouth but hungry all the same. The same goes for its ears - large satellites that circle round at the slightest noise.

What's on the mark though is that scraggly mop of chocolate brown hair on its head. No one guessed that Ruggie used to be a brunette, not even other beastfolk. Hyenas were segregated so it wasn't common knowledge that their coats change as they age.

This spell got it on the mark though. Even with that stump over its ass, a poor excuse for a tail that the kid will never get the chance to grow into.

As much as Ruggie can't stand the assignment - he cant bring himself to be distant from his 'doll'. Not just because of the grade...it's pride, and he isn't known to have much of it. Ruggie won't pretend he's perfect but you'd have to be a real asshole to look a baby in the eye and leave it to fend for itself.

Curse every thing - because as he's jokingly prodding the kid's sharp fangs - all he sees his himself. He sees a little thing that doesn't realize how shit the world is, and it's looking at him like how he looked at his dad. So for the week, he'll joke around and treat this kid like he does the ones back home. It's temporary but the doll doesn't know that.

Moving on - Ruggie's efficient. Formula's measured precisely - no waste, but if the kid's stomach so much as growls then he's prepping more. Diaper duty is a world-record pace. He even takes over for some of his more squeamish classmates - for a fee. If Trein wasn't such a hardass, he'd probably try to run a daycare for the other groups and make a quick madol. But noooo. It's 'cheating' and Trein will burn his tail off if he tries -

A bit paranoid about temperature despite NRC being controlled. He keeps the kid in a swaddle over his stomach the whole day, using his bandanna to block the light if it wants to nap.

Basically - even though the baby doesn't need this type of devout attention, he treats every moment like it matters. To Ruggie, it does. He learned early on that crying doesn't always mean someone can help. Taught it to his youngers. Since this is temporary, he allows himself to dote a bit. Do what he wishes he could do back home.

He's real good at improvising entertainment. Whistling a tune to get himself a laugh, passing it frozen rags to chew on, playing airplane while going between classes, etc.

He does struggle when moving isn't an option. If the kid's asleep on him or burps up its lunch when he needs to be on the go? He's itching, feeling unproductive, and then rammed with guilt if those tiny hands cling to his vest. He forgets that kids are clingy once they find somewhere safe. Leona has to have him bench-warm during spell drive for the week and he takes the win.

On the first night, it was whimpering in the bassinet until he pulled it next to the bed. He gripes about spoiling it but knows what it's like to wake up alone.

In the end? Ruggie has a solid B+. He lost the A for not following the handbook and giving in to the kid's desires too much. Also for interfering with other students projects and trying (key word. trying) to set up that daycare.

He's not sentimental when his scrappy little thing turns back into what it always was - metal and a dream. All the good things in his life are temporary. He rolls his shoulder like nothing happened, and chalks 'Scrappy' up as a job well done.

You should’ve known better than to look for Ruggie in Savanaclaw.

Or in class.

Or anywhere remotely convenient. Not with the way he's somehow everywhere across campus all at once. Are we certain that his UM and Cater's aren't switched?

It takes three wrong turns, one confused first-year, and a pointed “Try the Lounge” from Sam before you finally spot him weaving through the tables at the Mostro Lounge with a tray balanced on one hand and—

Ah.

Of course.

Of course he brought the baby to work.

The bassinet is nowhere in sight. Instead, the infant is secured to his chest in a snug wrap, little hyena ears poking out from the fabric, wide honey-brown eyes taking in the glittering lounge lights like it’s front row at a stage show. Customers 'ooh' and 'ahh' - their attention magnetic to the little employee who's name isn't on the payroll but is surely bringing in big bucks for Mostro's head honcho. Azul probably saw nothing but dollar bill signs strapped to Ruggie's shift tag tonight.

You bid said merman a brief introduction at the entrance and make waves past a beaming Floyd that was moments away from stealing your time. You sadly didn't have an evening to spare for tricks and the occasional bite. It's a good thing he's on kitchen duty so you can escape to the main floor.

Ruggie doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does but is stuck mid-performance.

“Two sea-salt caramel teas, one grilled octo-dog—careful, it’s hot—and if ya need a refill, just give me a wave, yeah?”

He spins on his heel, nearly checking your side and on instinct cover's the baby's head with his palm. A bitten 'watch it' is on his tongue but is wrestled down since he's on shift. Practiced grin already in the making.

“Well if it isn’t NRC’s most dedicated single father.” You snicker over his shoulder.

And just like that, he startles. Two sets of identical rounded ears swivel your way and his bite is back. Ruggie grins wide enough to show fang.

“Oi! Prefect!” His pitch climbs. “You stalking me now?”

“Hardly," you deny flatly, "I just had to follow the trail of unpaid labor.”

