Raven Chapter 4 Frittatas and Feelings 35 #3
I follow as he makes his way out the side door, past the main gym.
His step falters only briefly upon seeing the kids gathering in the front for one of Anik's youth training sessions, a fresh slice of that earlier helplessness cutting across his face.
But the sight also seems to steel his resolve, and he quickly pushes through the door and out into the sunlight.
He stands there for a second, surveying the abandoned lot with a critical eye.
It's been in this state as long as I've been around—definitely in need of repairs.
The elderly woman who owns it, whose bookstore burned down years ago, can't afford to fix it up herself.
These clinics are the only reason she can keep the lot at all without selling it.
Though, I guess not many would buy an empty lot in the Human District anyway.
He pulls out his phone, fires off a text, and slips it away. He doesn't actively try to get anyone's attention; he simply steps forward. His presence alone—that calm, capable energy—draws the eyes of every volunteer and nurse.
I watch as the tension leaves his shoulders—a man settling into where he feels most himself: needed. I float up to the rusted fire escape to watch Dre in his element.
"Good morning, everyone!" he calls out, his voice warm. "Let's make our space feel welcoming, shall we? Triage area here, registration there—same flow as always. Let's focus on making every person who walks up feel seen and safe from the moment they arrive."
He spots a nurse struggling with a tent pole, gives her a quick smile, and moves to help. Once it's up, he pulls on his white coat like armor and dives in. None of this is an act. Or, at least, not a conscious one. It's just who he is.
I've watched a lot of people "help" over the years. Some do it for praise. Some do it to feel superior. Some do it because they think it'll make people owe them. There's always an angle. Always a transaction.
Not Dre. Even when he's helping because he thinks it's the only way he's worth something—and yeah, that's there, I see it— he's not trying to prove he's better than anyone. He's not keeping score. He's just... helping.
And as always, I'm mesmerized. This isn't just skill in the service of kindness. It's kindness without an agenda. And fuck if that isn't the hottest thing here.
It doesn't take long before a line forms. In this part of town—the Human District.
The Shallows. Whatever you want to call it—medical care is hard to come by and even harder to afford.
The city's ruling council, the High Magic Council, or HMC, barely allocates funds here.
They see it as a lost cause. A sink for resources that could go to the Spire or the Gilded Meadows.
Why waste good medicine on those with little to no magic to offer in return?
The thought makes me want to hurl. What crusty, mildew-encrusted bureaucrat decided healthcare should depend on magical utility? Had to be a demon, or just your average supe elitist—same difference.
And here's the thing they never seem to question: humans weren't on the planning committee for this city.
They weren't part of the blueprints, weren't factored into the zoning or the infrastructure or the carefully segregated districts.
That much is obvious from the way things are set up—the Shallows crammed against the border like an afterthought, the Divide acting as both a bridge and a wall.
And yet. Here they are. Alongside the supes who fell through the cracks too—the ones who started in the Lower Quarter, maybe even the Spire, and slipped.
Lost their status, their magic, their place.
Now they're here, shoulder to shoulder with humans, invisible to the same council that never bothered to learn their names.
You can't Google this city. Can't stumble on it during a road trip.
If you're human, you have to be let in—by a supernatural, for a reason.
Or you had to find it by accident, which statistically shouldn't happen.
Either way, something—fate, luck, the universe's sick sense of humor—decided they belong here.
And yet the ruling council treats them like stray cats they're stuck feeding.
Makes you wonder what the universe knows that they don't.
I’ll forever be grateful to Dre for insisting their company, Secured International, fund the permanent clinic a few blocks down the street.
Both his clinic and this gym sit right on The Divide.
It’s the perfect spot, right on the border between The Shallows and The Lower Quarter.
Right where desperation meets aspiration.
As I silently curse the entire supe power structure, I watch Dre move smoothly through the line.
He doesn't just ask for symptoms—he connects.
He listens intently, shares a kind joke to ease fear, makes weary faces light up with the genuine smile of someone who feels seen, not just processed for magical resale value.
Patient after patient comes to him, and I watch as he helps them all.
He's truly in his element, practically glowing.
So much so that the nurses practically trip over themselves trying to get a look at the gracious and outrageously attractive doctor.
His charming mask never slips, and he works tirelessly to help everyone he can.
But I know the turmoil is still churning underneath. The scene in Anik's office flashes through my mind again—he's still hurting, still measuring his worth solely by his ability to fix things for others.
"Dre, baby," I sigh. "When are you going to learn your worth isn't a transaction?"
A young mother is next, looking harried with a toddler on her hip. The child is wheezing—a thin, rasping sound I can just barely hear from my perch.
Dre's warm smile doesn't falter, but it shifts. The easy charm melts into something else—pure focus. He guides her to a chair, quick and sure, no wasted movement.
He calls for an inhaler from a volunteer, his tone leaving no room for error but also no room for panic. For a few minutes, he's not the charming doctor or the nice guy or whatever else everyone else sees. He's just... this. A protector. A fixer. Someone who knows exactly what to do and does it.
The kid's breathing eases. Dre's shoulders relax a fraction. He straightens up, gives the mother careful instructions, offers a reassuring smile. All the right things. All the expected things.
But I saw it. Underneath all that calm competence? A man who can't stand to fail.
