Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nick Wilde had never let anyone into his home. Ever.

It wasn’t because he was mysterious or private in an interesting way. It was because his apartment was his last line of defense, and letting someone in felt like a terrible life choice waiting to happen.

The place itself wasn’t much to look at. A basement apartment, technically. Low ceilings, questionable lighting, and a constant vibrating hum thanks to the elephant gym directly above him. Great pricing. Terrible neighbors.

He knew he was a bit of a hoarder—nothing alarming, nothing that would get him featured on a late-night reality show—but he did have a habit of keeping things. Boxes full of comic books that if anyone asked he absolutely did not own or love, thank you very much. Random objects from old cons he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw away. An electric guitar he barely played, a clown costume he refused to explain, and a couple of hula hoops that had once been part of a very profitable afternoon.

None of it was organized in a way anyone else would understand, but it worked for him. Mostly.

And maybe that was the point.

It didn’t need to be presentable. It didn’t need to make sense to anyone else. No one else ever saw it.

This was his den. The one place where he didn’t have to perform, lie, charm, or pretend to be better than he was. And because of that, no one had ever crossed the threshold of that apartment but him.

That distance felt necessary. Respectable. Safe.

Safe enough that nothing could get too close.

Which was also how he handled relationships.

Sure, he’d dated before. Casual stuff. Drinks, jokes, a few nights that ended exactly where he expected them to. Nothing serious. Nothing that required emotional honesty—or, worse, sharing personal space. He had standards.

And by standards, he meant walls.

Very solid walls.

Usually, even in his messiness, Nick liked to believe there was some kind of order to his life. Controlled chaos. Heavy emphasis on controlled.

Becoming a police officer, however, was completely wrecking that system. Foxes weren’t built for mornings, and adjusting to a strict nine-to-five schedule after years of waking up around noon felt less like a career change and more like a personal attack.

That was probably why there were dirty dishes piled in the sink, empty pizza boxes scattered across the floor, and the questionable remains of half-finished takeout containers he refused to investigate too closely.

Disgusting? Yes.

Was he aware of it? Also yes.

But he was adjusting.

Supposedly.

His alarm went off every morning like an insult. And every morning, he seriously considered throwing it across the room—right up until he remembered rent was due.

Three months past due, actually.

If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be fighting for his life every morning just to get to work on time, he would’ve laughed in their face. Honestly, he would have.

Why would he give up a profitable life of cons for a not-so-great salary—an objectively terrible salary, actually—and say a permanent goodbye to his beauty sleep?

Judy Hopps.

That’s why.

The same Judy Hopps he was currently delivering coffee to.

She was buried in paperwork at her desk, completely oblivious to his presence. Which, honestly, was impressive considering her supposedly acute sense of hearing.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing fast and aggressive, like the laptop personally owed her money. Her nose scrunched up a little—something she always did when she was fully focused.

Nick watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Cute.

Annoyingly cute.

Ever since they’d cracked the reptile case, there had been a lot of celebrating. Too much celebrating, if you asked him. And, of course, an even larger amount of paperwork.

Paperwork they were both now stuck doing.

Turns out being a hero came with a downside. Several, actually. Most of them involved forms.

He quietly placed the coffee cup on her desk, right in her line of sight.

“One carrot oat latte for Carrots,” he said casually, leaning an elbow on the desk. “Extra foam. Extra hot. Extra shot of espresso.”

Judy blinked. Once.

Then twice.

Her ears twitched, finally registering his presence, and she looked up at him like he’d just materialized out of thin air.

“Nick!”

He grinned.

“Morning to you too, Hopps. You know, for someone with super hearing, you’re shockingly easy to sneak up on when you’re drowning in bureaucracy.”

She eagerly took the cup and took a sip, her purple eyes widening instantly.

“Soooo good! You remembered my order,” she said, clearly impressed. “Thank you, that was really thoughtful.”

Something warm stirred in his chest at the praise. Annoying. Unnecessary.

He shrugged it off anyway, rolling his shoulders like it was no big deal.

“You know me,” he said lightly. “I live to please.”

He took a sip of his own coffee.

A triple caramel macchiato. Extra sweet. With four extra shots of espresso, enough sugar to concern a medical professional. And absolutely no shame.

Because if the world insisted on starting before sunrise, he was going to fight it fully caffeinated.

“How’s your statement going?” he asked, glancing at her screen.

She let out a small groan.

“It’s going. I’m trying to be as thorough as possible. If we really want the Linxley family to stay behind bars for a long time, we need to get this right.”

He placed a paw on her shoulder, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze.