Ruggie spares a moment to fake offense, but tugs you to the side as other waiters make quick footwork towards their tables. A bit guilty for possibly getting them with Azul, you follow along without a fuss. It helps with adorable, quizzical little eyes watching your every step.

“Hey!” He feigns a scoff. “This is paid labor. Big difference.”

"Monetizing your a baby for extra shifts and tricking customers isn't that much better"

The baby shifts at the sound of your voice, head tilting slightly. Its gaze flicks between the two of you — curious, alert, not the least bit hostile as you were expecting from all the stories he's told you about hyena kids. This one is just… interested.

You lean closer and wiggle your fingers with a silent prayer for them not to be nipped off.

“Hi there, lil dude.” You poke its nose, smiling until your cheeks stretched.

Ruggie snorts. “Don’t encourage it.”

The baby’s eyes track your hand with intense focus. One small fist reaches out, grabbing at your sleeve with surprising strength.

You blink. “Wow. Strong grip.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruggie mutters. “Tiny little ankle-biter.”

But there’s pride tucked in the edges of his tone. The insult lingers fondly under his breath and is probably a more tame version of what he's thinking.

You glance at the tray still balanced on his palm and ask a question you already know the answer to. “How long’s left on your shift?”

“‘Bout an hour.” He shifts the tray to his other hand and rolls the shoulder with the baby's sling. A little head bounces up and down with it. “Why?”

You cross your arms. “I’m here for your check-in, genius. But I’m not chasing you around the Lounge for sixty minutes.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “You offering to clock in?”

As much as you'd love to be Azul's unpaid slave for the next hour, that fortune can remain with his debtors. An animated wave towards the knot aching his trapezes alludes to a much sweeter job.

“I’ll hold the baby.”

That gets his attention, even if it should've been obvious.

His teasing grin fades into something more assessing — not distrustful, just instinctively weighing options. Shifting his attention between you and Jade not-so-secretly looming over by the host's podium. The clock on this short break ticking.

The baby makes a soft chirping sound and tugs on his vest, loosening the top buttons which were already on a thread.

Ruggie sighs. “You sure? It’s not exactly light.”

“I’ve carried Grim,” you deadpan.

“Fair point.”

He crouches slightly, carefully loosening the wrap and transferring the baby into your arms with practiced ease. His hands linger a second longer than necessary, adjusting the fabric around its shoulders and hovering to make sure your confidence wasn't a ruse.

“Formula’s in the back fridge behind the bar,” he rattles off automatically. “Three scoops, level, warm water — not hot. It gulps too fast if it’s too warm.”

You arch a brow but listen tentatively. “Relax. I can follow instructions.”

“Wasn’t worried ‘bout that.” He smirks, and shoots you a wink.

But you notice he glances back once before heading toward the kitchen, just to jut his head towards an empty table in his section and adjust those messy buttons. You take the hint and park it where he needs you.

The baby settles against your chest easily. No fussing. No tension. Just wide-eyed curiosity that occasionally pulls when a stray customer waves while passing. It's taken to chewing on your lapels and considering this is better than it being fussy for an hour? You can wash the coat later.

Up close, you can really see the resemblance. Magic is truly fascinating and honestly a bit scary sometimes. It's the only thought you have while counting the freckles dotting its nose, tracing them like constellations just to hear it giggle. You've often imagined doing the same to the person it inherited them from, although Ruggie might not look this adorable or smiley about it.

There would be a close tie though.

This scraggly chocolate-brown hair. The oversized ears swiveling at every clink of glass. Those two tiny fangs peeking out when it yawns.

You tap one gently, unthinking. “Oh, you definitely got his bite.”

The baby grabs your finger and attempts to gum it immediately. Your mistake, really.

“Yep. Confirmed.”

For the next hour, you occupy that corner booth like an unofficial daycare station. Azul eyes you suspiciously when he sweeps the grounds before closing but says nothing — likely calculating whether it's worth it to toss you out of his domain this late. Maybe he isn't entirely heartless, because when those ears perk in his direction it's like he changed paths on instinct.

A rare kindness - or afraid of children. Likely the latter in all truths. Especially with one so fearless and ready to explore every nook and cranny.

When Ruggie darts past your table with plates stacked up to his chin, the baby’s head swivels so fast its ears nearly flap.

It tracks him until he disappears into the kitchen.

Then it waits.

Not anxious.

Just expectant.

When he re-emerges, its whole demeanor perks.

You notice that happens often over one measly hour, and file it away with other needless yet precious information.

By the time his shift ends, Ruggie collapses into the booth across from you with theatrical exhaustion.

“You owe me,” he declares, one eye open to fix you a look.

“I owe you? I just provided free childcare.”

He grins cheekily. “Yeah, but now I gotta buy you a soda to keep my reputation intact.”

