​From that day onwards, I saw Forrest every other day as he started visiting the center. At first, I thought that was very kind of him to visit and check up on the health of the fox cub.

​But I was a bit skeptical too. See, people who do care about animals come to our shelter and visit them often, but not every day. They do show up when their schedule permits, but Forrest made it his duty, as if we were to hurt that little guy. It didn't make any sense.

​See... he's a park ranger and had his patrolling and other responsibilities too, right? Then how did he manage to visit the center every day?

​Not only me, but my colleagues were also curious about why this handsome guy was showing up every day at the center.

He soon became the hot topic everyone talked about over breaks and after-shift gossip sessions.

And as always, I was the silent spectator of it. I don't really like to indulge in gossip, not that anyone invites me to gossip with them.

​It's the tics that make them annoyed with me. At first, they were really nice—all helpful and kind. But as you start to know people more, over time you understand that they are not always the way they showed at the very first meeting.

​Dude... I wish I remembered it till now. Then this wouldn't have happened at all. Another lesson added to my "need-to-learn" lesson list. At this rate, the list is never going to end, as new lessons keep piling up over another.

​I make so many mistakes that sometimes I wonder whether I should change my name to "Infinity Lessons Learned." 'Cause the way I'm learning lessons, this name seems to be more fitting than my original name.

​Well, now back to the topic. As one month passed with Forrest's regular visits, the ladies of the facility became too flirty and obvious about their intentions to woo this near six-foot-tall guy and bind him to themselves. But he, just like some hero from a suspense movie, dodged them with impolite stares and rejections to their invites.

His consistency was the only thing anyone could rely on. He would arrive exactly at 11:30 AM, spend ten minutes by the cub's enclosure—checking the temperature gauge, noting the vitals sheet, and maybe whispering a few words to the little guy—and then he would leave. No coffee, no small talk with anyone , just the fox.

​But one day, the routine broke.

​It was a Tuesday, and I was cleaning the main aviary after a messy feeding session.​Natalia and Fiona were at the reception, huddled together, trying to figure out which brand of expensive coffee they preferred and which one was better.

​Forrest arrived at his usual time, but instead of walking straight to the back, he paused.

​He was holding a brown paper bag, not the sleek, organized files he usually carried. He walked past the giggling women, who held their breaths, waiting for him to finally acknowledge their collective existence. He didn't. He walked right to the small table nearest the aviary, the one I always retreated to, and set the bag down.

He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the wall chart detailing medication schedules. But as he turned to leave, his long fingers pushed the bag a bit closer to my workspace, as if telling me to accept it.

​He gave the slightest, almost imperceptible eye-twitch tic and a barely visible but small smile, the one I now recognized from our staring match, and then he was gone.

I walked over, heart hammering in my chest—a ridiculous reaction to a paper bag. Inside, nestled beneath a simple, clean napkin, was a fresh croissant and a small thermos of black coffee.

It was a silent invitation, a gift delivered not with a romantic flourish, but with the same stoic, calculated delivery he gave his reports.

He hadn't asked if I wanted it; he just knew I was the only person who drank black coffee and the only person he could give it to without having to say a single word.

But I didn't understand when he had noticed it. 'Cause we never had any interactions with each other, not at least any direct ones.

But that day after he left the brown bag on the table. ​I stood there, staring at the brown paper bag and the silver thermos, my heart doing that frantic little drum solo it always reserves for unexpected human interactions. A ridiculous reaction to a croissant and coffee, yet here I was, paralyzed.

​It wasn't the gift itself; it was the silent knowledge behind it. He hadn't asked if I drank black coffee. He hadn't asked if I even liked croissants. He just knew.

How did he know? We never had any direct interactions. I never spoke to him, and he never spoke to me. The only time I even saw him was when he was either focused on the fox or standing across the room, watching the wall chart.

​It was like he had been running a silent observation on me, the same way I obsessively monitored the hydration levels of a dehydrated chipmunk.

He’d observed my rhythms, the 11:30 arrival, the black coffee I bought from the vending machine (the one that always tasted like burnt plastic), and the fact that I always retreated to this specific, quiet table near the aviary.

The thought made my skin prickle, but not just with anxiety. It was... curiosity. A forbidden, dangerous curiosity.

My colleagues, of course, noticed the bag. Natalia stopped her coffee gossip mid-sentence. Fiona squinted from behind the counter. The attention was a hot, uncomfortable spotlight.

I knew what they were thinking: The handsome ranger finally noticed one of us, and of course, it was the weird, silent girl.

​I quickly snatched the bag and the thermos, tucking them under my table like stolen goods.

That day, the coffee was smooth, hot, and perfect. The croissant was buttery and flaked perfectly. It was the best break I'd had in months, and it was tainted with the unsettling feeling of being studied.

​His actions remain a mystery to this day. Because of this heartwarming gesture, I too started to notice him, which seems like a ploy to me now.

I started watching him back. Not just his routine, but his details. I watched his heterochromic eyes—the green and the gray—as they scanned the room. I watched the stoic mask he wore when the fluorescent lights flickered.

He was a stone statue of efficiency. There was no crack, no subtle tremor. He was perfect.

​And that was the most unnerving thing of all.

He was coming back to a place where his every move was calculated and observed, and he was doing it to get to me, the girl who couldn't even speak to thank him.