“Hey. You’ve already done a lot, and everything’s going great,” he said easily. “According to the news, the mayor’s officially talking about letting reptiles back into the city. That’s kind of a big deal.”

He dropped into the chair at the desk beside hers, opened his laptop, and typed in his password: Carrotz_Lov3r.

Judy let her forehead fall onto the desk with another groan.

“Yeah, but this paperwork is killing me.”

He chuckled.

“Want me to do it for you?” he asked, half-joking—fully aware that if she actually said yes, he probably would.

“Nah, I’m almost done,” she said, though she sounded far from convinced.

He glanced at his own screen and sighed.

“That’s great to hear,” he replied dryly, “because I’m barely halfway through mine.”

They worked in silence for a while. 

It was the standard procedure after a big case like this. Statements had to be cross-checked. Evidence logged, labeled, and transferred to storage. Reports reviewed, revised, and reviewed again by at least three different departments.

Nick skimmed through his screen, scrolling past sections that all basically said the same thing in slightly different fonts.

After a while, he caught the familiar nervous tapping of Judy’s foot against the floor.

Without looking up from his screen, he smirked.

“Yes, Carrots?” he asked, eyes still glued to the report.

“You know what we need?” she said.

He finally glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.

“A raise?”

She blinked.

“…No.”

“More coffee?” he tried.

“Nick.”

“A parade? I feel like we earned at least a small parade. Balloons, confetti, maybe a statue. Nothing flashy.”

She sighed, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth.

“An incentive.”

He leaned back in his chair, considering that.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Now that’s dangerously vague.”

“Like a prize,” she said, staring at her screen thoughtfully. “For finishing the boring part of the job.”

Nick slowly leaned back in his chair.

“Ah. A reward system,” he said. “Very grown up. Very professional.”

He tapped his chin.

“So what are we thinking?” he said. “I bribe Buffalo butt into ceremonially placing a gold star on your forehead? Maybe a little speech. ‘Good job, Officer Hopps. You survived paperwork.’”

She didn’t even look at him.

“Nick.”

“Okay, okay,” he went on. “Plan B: I steal a tray of donuts from Clawhauser. The downside is, we’d have about ten minutes to eat them all before he realizes they’re missing.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No. I mean an incentive between us. Something we give each other.”

That made him pause.

“Do you want me to stick a star sticker on your forehead?”

She punched his arm. Hard.

“Ow,” he muttered. “Wow. Violence in the workplace. Bold choice.”

“No, Slick,” she said, exasperated. “I mean—what if we traded something we want?”

He blinked once.

Then smiled.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “You’re gonna have to explain that better, because I can think of a lot of things I could ask from you.”

And his mind immediately went there.

Places he firmly refused to acknowledge. Even to himself.

“Tell me something you want from me,” she said quickly, cutting him off as he opened his mouth. “Something doable.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting up as he thought it over.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “Alright. How about this: the next time I make a joke to Chief Bogo, you back me up.”

He paused, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

“And,” he added, “you deliver the punchline.”

Her eyes widened.

“I can’t make fun of my boss.”

Nick smiled, sharp and satisfied.

“You said something I want,” he replied smoothly. “And that’s what I want, darlin’.”

She rolled her eyes. Harder this time.

“Fine,” she said. “But nothing too compromising, nothing terribly bad, and please—no more of your ‘yo’ mama’ jokes.”

He placed a paw dramatically over his chest.

“Madam,” he said, wounded, “when have I ever told a bad joke?”

She looked at him, completely unamused.

“Fine,” Nick said. “I’ll come up with a tremendously good, intellectually challenging joke for you to make to our boss.”

She shrugged. “Deal.”

Then she straightened slightly in her chair and looked at him.

“Now,” she added, “here’s what I want.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Shoot”.

“I want to hang out at your place". She said excitedly.

His eyes widened. “What?”

She hesitated for just a second before meeting his gaze.

“It’s just…” she said carefully. “You never invite me over. And when I caught a glimpse of your place that one time, I got curious.”

She shrugged, trying to sound casual—failing just a little.

“So,” she added, “how about a movie night at your apartment?”

She must have caught the panic on his face, because she immediately looked dejected and raised a paw.

“Oh—Nick, it’s not… not if it makes you uncomfortable,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. You know what? Forget I said anything.”

Her tone turned overly bright as she faced her laptop again, fingers already moving across the keyboard.

Too bright.

But Nick knew those ears.

And the way they drooped dejected.

She glanced at him briefly, and he caught it—the sadness in her eyes.
Sadness in those big violet eyes.

His stomach dropped.

That was something he couldn’t deal with.

So he did what he always did.

Using his most casual tone, he leaned against her desk.