“You have a reputation?”

“Hey.” He warns, "Don't slander a guy in front of his kid."

Disregarding that he's childless and underaged at that, you make the decision to let him have a victory just this once. Ruggie leans back into the booth with ease, melting into supple leather as that tentative coil that was puppeteering him across the lounge finally starts to wind down.

Glass clinks on the table as a poor busser sets two bubbling sodas in passing. The two gents exchange finger guns before you can say thanks. The lounge sobers as the kitchen staff roll out to clean and waiters turn in their checkbooks for the night. You feel sleepy under the ambiance of it all, pulling the baby close so it doesn't hit the table when you lean back.

Ruggie passes you a fizzy drink. His fingers lingering in you sight and curl for a wordless exchange. You pass the baby back to him and curl your hands around the cup instead. You sip the straw and it's your usual favorite.

The transfer is seamless. The doll taking to him easily, as if it was waiting for Ruggie to finally relax, one small hand fisting into his undone necktie.

Ruggie pretends not to notice. You do.

“Alright,” he says, stretching those pesky knots from his shoulders. “Report. How’d Scrappy behave?”

“Curious. Tried to eat my hand.”

“Sounds about right.”

You both laugh at that. Clearly Ruggie's been a pin cushion for those sharp fangs over and over. When he reaches for his own glass, his sleeve cuffs upwards just enough for a few healing dots to present themselves on his wrists. There are bandages on his index fingers and one on his left pinky too. You can only imagine how his days have carried out. An hour has offered a glimpse, however.

You lean forward on your elbows, eager to share. “It watches you, you know.”

One gulp and he's downed half the glass, swirling it as ice clinks together.

“Yeah? So?” he sniffs. Brain freeze.

“So it’s obvious.”

He snorts. “Obvious what?”

“That you’re its favorite, duh.”

Another long sip and the glass is now left one-third full. You're not sure if he's dehydrated or trying to deflect. That, or preparing to chew on ice chips.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a spell, Prefect.”

“Mm-hmm," his nose wrinkles when the straw squeaks empty. You smile into yours. "And yet every time you walked by, it tracked you like you were the main event.”

He shrugs, but his fingers absentmindedly adjust the baby’s swaddle. You wait a beat and watch as he digs into the glass for ice cubes. The lounge was fancy, having sticks and chips instead of basic crushed.

Ruggie pops one stick in his mouth and it crunches, you expect a second to follow but he brings it to the baby's mouth. The little kid is happy to suck on the ice and seems almost relieved to lodge its fangs against something.

“Good on their gums. If I'm holding it, he won't choke. Quit worryin' so much."

You want to argue that you haven't said anything yet - that Ruggie's the one worrying.

Instead, you chew on the tip of your straw and study them both. You already filled out the observation sheet Trein supplied earlier, but what Ruggie doesn't know won't hurt him.

Side by side. Same shade of honey eyes, same sharp fangs, same mischievous tilt to their head when it glances up at him. Ruggie's nose crinkles with a childe for it to slow down, and you want to trace patterns over his freckles.

“You two look ridiculously alike,” you say, straw still stuck between your teeth.

“Oi.”

He's not appreciative of your analysis, but you'll make him come around. “I’m serious. It’s like someone hit copy and paste.”

Ruggie dismisses you quickly, although there’s visible heat creeping up his neck. It dusts a roguish backdrop for those constellations on his cheeks. He pops another ice stick in his mouth. It'll take more than one to cool him off though.

“Spell got lucky, that’s all.” He pouts.

The baby reaches up and grabs his chin. You have to admit that the grip on this one is strong for something so tiny - and hyena beastfolk are considered weak?

Did the NRC library even have books detailing the differences between species? It sounds like something everyone here just knows. Except you.

Ruggie startles and rips that thought spiral from it's roots. The baby's begun tugging at his nape hairs, climbing from his arms to cling against his shoulders. Laughter bubbles up with your soda and Ruggie does not look impressed with you. Not one bit.

“Hey— don’t yank.”

He tries to ease it off before some hairs come loose, but also doesn’t forcefully pry the hand away.

You watch the interaction carefully, because once again, you realize how different this is compared to the stories you've pulled from Ruggie on a good day. The baby isn't afraid when Ruggie bears his fangs back or pretends to nibble at its arm in retaliation. It doesn't look reluctant to cry or tug at him.

It’s not being raised to distrust the world, like Ruggie learned and how he said every kid should. He's so warm with it, gentle and you realize that this must be what utopia would look like for Ruggie if he was this kid.

The thought is as touching as it burns the back of your eyelids.

You blink quickly before gesturing toward the bottle station behind the bar counter. “Hungry?”