I get it, I really do. Sometimes, in my worst moments, I feel like I'm worth nothing because I can't do anything. My purpose came without an instruction manual, and I'm just sitting here staring at the pieces, knowing I'm supposed to build something but having zero clue how.
While I'm searching desperately for a manual I can never seem to find, he's treating his like a sacred text he's memorized but can never perfectly enact.
We're both wrong, of course. He is more than his service. I am more than my usefulness. But knowing that and feeling it are two different battles.
The news crew shows up. Dre doesn’t preen. He just turns, already seeing them as a tool for more funding. The fact that he’s effortlessly gorgeous while doing it is just a bonus. A very hot bonus.
“Have fun ensuring the clinic’s future,” I murmur, giving him a little wave. “I’m going to go see if those kids have eaten my Ani-Bear alive yet.”
When I get into the gym, I see the grumpy panther is still in one piece, though he looks a little worse for wear as he tries to force some structure onto the little hooligans.
His usual bark is softened, though. The children under his care are all shifters from this area—or human kids who desperately need structure and a place to escape.
Shifter or human, all of them can probably feel the alpha dominance rolling off Anik in waves.
Hell, I swear I can feel it, and I don't even have a body.
Watching him now, I think about the shifters I've seen over the years. Some crave a pack—wolves, lions, hyenas, orcas. They build sprawling family compounds, generations stacked together, prestige measured in numbers. Others are fine flying solo or sticking to their immediate unit.
But Anik and his family have always been different.
They're the type to stick to their tight-knit unit.
So even though he has his chosen pack here, they're ultimately his brothers—not part of a sprawling dynasty.
Then again, I can't really say what's normal for panther shifters.
I've never actually seen any outside Anik's family.
Even his mother—I only know her from a computer screen; the last time she visited was before I glommed onto them.
As the bell sounds, signaling the end of class, I watch with a smile, the ever-present spectator to the weekly ritual.
Anik gives a single approving nod. "Session is over. Drills on footwork next week. Don't be late."
They all call out in the affirmative before turning and heading toward the cubby area. As Anik turns his back, a single giggle is the only warning he gets before the swarm begins.
A chorus of playful growls and shrieks of laughter ring out as a dozen kids—from lanky teenagers to a determined little girl who can't be more than eight—launch themselves at him in a coordinated but chaotic ambush.
For a minute or two, Anik stands as solid as a mountain, arms slightly out, feet planted, as bodies latch onto his arms, legs, and back.
A boy dangles from a thick bicep, kicking his feet in the air.
The little girl wraps herself around his ankle like a determined koala.
Not an inch is given, and his expression stays as stern as ever, though I've learned to look for the slight, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes.
"It's like a little doomed rebellion. Honestly, I admire their perseverance." I sigh, like a proud director.
Anik, trying not to crack a smile, says, "Is this all you have, cubs?"
The critique only renews their efforts. The giggling, grunting mass of limbs keeps trying to topple the giant, tugging and pulling with all their might.
Then the oldest boy—a wiry fox shifter with a clever glint in his eye—darts in and tickles Anik's side.
With a full-body twitch, his center of gravity shifts for a split second.
It's all the opening they need. With a triumphant roar, the entire pile of them drives him backward.
He hits the mat with a ground-shaking thud under a pile of victorious, cheering children.
"YES! That's how it's done!" I cheer as I bounce around like a toddler on a sugar high. "Look at that! Teamwork makes the dream work, you glorious little gremlins!"
From the bottom of the pile, a single hand emerges, giving a thumbs-up. The kids scramble off, high-fiving and boasting, as Anik lies on the mat for a dramatic second before pushing himself up.
He brushes off his sweats before nodding to the fox shifter. "Not bad," he concedes. The kids cheer before scrambling for their shoes and running to their parents, who are smiling as widely as I am from the lobby.
Once the kids have cleared out, he heads to the treadmill, where he'll run for exactly thirty minutes. I swear the man puts himself in a jail made out of scheduled seconds just to avoid a free minute or two. Every minute of his day is accounted for. I’d be complaining if I was the one in it but in this instance? Not a single complaint to be had.
The running means the shirt usually comes off, and you'll never catch me speaking negatively about that view.
As he winds down, I drift over to the windows and peek outside. Noticing the free clinic is packing up, I head back to Anik just in time to watch him stop the treadmill and grab his water bottle.
He drinks deeply before lifting his shirt to dab the sweat from his brow.
I hover closer as my eyes catch on a bead of sweat tracing its way down his delicious stomach. He lacks the definition the others have—carries his strength as pure, solid bulk—but it doesn't matter. Every part of him is a powerhouse regardless.
And my eyes definitely don’t trail down, trying to get a peek at the hint of an absolute anaconda hiding in his sweatpants.
One day, when I have a real body, I'm going to buy this man a pair of grey sweatpants. I get that black is his thing, but they just don't offer the same… architectural clarity. And I need that kind of eye candy in my life on a daily basis.
Until then, I'll have to make do with reference material. I commit every detail to memory—the way the sweat traced his stomach, the solid bulk of him, the mountain-in-motion grace. A trophy to be taken out and admired later. For science, obviously.
He moves away, and the spell breaks. The yearning sticks around, though. Which is honestly just rude.
I take one last look at the now-empty treadmill, then let the sounds of Dre's laughter outside draw me away. There are more memories to collect. More glimpses of the life that will one day be mine.