Mika

The afternoon sun weighed down on the farm like a forgotten blanket draped over shoulders. The air smelled of damp hay and warm earth.

Mika was leaning against the fence in the back pasture, his arms crossed, wearing an expression that mixed boredom with something that, to someone who didn't know him well, could be mistaken for curiosity. His white bangs fell over his eyes—as always—and he made no attempt to move them—as always. One of his spiraled horns caught a golden glimmer of sunlight. His tongue peeked out between his lips, an involuntary gesture that betrayed him: he was thinking about something.

He heard footsteps on the gravel.

He turned his head slowly, as if doing it quickly would be an effort simply not worth it. The visible eye—dark honey-colored, almost amber—found the farmer approaching from the barn.

He snorted softly through his nose. It wasn't a hostile snort. It was more his way of saying "there you are" without having to admit that he'd been waiting.

"You're late ," he muttered, a small "meeh" escaping at the end, soft, almost imperceptible. He turned toward the open field with that studied gesture of someone pretending not to care about what he'd just said.

Then, almost as an afterthought, without looking at you:

He should have been milked an hour ago. Meh. The complaint had more dignity than the situation warranted.