If Ruggie notices you were staring, or that your soda's gone flat and to waste - he doesn't say it. He pushes a finger into the baby's palm, gently but effectively freeing his hair from risk.

Ruggie jostles the swaddle when it whines, then nods. “Yeah. It’s about time anyway.”

You both quietly head to the end counter. Jade's finished wiping it down and warns Ruggie to clean up once he's finished. On his way past, he checks your shoulder with a promise that Floyd would be looking to hang out the next day. Considering he was too 'busy' in the kitchen tonight to give you a 'proper' greeting.

No amount of assurances that you don't mind will dissuade your excitable friend. All you can do is accept your fate, and once you reluctantly do, Jade is gone. That impish twinkle too before you can smack it off his face.

Ruggie's a man on a mission and you were the perfect distraction - it seems.

He measures the formula powder with practiced precision, leveling each scoop with a quick tap.

“No waste,” he mutters, flicking his eyes to you to make sure you're watching him.

Your hip bumps the lower drawer as you lean in “Of course not.”

While you don't laugh, he mistakes this awed attention for amusement.

“You laugh, but this stuff back home?” He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t last a day.”

Correcting him feels pointless when he's already back to snickering alone, plucking a bottle from a bag hidden below and handing it to you. Once it's rinsed clean he takes it back with a half-uttered 'thanks'.

The baby seems to know this pattern by now. Its eyes practically glimmer while watching him move. This actually does make you laugh, reaching to prod its cheek.

“You said kids in your village are raised communally, right?”

“Yeah.” He twists the bottle cap on. “Gran watched me. I watched the younger ones. Everyone watches everyone.”

“That sounds… nice.”

You mean it. Hopefully he senses the genuinely and doesn't mistake it for pandering. For a moment you're worried when Ruggie goes quiet, but then it's like he remembers who he's talking to and relaxes.

He shrugs his non-dominant shoulder. “It’s practical. Can’t afford not to.”

The baby squirms slightly, impatient. As if you both could make time go quicker if it tried to nip Ruggie's wrists. After the timer on his phone dings - when did he set that? - he tests the bottle on his wrist. Waists five more and then hands it over.

'Scrappy' as Ruggie called him earlier, latches on like his life depends on it. Which, to be fair, it does.

Ruggie watches with quiet intensity, making sure it doesn't eat too quick but also that it isn't left unsatisfied.

You nudge his calf with your foot, a shit-eating grin pushing the fat on your cheeks. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

Because credit is owed where it is due. Received happily too, if his ears flattening on his crown have anything to say.

He huffs, as if he's heard it twenty times over. Probably has from customers. “Told ya. Easiest B I’ll ever earn.”

Although you highly doubt any of them made Ruggie duck into his collar. That's a pleasure you hope is for VIP patrons. Ones who got to hold the baby instead of coo at it from a distance.

“You lost the A already, didn’t you?”

He grimaces. “Handbook technicalities.”

Someone apparently forgot that this isn't just a social visit, and that someone wasn't just you. Ruggie daggers a miffed glare at you from his spot. You know he's itching to see your report, but sadly that's all tucked away.

You grin, already aware. “Tried to run a daycare?”

“Allegedly," he corrects, "Trein has no proof! I'm being unfairly docked."

He's not wrong but the undertone confirmation is enough for your stomach to clench with hysterics. You wheeze and nearly pitch into his side, and 'Scrappy' stops to look between you both.

Then — unbelievably — it makes a small, pleased noise. Bottle forgotten.

Ruggie freezes.

“…You hear that?”

“Yeah.”

He looks down at it like it just sprouted wings. You don't understand why. The sound is adorable but it's been laughing all night. Yet Ruggie's moved by one little giggle and you want to know. You do.

“Huh.” He whispers to himself.

Then the baby resumes drinking, perfectly content.

You soften your tone, ask if he's tired, where he's planning to go, if he wants you to take off or help tidy up.

He doesn’t respond right away.

Instead, he adjusts the bottle slightly when it gulps too fast. Something hits your calve and Ruggie's foot is boxed between your two when you look down.

“It’s weird,” he admits finally. “All this controlled stuff. Perfect schedules. That ain’t real.”

When the bottle comes empty, he tugs it back to gauge Scrappy's reaction. He goes to burp it, another move that looks like muscle memory. You both give a small cheer to egg it on, and laugh once a belch hits the lounge walls. Another success.

It gives a satisfied little sigh and closes its eyes, and doesn't give Ruggie or the formula a second glance.

He sets the bottle down quietly, but doesn't say more.

Yet you understand. If it was back home, no kid would be full enough to willingly stop. Even if they were, they'd take more out of fear that there wouldn't be a next time.

You didn't think about how this assignment might impact the students beyond a bit of temporary stress. You didn't know, Trein maybe spared a thought but judged this worthwhile regardless.