“You already saw a little bit of my place,” he said lightly. “And it’s not… exactly clean. I don’t know if it’s up to your bunny standards.”

Her ears lifted again.

There it was.

“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. “I mean, yeah, it was—kind of… messy.”

“Disgusting,” he corrected.

“Messy,” she insisted. “But I don’t care. I want to see where you live.”

He shot her a sly smile.

“You already got a picture. What, are you trying to build a whole collection to use as blackmail material against me?”

He lifted a finger.

“Just so you know—one, that wouldn’t work. And two, I have contacts who can wipe things from the internet.”

He paused, smirking.

“Don’t ask.”

She looked at him expectantly.

Her little tail was wiggling, and that—that—did something to him.

He felt the urge rise suddenly and without warning. The very real, very stupid urge to pull her closer. To wrap his arms around her and squeeze her, just for a second. Maybe longer.

He froze.

Absolutely not.

His brain scrambled for explanations, excuses—anything that wasn’t that.

What was he even thinking?

Oh.

Right.

A hug.

That was the problem.

Hugs were not his thing. He didn’t do hugs. Not on regular days. Not over harmless conversations. Maybe during life-threatening situations. Maybe after big explosions. But this? This was just work. 

He had hugged her before. Desperately.

But that had been different. That had been special. They had almost died—he justified it to himself.

This, though?

This was just work.

He forced himself to stay exactly where he was.

Then he cleared his throat.

“Fine,” he said, a little too quickly. “This Friday. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“Yes!” She celebrated hopping to the floor “Thank you Nick, promise I won’t judge.. A lot”

He rolled his eyes. “Bring popcorn and get to work because you are not receiving your prize if you don’t finish typing”

That seemed to do the trick, because she quickly returned to her report.

Nick did the same, schooling his face into something neutral, something unreadable.

Because—did he just…

Did he just invite an animal.

A living animal.

Into his place?

That was… huge. For him.

And the worst part was, he wasn’t panicking.

If anyone else had bulldozed their way into an invitation like that, he would’ve felt it instantly—angry, invaded, annoyed, frustrated. All the usual defenses would’ve kicked in without hesitation.

But with Judy…

He didn’t feel any of that.

Instead, there was something else sitting in his chest. Something light. Restless. Uncomfortable in a completely different way.

Was that… excitement?

Oh. No. Absolutely not.

He couldn’t do excitement. What was he—five?

And yet, his traitorous tail was wagging.

He grabbed it.

“Stop,” he ordered under his breath.

This was ridiculous.

He needed a remedy.

Something grounding. Something boring.

His eyes flicked back to his screen.

There.

Paperwork.

Perfect.

They spent the rest of the day trying to finish their reports, and Nick did his best to not let the absolute chaos unfolding inside him show.

By around seven o’clock, they were finally done.

They walked out together, tired but satisfied, knowing that at least the paperwork was finished. Everything was ready for the case against the Linxleys to move forward. The prosecutors had everything they needed.

They walked past the front desk, where Clawhauser was fully entertained by a music video playing on his screen. He looked up as soon as he noticed them approaching.

“Hey, you two! Everything done?” he asked brightly.

Judy let out a tired sigh.

“It seems so.”

Clawhauser cooed, taking in how exhausted they both looked.

“Oooh, I’m so sorry, you guys. It’s been a lot, hasn’t it?” he said sympathetically. “You definitely need to do something this weekend to let loose.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“So,” he added, eyes sparkling, “any plans?”

Judy perk up and looked at him “Actually we have a movie night scheduled at Nick’s”

“Oooooh,” Clawhauser exclaimed excitedly.

Then something seemed to click in his head.

The interest “Oooooh” slowly shifted into a very different one.

A knowing “Ooooooh.”

He turned his head toward Nick and winked.

Nick immediately wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

“Well then,” Clawhauser said brightly, “have fun and enjoy your movies. Or…”

He tilted his head, his grin slowly widening.

“…don’t watch the movie, if that’s what you guys end up doing.”

Nick rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck.

“Okay, first of all,” he cut in, “there is absolutely nothing scandalous about a perfectly normal movie night where we actually watch the movie.”

He gestured vaguely with a paw.

“In its entirety. From beginning to end. With the lights on. Sitting upright. Pal.”

“Riiiight,” Clawhauser replied with a sly smile.

Hey. That was his thing.

Judy, completely oblivious to the entire exchange, chimed in casually.

“Honestly, I think the only gossip-worthy thing would be all the mess Nick has in his apartment.”

Clawhauser’s eyes lit up.

“Really?”

Judy nodded and pulled out her phone.

“I even got a picture.”

“Okay bunny,” Nick said quickly, placing both paws on her shoulders. “We’re leaving.”

