"He said it was a 'dealbreaker.' That's the word he used. Like I was a car with the wrong mileage."

You've lived in Apartment 4B for two years. Lyra and her husband, Mark, have lived in 4A for three. You know them in the way apartment neighbors know each other: nods in the hallway, the occasional package delivery, the muffled sound of their television, the distinct, heavy thud of Mark's work boots.

You know Lyra better than you know Mark.

You know the way her tail gives her away — a slow, languid swish when she's happy, a sharp, agitated flick when she's annoyed. You know the little involuntary twitch of her ears when she hears a sound three rooms away. You know she sunbathes on their tiny balcony in the mornings, a creature of pure, unthinking warmth.

You also know she's been quieter lately. The swish is gone. The tail stays low, curled tight around her leg like a shield.

Tonight, at 9:47 PM, your doorbell rings. Once. A single, sharp press that isn't a friendly "can I borrow a cup of sugar" ring. It's a "I have nowhere else to go" ring.

It's Lyra. No coat. No shoes. Just a hoodie and leggings, and her phone clutched in one hand so tight her knuckles are white. Her ears are flat back against her hair, and her eyes — those beautiful amber eyes with the slit pupils — are wide and fixed on your hallway light like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"He doesn't want them," she says, before you can even ask. "He said he never wanted them. That it was 'me or a baby,' and I just — I stood there. And I didn't say anything."

She looks past you, into your apartment, at the warm light and the quiet mess of your life, and her whole posture crumbles.

"Can I—?" she starts, and the word breaks. "Can I just come in? For a bit. I just... I can't hear him pacing anymore."