And there isn't a promise or assurance you can give that will make what Ruggie's feeling any less cumbersome.

So you don't, and instead you set a hand on top of his with a silent promise to wrap those little bites before parting ways.

“No, it's not real” you agree, “But the way you care is.”

He clicks his tongue against his front teeth, except there’s no bite to it. Since you have no doubt that he's just as good to the real ones back home as he's been to a 'fake' that thankfully will never know anything beyond this one good week.

“You’re laying it on thick tonight, Prefect.” A weak laugh hisses past his teeth as he nudges your shoulder.

“Just making observations.. It's kind of my thing.”

The typical jazz that guides customers at ease flicks off, as do most of the lights aside from the low headers. All your points about Ruggie are proven when he tugs the spare keys from his pocket an twirls them on his finger. He's closing, so no - you're not locked in or about to be in a game of cat and mouse with the Leech twins.

Scrappy yawns, fangs snagging briefly on its lip. Ruggie gently frees it with his thumb, a gesture so careful that it contradicts every joke he's made tonight. The same when he steps out from behind you and waits, making sure you don't get stuck in the dark.

“You know,” you grab your back and meet at his hip, “if you ever did run that daycare, I’d invest.”

His eyes gleam. “Oh yeah? What’s your cut?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Forty.”

“Forty-five.”

He pretends to consider it.

“Deal.”

From the first moment Trein passes the 'doll' over - Jack is disturbed. The swaddle is small in his arms. Bigger than the others around the room, but wolf-beastmen tend to weigh heavier than the average child at birth.

Not that this 'thing' was born. Trein plucked a hair from Jack's tail before he could finish reviewing the assignments instructions over.

Jack was expecting an old toy with some baseline features.

Not this.

Warm - familiar 99.4 degree baseline for his kind - smelling faintly of milk and talcum powder. So distinctly alive with a tiny heartbeat to be felt against the palm on its back.

With thick ash-blond hair, soft to the touch and little pointed ears that flick up and assess its surroundings. Big amber eyes that hook Jack's breath, a strong grip that latches onto his finger and drags up memories of holding his little sister for the first time.

It looks healthy and aware. When Jack leaves the room, there's a stream of denials in his head.

'It's just a spell. Not real. I'm holding something that costs more than my house. Just a flashy toy.' - He can remind himself every morning, but Jack never fully believes it.

In the back of his mind, he can't view this as a project. All Jack sees is a dependent, something small that's counting on him for protection, and he can't fight whatever instinct weaves through his veins that this is too realistic to be fake. Jack knows he'll get hurt from it but he lets attachment happen.

Around half-way through the week though, he considers if passing is worth it.

Jack's absurdly gentle - taking the 'doll' everywhere and not once letting it from his sights. If any of his club-mates complain that he's checking the bench too often, he gives zero cares. It's not like he's the only member with one of these dolls interrupting their practice. He's just the only one responsible enough to check it.

Other students in his home-ec class learn to steer clear because Jack isn't above lecturing them if they're not as dedicated as he. Seven forbid if he catches one abandoned 'doll' on campus. He will march to Trein personally and toss his classmates under the bus.

Its blankets are kept fresh, a space in Jack's gym bag dedicated to its belongings. Jack follows the feeding schedule to a T, and compulsively checks over its needs after every class. Although he has a sixth-sense by the end of day three where he just knows if something's amiss.

For someone who holds a strict bedtime at 9:00 PM, Jack lets his routine slip by the second day with his grade as a weak excuse. The baby struggles to sleep alone and Jack lasts exactly two nights before its sharing his bed, close enough to cover in a second if there's an emergency. He sleeps lighter, waking up every two hours just to press its stomach and check if it's 'alive'.

Shockingly enough, Jack's 'doll' sleeps through each night with ease. Any sleep deprivation is that nagging paranoia's fault. Other students aren't so lucky...

Around day four, the 'doll' starts laughing when a vine of Jack's potted peperomia drops into its bassinet. He's quick to lift it out but the 'doll' bats happily with those tiny hands. Its small tuft - a pathetic excuse for a tail - wags as Jack starts to swing the vine like a pendulum.

Something in Jack's chest shifts permanently, and its screaming at him to drop the plant. Yet he can't, because the baby would cry and even if it doesn't really recognize who Jack is - he can't bring himself to do it.

The trial ends with an east A+, along with extra credit for helping his peers care for their 'dolls'. When the spell dismisses, gone is the little wolf Jack wrecked his routine for. The enchantment ends and the doll returns to its baseline state made up of metal and polyvinyl chloride. All materials go back to Trein and Jack is more than ready to go exercise without stopping between sets to check his 'homework'.