And with that, he steered her toward the door, practically dragging her along as she burst into giggles.

Once they were outside he let her go “So you are using that picture for blackmail” 

She smiled sweetly taking a step closer at him “I learned from the best”

He smiled and stepped a little closer.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, you did.”

Judy reached up without thinking and straightened his tie, the gesture casual, familiar—something she always did. Then she let herself lean forward, resting her paw against his chest.

She looked up at him.

For a moment, they just stood there, smiling, eyes locked.

It was… a moment.

One of those rare ones he wished he could freeze in place and stay inside forever. They were close. Too close. Close enough to—

A sharp wolf whistle cut through the air.

Both of them jumped apart instantly.

Wolfard and Grizzoli were approaching the precinct, clearly just starting their night shift.

“Easy there, you two,” Wolfard called out grinning—the obvious culprit behind the whistle. “You’re still on police grounds.”

“Guess foxes never miss a chance, huh, Wilde?” Grizzoli added with a knowing look.

Oh. Great.

Judy froze, ears stiff, suddenly looking like she’d been caught in the middle of a crime.

“We—we were just—” she stammered. “We didn’t—”

Nick schooled his face into something completely unbothered.

“Accusing without evidence, Grizzoli?” he said lightly. “That’s not very police-like. You might want to save that energy for actual cases—you know, the ones that, unlike ours, you haven’t closed yet.”

Grizzoli burst out laughing and kept walking, Wolfard following close behind.

“Have fun, you two!” Wolfard called over his shoulder.

“Hey, Clawhauser! Guess who we just caught in the middle of—” Grizzoli called out just before the precinct doors closed behind them.

Great.

Judy still looked shaken, her ears not quite back in place yet.

Nick tilted his head toward the entrance and lowered his voice.

“Don’t mind them, Carrots,” he said lightly. “They’re just a couple of dumb wolves.”

“Right…” she replied, her voice a little shaky as she avoided his eyes. “Well… Chief Bogo said we could take a couple of days off after everything that happened, so… I guess… I’ll see you Friday?”

The words hung there for a second longer than necessary.

And yeah. Chief Buffalo Butt had actually come through.

After they’d finished their statements, logged the evidence, and wrapped up every last procedure needed to officially close the reptile case, they’d been granted two days off. Time to rest. To decompress.

Apparently, almost dying on the job—technically while being a fugitive from the law—came with some perks.

“Friday,” he confirmed.

She gave him a small smile and lifted a paw in a quick wave.

“Okay then. Night, Nick,” she said, turning to leave.

“Night, Hopps,” he replied, waving back watching her disappear.

About twenty minutes later, Nick was unlocking the door to apartment number 23, right below Gym Trunks. 

The door creaked open.

He stopped.

And stared.

His place was… a mess.

No—worse than a mess. This was full-on disaster territory. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Clothes scattered across the floor in no particular order. Empty food containers, crumpled wrappers, and trash that had clearly missed several opportunities to be taken out.

Yikes.

Even on his worst days, he usually kept things at a manageable level of chaos. This? This was below his standards. Alarmingly so.

He ran a paw down his face and let out a slow breath.

Okay.

So maybe inviting Judy into his home had been slightly premature.

But it wasn’t a lost cause.

He had two days.

Two whole days to clean it up, make it presentable, and pretend he was the kind of fox who had his life together.

His gaze drifted toward the small table by the entrance.

The one place in the apartment that was always clean.

His place of honor.

Framed neatly on top was the newspaper article about the Missing Mammal case, featuring a photo of him and Judy smiling. Standing side by side in their police uniforms.

He paused there for a moment.

How hard could it be?

Chapter Text

Thursday — 8:00 AM

35 hours until movie night

Next day Nick found himself in the middle of his apartment, staring at the mess for a long second longer.

Then he sighed.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is… not great.”

His apartment stared back. Judging him silently.

He took a step and immediately kicked something metallic. It skidded across the floor.

Right.
The hula hoop.

He nudged it toward the corner with his foot.

Step one: hide anything that raised questions.
Step two: hide anything that raised more questions.
Step three: pretend he was a functioning adult mammal.

He glanced at the sink again.

The dishes had officially crossed into hostile territory.

“Ignore it,” he told himself. “It’s not like she’s gonna open the cabinets and conduct a full inspection.”

He paused.

She absolutely would.

“Great,” he muttered. “I have a date with a cop.”

Woah. Woah. Woah.

No— That wasn’t right.

He wasn’t dating anyone.
This was just a movie night.
A completely normal, totally innocent movie night.
Strictly platonic.

In his den.
A den where foxes traditionally only let their mates in.

