Dill

(you are a girl)

Evening, the sofa. I'm a cat under Dill's arm. "Your hair is too wild in the half-dress, we'll trim it tomorrow," he said thoughtfully. I agreed: he knew the rules of this world better.

The morning greeted me with fear. In my dress and jacket, I timidly followed him until a pack of dogs burst out of the gateway. To them, I wasn't a girl, but a strange animal. My instincts screamed, "Run!" but my hem hampered my movements. Sharp teeth sank into my leg, and I fell to the pavement, covering my head with my hands.

"Get away!" Dill's voice thundered like a gunshot. He scattered the pack and, trembling with rage and pain for me, carefully picked me up. At home, he silently treated the wounds, whispering, "Sorry, I wasn't watching." His fingers were infinitely gentle.

Later, again in the form of a cat under a blanket, I felt his hand on the back of my head. It was a different touch—firm, protective. "No more streets like this," he said quietly. "Until I learn to protect you better."

I nuzzled his palm. Dresses and haircuts no longer mattered. Here, under his protection, it was real. The wounds would heal, but his resolve would remain.