That night, however, he wakes up every other hour. Like clockwork. Just to pat an empty space and flip back over on the opposite side. He doesn't talk about the project much, not because he was inconvenienced, but because part of him wanted it to last.

The first thing you notice when you step into Savanaclaw isn’t the baby.

It’s how quiet it is.

Not empty. Not lazy.

Intentional.

The hallway outside Jack’s room usually carries the low hum of voices, the scrape of boots, the occasional bark of laughter from the upperclassmen. Tonight, it feels… softened. As if the dorm itself has adjusted its volume around something small and sleeping.

Your chest tightens before you even reach his door.

You don’t announce yourself. You’ve learned that you don’t have to. The door is cracked open, a strip of warm golden light cutting across the darker hall. You lift your hand and knock gently against the wood anyway—more habit than necessity—before pushing it open the rest of the way.

The room smells faintly of clean linen and damp soil.

Jack stands near the window, hoodie sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. The fading light of evening spills across his shoulders, catching in the pale strands of his hair and outlining the sharp line of his back when he stretches. There’s something grounding about the way he moves - with purpose yet unwound. Like seeds scattering in the wind.

He’s trimming a yellowing leaf from one of his potted plants. You can't recall its name, but remember he purchased it not too long ago in foothill town. You were there that day, stuck in line at a new sandwich shop Grim wanted to try. Jack took a detour to look for a new cactus while you waited for your order but came home with this one.

You pause just inside the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.

He rotates another pot a few inches so it catches the last of the sun, fingers brushing loose dirt from the rim. His touch is careful, almost doting for something that can't possibly know it's Jack minding its care.

This is a side of Jack that you'll never tire of watching.

And then you see the bassinet.

It’s positioned beside his bed, angled slightly toward the window but not too close to the draft. The blanket tucked around the edge is neat. Thoughtful. Inside, swaddled in pale fabric, a baby sleeps. Your view isn't fit for ogling at this angle, but only a blind person would miss those two big dorito-ears poking over the rim.

Not that you haven't looked your fill already. In your imagination, a sweet face with big amber eyes comes to mind. It met your watch once while tucked over Jack's shoulder, and you swore that it giggled because of you.

You’ve been watching Jack all week.

Not in a way that would embarrass him. Just…admiring. Wanting to catch those rare glimpses of someone not placing an act for a good grade. Not that you believed Jack would be dishonorable.

No. This was just a rare opportunity, and you wanted to selfishly hold onto it while you could.

The way he carries the baby tucked high against his chest between classes, one broad hand braced securely at its back. The way he automatically positions himself between it and any crowd. The way his golden eyes flick up at sudden noises before anyone else even registers them.

You didn’t come tonight to check on the baby.

You came because you’ve been worrying about him. About Jack.

He hasn’t acknowledged you yet.

Maybe he truly didn’t hear you.

Or maybe—because this is Jack—he did, and he’s giving you a second to look without making it a thing. Somewhere in your twisted little heart, there's a hope that he wants you to watch him.

He finishes with the plant, sets the shears down, and brushes his palms together. Only then does he glance over his shoulder.

“Oh. Prefect.”

His ears flick outward once—subtle, restrained.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

There’s no suspicion in his tone. Just a raw statement. Jack isn't one for lying. He simply isn't good at it. When his tail sways into a gentle rhythm, you made the decision not to call his bluff.

He heard, and he wanted you to see him. That random 'somewhere' in your heart is becoming easier to locate.

“You were busy,” you say softly and hang against the door pane.

A faint rustle interrupts the comfortable silence. It's so quiet that you think you imagined it, but Jack's head turns instantly towards the bassinet.

The baby hasn’t cried. Hasn’t whimpered. There’s no real sound -just the smallest tightening of its limbs, a slight shift beneath the swaddle. Like sheets being rubbed together.

Jack is already moving, and you're too curious to wait for a formal invite. The brick walls and warm hanging hearth are inviting enough.

Three long steps carry him across the room. Jack kneels beside the bassinet without hesitation, one knee pressing into the floor as he hovers over it. His brow furrows, not in panic but in assessment. He overlooks the child like a puzzle to be solved and you wait for an answer, heart thudding unexpectedly hard in your chest.

The swaddle looks fine to you. Snug. Even. Textbook approved.

Jack slides two fingers beneath the fabric near the baby’s shoulder and drops his alert demeanor.

“Too tight,” he murmurs under his breath.

You blink, ducking closer when his eyes send a swift reassurance with just a glance. If he minds you over his shoulder, Jack doesn't say.

He loosens the cloth just enough to give the baby room to flex, careful not to unravel the structure entirely. His movements are practiced, precise—like he’s already memorized the exact degree of tension it prefers.