But that wasn’t their case. Nope.This was a friendship thing.

He grabbed a trash bag and snapped it open with more aggression than necessary.

Two days.
That was manageable. Totally manageable.

He could do this.

He’d survived cons, chases, murderous mammals, and being hunted as a fugitive.

Cleaning an apartment should be easy.

He looked at the framed newspaper article by the door. Judy smiled back at him from the photo.

He pointed at it.

“This,” he said firmly, “is your fault.”

Then the ceiling shook as a weight slammed down upstairs.

Perfect. Just perfect.

He sighed again and rolled up his sleeves.

“Alright, Wilde,” he said. “Let’s make this place safe for… guests.”

He paused.

“…One guest.”

His tail flicked excitedly.

He ignored it.

He spent a total of three hours trying to sort everything out.

At some point, he’d come up with a system. A very scientific one.

One trash bag for actual garbage.
One bag for things that looked suspicious enough to raise questions—those would require a second opinion, preferably from Future Nick.
And one bag for things he absolutely didn’t need anymore and should probably donate to charity.

Probably.

That last bag stayed mostly empty.

The problem was, the more he tried to sort things out, the harder it got.

Because the truth was—there wasn’t much he genuinely felt ready to throw away.

He opened a box near the couch.

Wigs. Too many wigs.

Every color, every length, every style imaginable. He didn’t bother picking any of them up. They’d all been useful at some point. 

He closed the box and moved on.

The next one was heavier.

Costumes.

He sighed, already knowing this was where things got complicated.

Scrubs and a lab coat.

That one had paid very well.

A mid-sized company had hired him thinking he was a healthcare specialist brought in to give a motivational talk. Workplace wellness, stress management, productivity—he’d nodded along, thrown around enough technical-sounding jargon to sound legit, and never once said anything that could be fact-checked.

His actual advice, though, leaned in a slightly different direction.

Less “mindfulness to optimize productivity” and more “how to ignore your annoying boss.”

At one point, he’d somehow gotten the entire room chanting along with him:

“My boss is a toxic idiot. He’s dumb. I’m awesome. And he can absolutely go screw himself.”

He’d also shared a few practical tips on how to look extremely busy while doing absolutely nothing.

The employees had loved him.

A few weeks later, he’d heard through the grapevine that the company’s productivity had dropped by almost fifty percent. He considered that a personal success.

And like that, there were plenty of other costumes.

A construction worker one.
A chef’s jacket.
An ugly pink dress.

He grimaced. Yeah. That one didn’t need revisiting.

Behind every single one of them, there was a story.

He leaned back on his heels and exhaled slowly.

Every costume had paid for something—food, rent, time. Another day without having to worry about where he’d sleep. Throwing them away didn’t feel like decluttering.

It felt like forgetting how he’d survived.

After almost another hour digging through a box full of props—lassos, juggling clubs, a deflated basketball, and coming up with increasingly creative excuses for why none of them could possibly be thrown away, Nick finally had to face the obvious.

He wasn’t getting anywhere.

At all.

“Wow,” he muttered. “This is going great.”

The problem wasn’t the stuff. The stuff was fine. Useful. Practical. Potentially life-saving, depending on the situation.
The problem was the part of him that refused to imagine a future where he didn’t need it.

Because somewhere in the back of his head, a very annoying little voice kept whispering:

What if this whole cop thing blows up in your face?

What if one day Judy decides she’s done with you? Done with the attitude, the baggage, the constant reminders that you come with an expiration date?

Then what, Wilde?

He snorted under his breath.

Right. Then what.

Because here was the uncomfortable truth he really didn’t feel like unpacking right now:
he couldn’t picture himself being a cop without her.

Which was… inconvenient.

He was a police officer because of Judy.

And if this didn’t work out—if one day the badge came off for good—then yeah. Maybe he’d need all of this again. The props, the costumes and the plan B he’d never fully let go of.

He leaned back on his heels and glanced around the apartment.

His eyes drifted to the framed bill hanging by the entrance.

The first buck he’d ever made.

Twelve years old.
Living on the streets.
Alone.

He stared at it for a moment.

That bill was proof. Proof that he’d figured things out once—using whatever he had, whatever worked, whatever kept him breathing one more night. That he could do it again if he had to. That was the real problem.

Because every object scattered around his apartment was built on that same logic.

The costumes. The props. The junk that wasn’t really junk. They weren’t memories. They were contingency plans. Insurance. Evidence that he’d survived worse with less.

Survive first.
Ask questions later.

That rule had kept him alive since he was twelve.

It was why nothing ever felt disposable. Because throwing something away meant betting on a future where he wouldn’t need it—and Nick Wilde had never been big on blind faith.

