The next day, I arrived at the center with a knot in my stomach. The cookie exchange had felt less like a bridge and more like an invisible tripwire. He’d accepted my offering. What did that mean for his next move?

​True to his perfect, unnerving consistency, Forrest Sterling arrived at 11:30 AM. He nodded to Fiona, who was already brewing a fresh pot of Earl Grey and humming about "interesting developments." He ignored Natalia, who was pointedly organizing files and pretending not to watch him.

​He went to the fox cub, as always. But today, his ritual felt different. Longer. He spent a full fifteen minutes, meticulously checking the cub's splint, whispering to it in a low, gentle rumble that was almost a purr.

I found myself drawn, against my will, to the doorway of the mammal wing, watching him. His heterochromic eyes, usually so stoic, held a warmth when he looked at the little creature that I hadn't seen before.

​When he finally straightened up, he didn't walk towards the exit. Instead, he walked directly towards me.

​My heart leaped into my throat, completely blocking the airway. My vision narrowed.

A rapid eye-blinking tic started, hard and fast, a frantic shutter over my panic. He was coming to me. This was a direct interaction. This was a nightmare.

​He stopped about three feet away, close enough for me to smell the faint scent of pine and something subtly earthy, like damp soil. His gaze was steady, not piercing, but calm. He held out his hand.

​In his palm rested a small, smooth, polished river stone. It was dark gray, almost black, with a single, thin vein of milky white quartz running through it. It was beautiful.

​I just stared at it, then at his face, then back at the stone. My mind screamed for words.

What is this? Thank you? It's lovely? But my mouth was a desert. My tongue felt too big, my throat too tight.

​He didn't move. He just held the stone, waiting. There was no impatience in his eyes, only that quiet, unnervingly patient observation.

​My tics flared. My shoulder jerked, then a quick, involuntary hiss escaped me, a sound I usually managed to suppress when someone was looking directly at me.

I felt the heat rise in my face, mortified. He would think I was a complete freak.

​But Forrest didn't flinch. His gaze remained steady. He didn't even acknowledge the tic. Instead, he slowly, gently, nudged his hand a fraction closer, offering the stone again.

​It wasn't a demand. It was a silent, unwavering invitation.

​My hand felt heavy, clumsy. Slowly, tremblingly, I reached out and took the stone. It was cool and smooth against my skin, surprisingly substantial. It fit perfectly in my palm.

​As my fingers brushed his, a spark, like static electricity, arced between us. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he withdrew it.

​He still didn't say anything. Instead, he gave that small, almost imperceptible eye-twitch that I now recognized as his equivalent of a nod.

Then, his eyes dropped briefly to the stone in my hand, as if confirming the exchange, and he turned and walked out.

​He left me standing there, clutching a simple stone, my heart thrumming with a mixture of fear, confusion, and a new, unsettling warmth. It was more than a thank you.

It was a message, delivered without a single word, inviting me into his silent world. And I had just accepted.