The infant exhales in a soft little huff. Its tiny wolf ears twitch once. The tension leaves its limbs almost instantly, and that sound is gone. It no longer wants to leave its restraints so there's no need to tug the fabric.

"There you go. Not so bad," Jack mutters at a frequency you struggle to hear and yet bright golden eyes register with no trouble.

He catches your confusion and leans in, "Speak lower for now. Their ears are more sensitive than most."

You were already being quiet since it was sleeping, but Jack's warning has you reconsidering the decibel system. If there's any time for you to discover some telepathic abilities, let it be now so you don't bother this bundle of cuteness.

You both wait for it to settle, those sweet cheeks now covered in a bit of drool. Jack wipes it clear with the edge of its blanket and sighs.

You feel your throat tighten, lips locked with no words.

It didn’t cry. It didn’t even fully wake up. Not beyond a few blinks and a hint of trust.

“You didn’t wait for it to fuss,” you say quietly, leaning closer without thinking. Jack's ear twitches against your cheek but he doesn't ask you to move away. Be it so you can converse safely, or if he truly doesn't mind.

Jack shrugs minutely, but there’s no pride in it.

“It was starting to squirm,” he replies. “That’s what it does when it’s uncomfortable.”

You want to remind him that not everyone can pick up on such subtle shifts, but Jack's difficult to extend praise towards. Especially from you for some reason. Each compliment is met with mixed signals. A deep rouge over his cheeks but a sharp dismissal.

You kneel on the same side of the bassinet, peering down. Each time Jack shifts, his thigh bumps your waist. He doesn't apologize but steadies a hand when he forgets you're easy to knock over.

The baby’s cheeks are slightly flushed with warmth. Its little hands curl near its chin, claws no bigger than pinpricks. Its breathing evens out again like nothing ever happened.

“You caught that from across the room,” you murmur, trying again.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He smooths the blanket with the flat of his palm, adjusting it by instinct. His fingers linger there a second longer than necessary, hovering.

“It’s routine,” he says finally. “You notice patterns.”

Routine.

You almost laugh at that. Jack does love his regimens but the thing with babies is that they're as unpredictable as they come.

Routine doesn’t explain the way his body stays angled toward the bassinet even after the baby settles. Routine doesn’t explain how his shoulders remain braced, like he’s expecting something to happen at any second. The way his spine forms a quiet shield between the bassinet and the rest of the room.

The way one knee is still planted on the floor, even though it's been minutes and his schedule is waiting. Not that you're Jack's keeper, but you give attention to those with pieces of your heart. Any other week and he would be out running extra laps in the Magift stadium at this hour. Yet he's tending to his plants, which is a morning ritual.

“You’ve been doing more than just noticing patterns,” you keep it light.

His tail brushes your back - then stops abruptly. You take it as a sign to stand and perch on the edge of his work desk.

“I’ve been watching you all week, Jack.”

That gets him to look at you. Your heart picks up and berates your brain for admitting something so vulnerable. Although you've already dug the grave and he's not throwing you to the door.

Jack would never. You're still grateful. The subtle wide-eyed look isn't defensive. Just...cautious. Dare you think flustered.

“You walk on the outside of the hallways even though it's harder to cross through,” you continue anxiously. “You've checked out more books than Trein assigned. You haven’t slept through the night once.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Because he knows you’re right. The evidence is stacked right behind you if you turned around.

You swallow a thick seed of bravery, “You don’t even wait for it to cry. No one else is that mindful without a second thought.”

Most of your class isn't taking the assignment as seriously as they should. One reason you waited until the end to visit Jack was because you knew he'd be great. Not just because your attention called to him every time he was visible.

Call it a gut instinct.

Silence stretches between you, thick but not uncomfortable.

“You’re a natural,” you say with conviction. A large helping of pride mixed in from beginning to end.

The words leave your mouth before you can overthink them. Eeven if he was just going to brush it off like always, his ego deserved to know.

You wait for him to scoff. To flush and busy himself with his plants again. Then you could idle about, fill out Trein's form, discuss the weekly musings and bid both sweet wolves a good night.

Instead, something new flickers across his expression. That's never been there before.

His jaw tightens, that one neck vein bulging out. The same one that strained when he decided it was a good idea for you to sit on his back while he did push ups.

The baby shifts again, stretching one leg within the loosened swaddle. Jack’s hand hovers automatically over its tiny torso, not touching, just ready. Even though there's nothing in this room that could possibly harm it.

Like he’s anticipating a fall that hasn’t happened yet.

“A natural,” he repeats, quieter.

“At being a dad,” you clarify. Stupid. He knew that. Yet your tongue was growing heavier by the second.

And the room was growing smaller. It wasn't physically possible, but you swore he was drawing closer.

Or were you leaning in? Not sure why you wanted him to understand so much, but emotions are weird like that sometimes.

