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Wenona woke before the sun, same as always.
The halls of HQ were still and silent, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of the city outside. It was the only time of day that belonged entirely to her, before the chaos of another morning set in.
She rolled out the stiffness in her shoulders as she stepped into the kitchen. The overhead light buzzed to life, casting long shadows against the counters. She tied her apron on with muscle memory, already reaching for ingredients.
The day’s menu had been planned out in her head the night before—no, long before that.
The pantry was half-stocked with whatever supplies they could afford that week—some fresh, some canned, some barely stretching as far as they needed. Yet Wenona knew how to make the best of what they had. She always did.
She set the eggs aside for the kids who could have them, pulling out the substitute for the one who couldn’t.
The one who couldn’t have dairy? His oatmeal got a bit of cinnamon and honey instead of butter.
The one who had a bad habit of skipping meals unless her plate looked colorful? A bit of extra fruit on the side—bright reds and deep blues to catch her eye.
The one who refused to eat unless their food had some kind of crunch? Toast, cut into triangles and just crisp enough to their liking.
The one struggling with a sore throat from a week prior? A drizzle of honey added into her tea.
She didn’t write any of it down. Didn’t need to.
She remembered it all.
Not because she had to.
But because someone should.
The organization saw her as pragmatic, efficient, all sharp edges and no room for sentimentality. They called her a businesswoman first and foremost—a leader, but not one with a particularly big heart.
She let them believe that.
It was easier that way.
But the kids?
The kids knew better.
They never said anything—never pointed out the way their plates were always just how they liked them. They never called attention to how she always knew when someone was coming down with a cold before they even sneezed.
They just knew.
The oatmeal was simmering when she heard footsteps behind her. Slow, soft, deliberate.
She didn’t turn.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
A beat of hesitation. Then—
“…Did you?”
She huffed out a quiet breath, barely a smirk, and pushed a plate toward him without looking.
Scrambled eggs, toast, a side of fruit.
His usual.
Ulysses sighed but didn’t argue, taking a seat. “You know, you’re technically not their mom.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’re technically not my problem, but here we are.”
He snorted, but there was no real bite to it.
They ate in companionable silence, the faint sounds of HQ slowly waking up around them.
She knew Ulysses saw it—how much she gave up, how she stretched herself thin in ways she’d never admit.
How the quiet anger seeped through when a child arrived with something missing.
A tail that had been docked to make them appear more “acceptable.”
A pair of clipped wings that would never grow back.
A teen with burns along their arms from a failed suppressant experiment.
A child with scars across their face from a muzzle strapped on impossibly tight.
She had learned to keep her face neutral, to handle each case with the same detached professionalism she was known for.
But Ulysses knew.
He always knew.
And he respected her enough not to push her about it.
“Go rest after this,” he murmured, voice softer now. “I can take over for a bit.”
She scoffed. “You’re still half-asleep.”
He gave a lazy shrug. “So are you.”
Before she could retort, more footsteps padded into the kitchen. Heavier, this time.
A teenager—one of the newer rescues—lingered in the doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of their too-thin hoodie.
“Hey,” they mumbled. “Got anything to eat?”
Wenona crossed her arms. “I always have something to eat.”
The teen hesitated, shifting awkwardly on their feet. She recognized it immediately—the instinct to not take up space. To pretend they weren’t hungry, just in case food wasn’t something they were supposed to have.
She softened.
“Sit down,” she said, already reaching for another plate. “You like eggs?”
They nodded cautiously.
She served up a portion, sliding it across the counter. No fanfare. No pity. Just a plate of food, warm and steady.
The teen stared at it for a moment before finally sitting down, posture still a little tense.
But they ate.
That was enough.
Before long, more kids trickled in, rubbing sleep from their eyes, yawning as they shuffled toward the scent of breakfast. Wenona worked seamlessly, keeping up with their requests, filling plates without missing a beat.
One of the younger ones, no older than seven and still half-asleep, reached up and tugged at her sleeve.
“Miss Wenona,” they mumbled, voice groggy. “Breakfast smells really good today.”
Wenona stilled.
She wasn’t sure why that was the thing to make her pause.
Not the sleepless nights.
Not the bureaucracy.
Not the underground negotiations, the constant tightrope walk of keeping this entire operation afloat.
Just a sleepy child, clutching the hem of her apron, telling her she’d done well.
Before she could react, another small weight barreled into her leg, hugging tight.
The older teen glanced up from their plate, smirking just slightly.
“You’ve got fans.”
She exhaled sharply—half amusement, half something else.
Slowly, she reached down, ruffling the younger one's hair, her touch firm but warm.
“…Eat well,” she murmured.
They beamed.
For just a moment—before the world demanded she harden herself again—she let herself smile back.
The quiet warmth in her chest stayed long after they all ran off to their seats.