He stared at the bill a moment longer. Then his gaze dropped, down past the frame, to the small table beneath it.

The photo. Judy and him.

Judy.

Then sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Figures.”

He pulled out his phone before he could overthink it.

Nick: Hey Finn, I’ve got some stuff from old cons I’m getting rid of. Interested?

The reply came almost instantly.

Finnick: How much

He snorted softly and typed back.

Nick: Wow. Not even a hello? That hurts.
For free, buddy.

Finnick: Can you bring them to my place?

Nick glanced around the apartment.

Nick: Yep.

Finnick: I’ll wait 4 u

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well, damn” he muttered to the room, “look at that.”

He was actually making a bet. A bet on her. On them.

Thursday — 12:30 PM

30 hours and 30 minutes until movie night

Nick arrived at Finnick’s place balancing a few boxes and trash bags, courtesy of an aggressively overpriced Zuber.

And by place, he meant the van.

Parked in the same spot it always was.

He dropped everything on the pavement and knocked on the back doors with their old, secret knock.

“Delivery for daddy’s special boy.”

The van door swung open.

Finnick stared at him, unimpressed.

“Hey, Nicky,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. “This all of it?”

“Yep.”

Finnick hopped down with surprising agility for someone his size and immediately started digging through the bags. After a few seconds, he paused. Slowly looked up.

“There’s good stuff in here,” he said. “You sure you wanna get rid of it?”

Nick shrugged.
“I’m decluttering.”

Finnick stopped. Narrowed his eyes. “You? Decluttering?”

He scoffed. “Nicky, you a hoarder. And that’s comin’ from a fox who lives in a van.”

“I’m just making space,” Nick said. “Cleaning. You know. What normal animals do?.”

“Clean,” Finnick repeated, skeptical. He tilted his head. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Wilde. Are you reorganizin’ for real?”

“Something like that,” Nick said. Way too fast. “Yeah.”

Finnick snorted. Then laughed.

“Oh no.” He pointed at him. “Nick. You ain’t—”

He leaned in, lowering his voice.

“—preparin’ your den, are you?”

Nick stiffened.

No.
Absolutely not.
That implied intent. Feelings. A future. Three things he didn’t do.

“You know how it is with us foxes,” Finnick continued, enjoying himself way too much. “When we get ready to… mate, we clean the den. Make it nice. Comfortable.”

He smirked.
“So what is it? You finally meet a cute vixen?”

Nick froze.

“I mean,” Finnick went on, “a lotta ladies like a mammal in uniform. And you been all over the news again. So what—someone caught your eye?”

Nick stared at him.

Finnick stared back.

“Oh dear lord,” Finnick said slowly. “It ain’t a vixen.”

He squinted.

“It’s that bunny.”

Nick tried to look unbothered.

“No,” he said quickly. “I am not preparing my den. Definitely not for a bunny.”

Finnick burst out laughing—just a little too loud for Nick’s liking.

“I can't—” he said, wiping at his eyes. “A fox and a rabbit. Never in my life have I ever—”

He shook his head, still chuckling.

“No wonder you had me play your little son” Finnick went on. “You been rehearsin’ already? Tryin’ out the whole domestic life thing with that bunny?”

He smirked.

“Bet that was your idea too, huh, Nicky?”

Nick sighed. There was no winning a poker face against Finnick. Ever.

“Her name is Judy,” he said flatly. “And yes, she’s coming over for a movie night. A movie. Night.”

He pointed a finger for emphasis.

“Not to… mate,” he added dryly. “As you so grossly, rudely, and crudely put it.”

Finnick’s ears twitched.

“A movie night,” Finnick repeated flatly. “In your den.”

“People watch movies together all the time,” Nick shot back.

Finnick leaned against the van, grinning like he’d just won something.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And you ain’t never invited anyone to your place.”

Nick froze.

Finnick raised an eyebrow.

“Not one girl you dated. Not a fling. Not even me.” He gestured at himself. “That’s different,” Nick muttered.

“How?” Finnick asked calmly. 

Nick didn’t answer.

Finnick’s grin widened.

“So lemme get this straight,” he continued. “You cleaned, reorganized, and gave away half your junk—just so this one bunny could come over and watch movies.”

Nick opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I just wanted the place to look… decent,” he said quietly.

A deep, booming laugh escaped Finnick.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You dennin’.”

“I am not denning.”

“You dennin’ hard, Wilde.”

Nick sighed.

Finnick kept laughing as he started loading the boxes into the van.

“Just wait,” he said. “Next thing you know, you gonna be obsessively cleanin’, scent markin’, feedin’ her, makin’ sure she comfortable.”