Jack rises slowly to his full height. He fills the space without trying. Solid, steady, grounded. But his ears angle back just slightly, betraying something fragile underneath. He takes a step back from the bassinet, and then another, and another - until his calves hit the edge of his bed and he sits.

“It’s just an assignment,” he says.

The words are strict. Meant for himself rather than you.

You’ve heard them before. Various tones across classmates. Worried. Bored. Joyful. By the second day they all conjoined to focused and part of a new norm everyone was sharing for a week.

But these sound rehearsed. Like they're just sitting at the back of Jack's mind and taunting him.

You kick off his desk, stopping just at the edge of his space. Knees almost touching, his head at level with your ribs. It's not often you get to be the taller one but now's not the time to tease.

You're close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that you’re sharing the quiet, saudade that Jack's been beating himself with since the start of this experience.

“Is that what it feels like?” you ask.

His gaze drops to the bassinet, and he deflates. Because Jack's an awful liar.

And he knows it, "No."

The baby’s chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths.

“It feels…” He exhales slowly through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. “It feels like something’s depending on me.”

He doesn't hate it. Not in the slightest, you realize.

Jack enjoys being dependable and trusted. The way he watches his mini is nothing short of devoted, but for someone who's structured around protecting what's worth keeping safe?

What about his own heart?

Ah.

“I can’t ignore that,” he continues, a few words missing but they're there in his clenched fists. “Even if it’s temporary.”

Your heart aches in a way you weren’t prepared for on the way here. You expected cute aggression and to embarrass yourself terribly with the image of Jack stuck in your brain for the rest of the day.

You got the second part, because this isn't a conversation you'll ever forget. Not today, tomorrow, next week, or even in the next decade.

He runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall back to his side on the mattress.

“It reacts to me,” he says, exasperated. “It sleeps better when I’m here. It quiets down when I talk.”

You think about every time you’ve seen him murmur something low and steady, voice rumbling under the cafeteria chatter until the baby settles.

“I keep having to remind myself it’s not real,” he admits. “That it disappears at the end of the week.”

Jack's golden eyes flick toward you, up and with a vulnerability you'd never seen before. Strong, callused hands hover in the air by your sides. He's looking for an answer that he knows you're unable to give.

“But my brain doesn't care about any of that," heavy hands settle over your hips and he leans in. Jack's forehead burns hot even through your uniform button-down, and he hides there.

Your hands settle, laced in his nape and offer the comfort you came here to give. Even if there weren't any words or answers to make the truth any blurred.

He must have known with that perceptiveness of his. You wouldn't stop by just for some paperwork. Not when you see him every day without trying.

Not to check the swaddle.

Not to admire how attentive he is.

You came because you knew this would cost him something more than a bad grade or a few sleepless nights.

“You’re allowed to care,” you say softly. He presses further into you as a response. Barely so, because you were still just friends but also something else now. His hands hold you securely, but he's holding back.

“I know.”

The way he says it sounds like he doesn’t know how to do anything else, because he's tried.

The baby makes a tiny puffing noise in its sleep. Jack’s dominant hand moves without conscious thought, brushing against the bassinet and tugging it towards the bed's edge. His cheek presses against your stomach, one eye opening to watch. He reaches forward to pull the baby's leg completely free.

It was a restless sleeper apparently. Blanket bindings be damned.

“You’re going to be okay when this ends?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s not real,” he repeats and draws his hand back to the rim. His grip is knuckle-white, a stark contrast in strength to the other which is still holding you.

But the words sound lighter now.

“Being a natural doesn’t mean it won’t hurt,” you say gently.

His gaze snaps to yours. Chin poking against your middle and eyes narrowed under hoods. It's hard to accept pain, you realize. A lesson in itself. Maybe Trein isn't so crazy with this assignment after all.

You don’t look away, and push his bangs back between his ears with your palm.

“It just means you’re doing it right.”

Something in him softens.

You see it happen. The white grip turn back to its normal chestnut color. Along with it is a look in his eye - the one he lingers with after a good practice or when he gets a call from home. Or on the first day of a new semester, where he comes back to campus and you give the key back to his room. All plants accounted and cared for.

His gaze returns to the baby, and for a moment the firmness drains away. What’s left is quiet devotion. Fierce and steady and heartbreakingly tender.

“I just don’t want it to feel alone,” he admits.

This was never about grades.It was never about proving he could handle responsibility.

It was about making sure something small and vulnerable never felt as it was. No matter its origins. It was about caring for something even though it had nothing to give in return and permanence nonexistent.

“It doesn’t,” you thumb the height of his cheek. “Not with you.”

He goes still under your touch.

Then, slowly, he nods. Overhead you catch the familiar, gentle sway of his tail as it glides back and forth over the comforter.