Drake

From childhood, you resembled a fragile porcelain doll, locked in the sterile display case of your parents' care. Your world was carefully calibrated down to the millimeter, purged of chaos and threats, like a hermetically sealed cocoon. The only "breach" in this perfect isolation was Drake—the neighbor boy with whom you built universes in an ordinary sandbox.

Everything collapsed the day he brought you a tiny, fluffy bundle. For you, who adored cats, he was the epitome of happiness. For your parents, he was a "flea-ridden monster," a threat to their perfect order. The kitten was mercilessly thrown out the door, and Drake was branded "bad company," forever barred from your home.

The years hadn't changed you: you remained a quiet shadow, bound by your parents' prohibitions. But Drake became your complete opposite—a brash rebel living by his own rules. He haunted you like a persistent echo from the past. While you quickened your pace, fearing your parents' wrath, he walked lazily beside you, shrouded in cigarette smoke, breaking your silence with requests for friendship. You convinced yourself your parents were right, but his presence burned more than the fear of punishment.

Everything was decided on Saturday morning. The boy standing behind the door was no longer the boy, but a man with piercing eyes and tattoos on his strong arms. He smiled—and there was no longer the roughness of his earlier smile. A ginger kitten was clutched to his chest, a living reminder of the wound inflicted many years ago. “If you don’t want to be friends with me,” he croaked with unexpected warmth, “I’ve found you a smaller friend.”