Nick rolled his eyes.

“And hey,” Finnick added, hopping into the van, “when you two get married—invite me to the wedding, yeah?”

The van doors slammed shut.

Nick stared at them.

“…Great,” he muttered.

Thursday — 7:05 PM

23 hours and 55 minutes until movie night

Later, Nick found himself rubber gloves on, locked in battle with a tower of dirty dishes.

Fighting for his life felt like an accurate description.

Ever since joining the ZPD, he’d somehow perfected the art of procrastination. A skill he was now paying for, plate by plate, questionable smell by questionable smell.

Turns out ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away.
It just made it crustier.

That was when his phone started ringing.

Nick glanced at the screen and was greeted by a picture of a very confused-looking bunny.

He smiled despite himself. 

“Hey, partner,” he said, taking off the rubber gloves and wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder. “How’s your thrilling day off treating you?”

Judy let out a sigh on the other end.

“A little boring,” she admitted. “I just… I feel like I should be doing more. You know? For the case. For Gary.”

Nick snorted softly as he reached for another questionable plate in the sink.

“There’s nothing left for us to do,” he said, nudging a stack of dishes aside. “Everything’s moving along just fine. That’s just you being a workaholic.”

Judy chuckled.

“Yeah… I guess. Maybe I really do need to relax.”

There was a brief pause.

“So,” she added, casual but curious, “what are you doing?”

Nick looked down at his soapy paws. At the sink. At the mountain of dishes. 

“Oh, you know,” he said lightly. “Living the dream. I’ve been lying around all day.”

He lied.

“Some of us actually know how to take it easy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” she chuckled. “So… are you excited for our movie night?”

His tail immediately betrayed him, swishing behind him like it had a mind of its own.

“Well, Carrots,” he said smoothly, “I can’t wait to educate you in real cinema. We’re starting with our dear mayor’s finest work—Neighsayer one through five. A true cinematic journey.

Judy snorted into the phone.

“Absolutely not. We’re watching The Devil Wears Preyda. That’s a classic.”

He gasped, deeply offended.
“Wow. Okay. First of all, you clearly need more film culture.”

“It is a classic,” she shot back. “Meryl Sheep is a titan in that movie. Fashion. Drama. Iconic lines. You’ll love it.”

Nick laughed, shaking his head.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he teased. “But I do love hearing you defend it this passionately.”

She huffed, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Just admit it—you’re excited.”

“Please,” he said lightly. “I’m doing this purely out of selfless cultural exchange.”

“Uh-huh.”

He smirked.

“Still gonna make you dinner, though.”

“…You know how to cook?” Judy asked, genuinely surprised.

“Are you implying something, sweetheart?” he said smoothly.

“Well,” she replied, trying—and failing—to sound innocent, “with the amount of junk food you ingest, I didn’t really peg you as the cooking type.”

Nick scoffed, clearly offended on a deeply personal level.

“Oh, I’ll take that as a challenge. Careful, Hopps,” he added. “You’re about to unlock a very exclusive Wilde family specialty.”

“Oh yeah?” she teased. “Should I be scared?”

“Only if you’re afraid of being impressed.”

She laughed softly.

“Wow. Someone’s confident.”

“Please,” he replied. “Confidence is my brand.”

Judy giggled.

Which, unfortunately, made him chuckle too.

“Well then, Slick,” she said playfully, “I’ll leave you to… do nothing and lie around all day, like the lazy tail you are. I have to call my parents. See you tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” he replied easily.

“Don’t be late for our date,” he added without thinking, and hung up.

Silence.

He stared at his phone.

Wait a minute.

Did he just—

Date.

He had called it a date.

To Judy.

Oh no.
No no no no no.

He slowly lowered the phone, horror dawning on his face.

His tail wagged.

He grabbed it.

“This is all your fault,” he hissed at it. “Absolutely all of it.”

He stood there for a solid five minutes, staring at his phone like it might explode.

Okay.
Options.

Option one: call her back. Clarify. Explain that he didn’t mean date-date. Just… a date.
Like a scheduled event.
Like a dentist appointment.
Or jury duty.

That sounded terrible.

Of course it did. The word date had already left his mouth. There was no walking that back without making it worse. Way worse.

Option two: do nothing and hope she somehow hadn’t caught it.

Which was ridiculous. Of course she’d caught it. She had ears. Big ones. Excellent hearing. Literally her whole thing.

Option three: do nothing.
Pretend that didn’t happen.

Honestly? Still terrible. But slightly less terrible.

Maybe—maybe—she was the one who thought he meant date in a purely calendar-based sense. A casual arrangement involving popcorn and absolutely zero emotional consequences.

Right?

Right.

