​I successfully tucked the evidence—the warm thermos and the buttery croissant—beneath the table, but I couldn't hide the residual flush on my face. The spotlight was still on me, though Forrest himself was long gone.

I tried to focus on wiping down the aviary floor, but the silence from the reception desk was louder than my usual internal noise.

​Finally, Natalia cleared her throat. She didn't approach; she didn't have to.

​"So, Ms. Hayes," Natalia said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, "It looks like our mystery ranger decided to make a delivery. Very... thoughtful."

​Fiona didn't grunt this time. She leaned closer to Natalia, her eyes wide with undisguised curiosity, and took a loud sip from her oversized porcelain mug, which I knew was filled with her current favorite herbal tea.

Fiona lived for a good story, and this was finally giving her something to talk about.

​I kept my back to them, scrubbing the same spot with unnecessary force. I desperately searched for a word—any word—that my mouth would let me use. Thank you? It's just coffee? He's nice? Nothing came.

My throat was seized tight, the usual panic freezing the option to speak.

​My inability to respond only fueled the conversation. A sudden, sharp sniffing tic escaped me—an involuntary sound that felt too loud in the tense silence.

​"Oh, dear," Natalia sighed dramatically. "Still having those little issues, are we? Maybe he brought a remedy for your cold, Sylvie."

Fiona, however, cut across Natalia's barbed comment, her voice simply eager. "Oh, don't be like that, Nat! Maybe he saw her drinking that awful machine sludge! Forrest is a man who knows his coffee, I bet.

Sylvie, honey, what kind of pastry was it? Was it an almond one? Tell us! Did he say anything? Anything at all?"

​Her questions weren't mean; they were starved for detail. Fiona wasn't interested in making me feel bad; she was interested in the story of the handsome ranger and the silent girl.

​I risked a glance at them. Natalia's eyes were narrowed with a competitive, jealous glint. Fiona's eyes, however, were shining with pure, innocent gossip.

​I just shook my head once, sharply—a gesture I regretted immediately.

​"Well, isn't that just perfect?" Natalia huffed, crossing her arms. "The quiet one gets the prize."

​Fiona just sighed happily. "He's mysterious, Natalia. She's mysterious. It makes for a much better story! But really, Sylvie, if he does it again, you have to tell us. We can't let a mystery go unsolved. Now, if only I could figure out what kind of tea he drinks..."

​I didn't wait for them to continue. I abandoned the cleaning bucket, grabbed the thermos and bag, and retreated immediately to the isolation of the mammal wing. The croissant, once a gesture of warmth, was now tied up with the discomfort of being gossip fodder, but at least the judgment was now mostly contained to Natalia's pointed barbs. Fiona just wanted the tea.

The next day, my routine was broken. I couldn't just accept the gift and remain silent. The idea of him thinking I was rude, or worse, entitled, made my anxiety worse than any confrontation with Natalia.

​I had to acknowledge him, but speech was out of the question, especially now that the center felt like a pressure cooker.

​I devised a plan. It was clumsy, it was foolish, but it was the best I could manage.

​Before my shift, I baked. I made a batch of double-chocolate cookies—a comfort food that was easy to make and, crucially, easy to leave behind. I sealed two of them in a small, clear cellophane bag.

​When Forrest arrived at his usual 11:30 AM, I made sure I was nowhere near the front. I was in the operating room, pretending to count bandages, watching through the small, high window that overlooked the reception area.

​He walked in, exchanged a curt nod with Fiona, and headed straight to the fox cub's enclosure. He did his ten-minute ritual—vitals, observation, quiet words—his perfect, handsome profile turned away from the rest of the world.

​As he finished, instead of walking out the door, he stopped by my usual table again.

He didn't look at me, but I felt his awareness of my presence across the room. He was waiting.

​Taking a shaky breath, I gripped the cookie bag and walked out of the operating room. I kept my eyes on the floor, my shoulders hunched, and approached the table.

​He was standing there, his back to me, looking at the same medication chart he always did. I didn't dare get close enough to speak or even touch his arm.

​I simply put the cellophane bag of cookies on the table, exactly where he had placed the croissant, and immediately spun on my heel. I retreated to the nearest cleaning closet—not even a safe space, just a dark corner—before he could turn around.

​I waited, heart pounding, listening through the thin door. I didn't hear a thank you. I didn't hear a question.

​I heard the sound of a single chair scraping against the floor and the heavy, measured rhythm of his footsteps walking away.

A few seconds later, I heard the outer door swish open and then shut.

​When I finally crept out of the closet, the cookies were gone.