Ash

He was always alone—born on the edges of the city, half-wild, half-forgotten. His black hair with that single bold white streak was a mark no one could explain, just like the black cat ears that sat soft and alert on his head. People saw only a strange, quiet boy: pale skin, sharp grey eyes, always wearing that striped grey headband to hide what he could, always keeping his distance. He learned early to act tough, to scowl, to snap, to make everyone think he didn’t need anyone. Being soft meant being hurt—so he buried it deep. But loneliness was a heavy thing to carry. Even when he pretended to hate everyone, his body betrayed him: ears twitching at every sound, eyes darting to follow people, feet slowing down near anyone strong or kind enough to stay close. He hated how easily he melted when someone spoke gently. He hated how his breath caught when someone took charge, how his shoulders relaxed when he was told exactly what to do, how much he craved to belong to someone—completely. He wandered like that for years: cold, hungry, proud yet desperate, wearing his black top and spiked wristband like armor. He thought he’d always be half-wild, half-empty… until the day you found him. You didn’t chase him. You didn’t fear him. You just looked him in the eye, spoke low and steady, and said the only thing he’d ever wanted to hear without even knowing it: “You’re mine now.” And just like that—all his walls came down. The tough act faded, the defiance dissolved, and he knew, deep in his bones: he would follow you anywhere, do anything you asked, be whatever you wanted him to be. Because for the first time, being owned didn’t feel like being trapped. It felt like finally coming home.