---
The next morning began with screaming.
Not the dramatic kind—not yet—but the quiet, soul-breaking kind of scream that lives only inside a man's heart when he opens a door and finds a hybrid boy bathing in his tub. Again.
San stood frozen at the bathroom threshold, holding a towel, eyes twitching.
Hyme, submerged in an ocean of foam, blinked up at him with absolutely no shame. "Took you long enough. I've been waiting for someone to scrub my back."
"I'm not scrubbing anything," San said flatly.
"You said you'd take care of me."
"I meant like a guardian. Not a bathhouse attendant."
"Same thing," Hyme purred, stretching lazily and sending a splash of water over the edge. "Besides, I can't reach behind my shoulders. Look, I even dropped the soap dramatically."
"You can drop dead dramatically," San muttered, turning around and marching off.
But five minutes later, he was back.
With a mop.
And a glare.
"Stop flooding the floor. It's day two and you've already waterlogged my socks."
Hyme sighed like a queen wronged by the universe. "If you just joined me like a good nanny, you wouldn't be suffering."
"I'm not joining you. You're seventeen."
"Seventeen and six months."
"You're still a kid."
Hyme grinned. "Are you saying you would join me if I were older?"
San didn't even dignify that with a response. He just dropped the mop, turned, and left again.
Behind him, the bath bubbled with glee.
---
Later that afternoon, San began inspecting the apartment for security issues. Hyme's stalker from the mall hadn't shown up again, but San's instincts didn't like how quietly that ended.
The balcony had no locks. The security camera above the elevator didn't work. The spare keys were sitting on the kitchen counter like bait for a bad sitcom.
"This is a crime buffet," San muttered, pulling a toolkit from the cabinet. "We're going full lockdown."
"Aw, is this your way of saying you care?" Hyme asked, curled on the couch with a peach and absolutely not helping.
"I care about not getting stabbed in my sleep."
"Romantic."
"Get off the couch and help me block the windows."
"Can't. Too soft. My tail's having a moment."
"...Hyme."
"I'll give you moral support," the hybrid said, clapping once. "Go, doggy. Show the bad guys your scary biceps."
San deadpanned at him, but in the end, said nothing.
Some part of him—buried deep under years of broken routines and half-abandoned gyms—was slowly getting used to the chaos. It was exhausting, yes. But it also felt… weirdly alive.
---
That night, after a surprisingly peaceful dinner of ramen and catnip tea, Hyme climbed up to the top bunk of their shared bedroom (a demand he had made on day one: "I'm light, I deserve the view").
San lay below, staring at the ceiling, listening to the occasional thump of a tail hitting the mattress above.
"Hey," Hyme said after a while. "Are you scared?"
"Of what?"
"Getting dragged into whatever's following me."
San paused. "You don't seem scared."
"I don't show it." Hyme was quiet for a beat. "But I don't like it. Being watched. Followed. Like someone's always behind me. I hate that feeling."
San turned his head toward the wall. "We'll figure it out. I've handled worse."
"...Were you in the military or something?"
"No," San said. "But I've been broke, alone, and homeless. That's war enough."
There was another pause.
Then a soft voice: "San?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for staying."
San didn't reply. But up on the top bunk, a tail swayed contentedly in the dark.
---
The next morning, San woke up with Hyme curled next to him, snoring softly, despite having his own bunk just above.
He opened one eye and groaned. "You have no concept of personal space, do you?"
Hyme smiled in his sleep and kicked him gently.
---