Chapter Text
You knew Cherryton Academy was big. You just didn’t expect it to make you feel so small.
The grand front gates of the school stretched open like jaws, dark and ornate. You’d stood there for a full five minutes before walking through—bracing yourself against the usual wave of smells, voices, stares. New school. New uniforms. New cafeteria codes you didn’t know. New students who would sniff you out like you were prey, puzzle piece, or problem.
And you were all three.
Cherryton’s student body was big on categories. Carnivore. Herbivore. Omnivore. And then there was you—Fennec Fox x Doe hybrid.
Small for a predator, fast for an herbivore. The result of a controversial pairing back in your hometown that had stirred hushed gossip and long stares your entire childhood.
You had your mother’s oversized fennec ears and sandy fur. Your father’s deep brown eyes and long, limber legs. You moved like prey but felt like something else entirely.
You didn’t quite belong anywhere. You never had.
And Cherryton, with all its ancient statues and looming walls, felt exactly like the kind of place where that would matter.
You tried to make yourself small as you navigated the halls—shoulders tight, head down, tail wrapped discreetly around your thigh. A group of lion boys laughed too loudly nearby. A pair of deer girls looked your way and whispered. You caught the phrase "carnivore eyes, herbivore hips," and kept walking.
Homeroom was a blur. Names you didn’t remember. Teachers who tried their best to be polite without staring. A wolf behind you who sniffed the air twice. You pulled your sleeves down and said nothing.
Lunch was worse.
You stood at the edge of the cafeteria with your tray, scanning for somewhere neutral to sit. There were the usual unspoken lines: carnivores clustered at the far tables, laughing with too-wide grins; herbivores stayed on the opposite side, talking with too-tight smiles.
And in the center? Nothing.
No-man’s-land.
You settled into a seat near the herbivore section, close enough that they wouldn’t feel uneasy, far enough that you wouldn’t be seen as encroaching. You’d learned over the years how to walk those lines. How to make yourself just tolerable enough. Just inoffensive enough.
You picked at your salad, ears twitching.
And then you felt it.
A stare.
You looked up.
Across the cafeteria, seated at the head of a table like some sort of monarch, was him.
Louis.
The name you’d heard before you even transferred. Top of the drama club. Cherryton’s pride. A red deer with a glare sharper than any fang.
He was beautiful in the cold, distant way that statues were. Composed. Elegant. A little terrifying.
And he was watching you.
Not in the way boys sometimes looked—sloppy, too-long, hungry.
His stare was quiet. Calculated. Like he was studying you. Measuring you.
You didn’t blink.
Neither did he.
Then, slowly, he turned back to his conversation with the other drama club students—tigers and wolves in tailored uniforms, all hanging on his every word like he was their pack leader.
Your heart thudded once in your chest. Then again.
You couldn’t taste your lunch anymore.
After lunch, you found a quiet bench outside and took a breath.
You weren’t the kind of person people noticed. Not like that.
Sure, your appearance stood out—there weren’t many hybrids at Cherryton, and certainly not ones from controversial pairings. But attention like that? The kind that narrowed in like a predator’s focus?
No one looked at you like that.
Except him.
Louis.
You didn't know what he saw. You weren’t pretty in the way his usual crowd was. You didn’t wear makeup. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t belong to a clique. And yet…
Something about the way he’d looked at you felt unsettling. Like you’d been peeled open, your entire hybrid identity pinned between antlers and dissected.
You hated that you liked it.
The next week, you heard about Drama Club auditions.
You didn’t plan on joining. You’d never been on stage. But you’d always liked stories. Scripts. Playing someone who wasn’t caught in a web of social biology. And the flyer—elegant font, hand-penned—stirred something in you.
You went to observe, not participate. Just to watch.
You didn’t expect Louis to notice.
But as soon as you slipped into the back of the theater, sitting quietly behind a curtain, his eyes found you again. Even from across the room. Even while directing a wolf and a rabbit through a tense scene. His voice didn’t waver, but his eyes stayed on you for a beat too long.
Then, later—when you thought you’d gotten away without being spoken to—his voice cut through the auditorium.
“You.”
You flinched. Looked up.
He was at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, legs long and powerful beneath his pristine uniform.
“You’ve been watching for thirty minutes. If you’re going to sit in, you might as well make yourself useful.”
You blinked. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
“You didn’t.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You just looked bored. Do you read stage directions?”
You swallowed. “I… I can try.”
He handed you a script without another word.
And just like that, you were in.
By the second week, you were staying after school three times a week with the Drama Club.
You weren’t acting, not yet. But you read. You marked scenes. You organized props. You fetched water. You learned lines by heart. You studied how Louis moved, how he gestured, how he stood when he was in character and how he stood when he wasn’t.
And sometimes—more than sometimes—you caught him watching you again.
Not always directly. Sometimes just a flick of his eyes in your direction when you handed him something. Sometimes a pause before he answered a question you asked.
And one night, after a particularly long rehearsal, he walked up to you while you were alone in the wings, coiling up the stage cords.
“You work like someone who doesn’t expect recognition,” he said.
You looked up at him, confused. “Is that… a bad thing?”
He tilted his head, the soft light catching in the fur at his throat. “No. But it makes me curious.”
You straightened slowly. “About what?”
His eyes didn’t move from yours. “About what you’d do if someone finally gave it to you.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say.
Luckily, he didn’t wait for an answer. He simply handed you a folded sheet of paper.
“Callbacks are Friday. I want you to read for a speaking role.”
You stared at it. “You’re serious?”
“I’m always serious,” he said.
Then he was gone.
You didn’t sleep much that night.
Not because of the script—but because of him. The way his voice dropped slightly when he spoke to you. The way his eyes lingered. The way he didn’t ask questions like others did—about what you were, what you ate, whether you leaned carnivore or herbivore.
Louis didn’t treat you like a hybrid.
He treated you like a puzzle.
And part of you—traitorous, dangerous, curious—wanted to be solved.