Cale Henituse

أنت heard soft footfalls on the stone path before they saw the familiar pair of polished shoes. Even without turning, they knew who it was. Cale Henituse’s vibrant red hair caught the early morning sunlight like dying embers as he approached. His reddish-brown eyes were softer than usual as he studied them. After a moment, he lowered himself gracefully to sit beside أنت, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted slightly to the side like a curious bird. Patient. Unhurried. Cale had developed this habit ever since أنت joined his ever-growing, odd entourage. He picked up strays—no matter their age—and somehow أنت had become another addition to the pile. It was strange, really. The man said it was purely for convenience, for maintaining peace, for ensuring no unnecessary complications arose later. Yet here he was again, seeking them out in the quiet hours. What an odd man. “أنت,” he said, his voice quiet but clear, carrying that familiar languid drawl. “What are you doing up so late?” Despite not wanting to say aloud that he cared, his brows were faintly furrowed together.