Nicholas had learned, a long time ago, that the hardest part of pretending to be human wasn't the hunger. It was everything else—the breathing, the blinking, the constant, unconscious movement people made as if stillness itself was unnatural.
They shifted their weight, stretched their fingers, rolled their shoulders, reacted to the smallest changes in their environment without ever thinking about it. Their bodies were never quiet. Never truly at rest. Always responding, always alive. He had studied those things, repeated them until they became something close to habit, even if they never fully settled into instinct. Every movement had to be intentional. Every reaction measured just enough to pass.
The town helped with that. It was smaller than the others he had stayed in, quieter during the day, almost forgettable in the way it existed. But at night, it softened. The lights dimmed into something easier, the streets filled just enough, and people moved without urgency, their voices lower, their presence less demanding. It was easier to exist there.
His apartment reflected that same intention. It's close to the university, tucked between a laundromat and a narrow alley that rarely caught direct light. It was simple and functional, just enough to look lived in. He kept it stocked, though not with anything he enjoyed.
Human food never quite registered, flavors flattening into something indistinct no matter how varied they were supposed to be. He had learned how to react, what to say, when to nod, but enjoyment remained something he imitated rather than felt. Chips were the closest exception, not for taste but for texture, the crispness and resistance giving him something real enough to notice.
Garlic, he avoided entirely. Not out of superstition, but because his body rejected it outright, burning and irritation settling in ways that made it inconvenient. The sun didn't destroy him either, despite what stories claimed, but it weakened him, dulled his senses, and left his skin flushed in a way that felt wrong, too red, too sharp, too noticeable. So he avoided it when he could.
By the time he stepped into the university's gym, the contrast was immediate. Sound layered over itself, shoes against polished wood, the hollow impact of the ball, voices overlapping in easy familiarity, and for a moment, it pressed in too much. But he didn't linger at the edges this time. He walked in like he belonged, because now, he did. A few players glanced his way, some nodding in recognition, others already calling out casually.
"Seventeen."
Nicholas turned slightly as Oliver jogged over, already energized. "You're early," Oliver said, stretching his arms overhead.
"I'm on time."
"That's early for most of us," Oliver laughed, then glanced toward the center. "Coach's about to start."
Nicholas adjusted the hem of his jersey, the number printed clean on both the front and back, a small but constant reminder of placement, of role, of belonging within something structured. Seventeen.
"Alright, bring it in!"
The call cut across the gym, and the team gathered quickly. Coach Raf stood at the front, steady and composed, his presence grounded in a way that didn't require volume to command attention.
"First day back," Coach said, gaze sweeping across the team. "We're not easing into anything. Most of you already earned your spot. That part's done." He paused, letting it settle. "What's not decided is who starts."
The shift was immediate.
"You want to play this season, you prove it here. Every drill, every scrimmage. I'm watching everything."
He stepped back slightly. "Warm up. Angelo."
The transition was seamless. Angelo stepped forward with an easy confidence, clapping once as he smiled at the group. "You heard him. No coasting," he said, tone light but clear. "If you mess up, fix it next play. If you're tired, play through it. Simple."
There was something effortless about him. Not forced, not performative, just natural. People responded without needing to be told. The team loosened, energy shifting just enough to make movement feel easy again. That was the difference, coach set the standard, Angelo made it livable.
Nicholas noticed that.
The drills began, and he fell into rhythm quickly, movements controlled, precise. He didn't need to hold back as much now, but he still did just enough to remain believable.
"Seventeen."
He turned, already knowing.
Angelo stood a few steps away, a ball resting easily in his hand, expression relaxed but observant. "You're holding back," he said, like it was obvious.
Nicholas met his gaze. "Am I?"
Angelo smiled slightly. "Yeah."
There was no accusation in it. Just certainty. He stepped closer, holding the ball out instead of tossing it. "Try again. Don't think too much."
Nicholas reached for it.
Their fingers brushed.
The contact was brief, almost nothing but it registered immediately. Warmth, sharp in its clarity. Nicholas stilled for half a second, his grip tightening before he corrected it.
Angelo caught it. "You good?"
"Yes."
A beat, then Angelo nodded. "Alright. Show me."
Nicholas stepped into position. This time, he let more of it through. The jump came higher, the motion cleaner, the strike sharper. The ball hit the floor before anyone could react, the sound echoing across the gym.
A whistle followed. A few voices reacted from the side.
Angelo walked toward him, shaking his head slightly with a quiet laugh.
"See?" he said. "That wasn't so hard."
Angelo was close. Close enough that the memory of warmth lingered beneath Nicholas's skin, just out of reach but impossible to ignore.
"Name?" Angelo asked.
"…Nicholas."
"Nicholas," Angelo repeated, like it mattered.
Then he smiled. "I'm Angelo. Captain."
"I know."
That earned him a quiet laugh.
"Good. Makes things easier."
Nicholas said nothing. Because nothing about this felt easy.
By the end of practice, the gym softened into something slower. Bodies rested, voices loosened, laughter came easier. Nicholas stood apart, still and observant, but not untouched by the shift around him.
His attention drifted more than it should have. Mostly toward Angelo. The way he moved between teammates, how easily he shifted from focused to relaxed, how naturally people followed him without question. It wasn't something Nicholas understood yet, but he found himself watching anyway.
Later, when he stepped outside, the night met him in a way that felt familiar again. Cooler. Quieter. The town settling into its slower rhythm, lights softening, movement less urgent. He walked without direction, observing more than moving, letting the environment pass through him without resistance. The milk tea shop sat a few streets away, already part of his routine. Inside, the air was cool, sweet with sugar and steeped tea.
"Wintermelon," he said when it was his turn. "Salty cream. Add pearls."
He stepped aside to wait. It didn't matter what he ordered. The flavors would blur the same, but the cold, the texture, those remained. When his drink was ready, he stepped outside and took a sip, registering the chill first, then the faint sweetness, and finally the pearls—soft, chewy, resistant enough to ground the experience in something real.
He walked home after, the night unchanged, the same quiet rhythm surrounding him.
But something had shifted.
Not in the city.
In him.
And this time—
he knew exactly where it started.