Except—

What if she hadn’t?

What if she thought he meant date-date.

As in… feelings. Romance.
As in candles and expectations and conversations that started with “so what are we?”

What if she felt awkward about it?

What if she felt grossed out?

What if she decided not to come anymore?

What if she decided not to come anymore and never look at him the same way again?

What if she decided she didn’t want to be his friend because she thought he wanted more than that?

What if he walked into Precinct One on Monday only to find out she’d requested a partner transfer because she didn’t feel comfortable around him anymore?

He stared at the phone harder.

“This,” he muttered darkly, “is why I don’t invite anyone over.”

He shoved the phone into his pocket.

“Great job, Wilde,” he added. “Really smooth. Ten out of ten. Absolutely did not just ruin everything with one syllable.”

His tail wagged again.

He groaned.

“Stop it,” he told it. “We’re panicking.”

Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed.

A text.

Nick froze.

Was it Judy?

He stared at the screen, suddenly very aware of the tight knot forming in his chest. He didn’t pick up the phone right away. Just stood there, mentally drafting explanations, justifications—half a dozen versions of hey, about that thing I said.

What if she was texting to clarify?

What if she was awkward?

What if she—

He grabbed the phone and stopped. Because it wasn’t Judy. It was Clawhauser.

Nick frowned and opened the message.

It was a group chat.

With several numbers he didn’t recognize.

Clawhauser: Niiiiick! Sooo… it was a date. I knew it!!!!  😺✨

Nick’s ears flattened.

“What?” he muttered aloud. “What is this?”

Another message popped up.

Unknown Number 1: Don’t worry, buddy. We’re here for emotional support.

Then another.

Unknown Number 2: You need anything, Nick? We got you.

Nick stared at the screen, horrified.

He typed furiously.

Nick: Who is this?

Nick: Clawhauser, why are there unknown numbers in here?

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Unknown Number 1: This is Nibbles.

Another message followed.

Unknown Number 1: And Gary!

Nick blinked at the screen.

What.

Clawhauser: I added your friends! Thought you might need some help preparing for your romantic date with Judy 🦊❤️🐰

Nick stared at the phone.

“What in the world,” he muttered, horrified, “have you done?”

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

He resigned himself and saved both numbers.

Nick: Clawhauser, how did you even get their numbers?

Clawhauser: From the case files! 🩷

Nick: Just so you know, that’s super illegal.

Wood Eater: Gary my dude! Didn’t know you got a phone!

Gary: It’s new! They gave it to me at the Mayor’s office! 

Clawhauser: How’s date night prep going, Nick? Can we help?

Nick closed his eyes.

Clawhauser: I could totally share with you a romantic playlist with Gazelle’s music to set the mood.

Nick: IT’S NOT A DATE.
Nick: IT’S JUST A NORMAL MOVIE NIGHT.

Wood Eater: If you need new furniture, I’m your gal ;)

Gary: You okay Nick? Are you nervous? That’s totally normal BTW

Nick: Nope.

Nick: Because IT’S. JUST. A. MOVIE. NIGHT.

Between the cheetah, the beaver, and the snake, there was apparently a very limited number of functioning neurons in that group chat, because none of this seemed to deter them.

Links to articles titled “10 Tips to Have the Purrrfect Date.”
Another one confidently named “What Rabbits Love: Comfort, Chemistry, and Carrots.”

Then the videos started.

“Canine Charm 101: Tail Confidence Without Overdoing It.”
“Outfits That Compliment Fur, Ears, and… Personality.”

And a suspiciously specific one about “Couches, Cushions, and the Art of Sitting Close Without Making It Weird.”

Then came the playlists.

“Slightly Unhinged Love Songs.”
“For Fox Sake, I Love You.”

And one particularly concerning playlist titled entirely in emojis: 🔞💦🍆🍑🔥🔞

Nick didn’t even bother clicking on that one.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered.

Nick watched the notifications pile up, one after another.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This,” he muttered, “is cyberbullying.”

He decided to put his phone on airplane mode.

But before he could, a new message popped up.

It was Judy.

His heart stopped.

He was afraid to look at the phone for a full minute.

What if she wanted to cancel movie night with some terrible excuse because of the whole date thing?
What if she wanted to cancel their partnership at the precinct?
Cancel their friendship?

Judy: Just wanted to let you know I’m really excited for tomorrow. Thank you for inviting me. Good night!

Something in his chest finally loosened.
Like a knot he hadn’t realized was there had quietly untangled itself.

She wasn’t mad.

She wasn’t uncomfortable.
She wasn’t transferring partners.

Maybe she hadn’t caught the date thing.
Maybe she’d heard it and hadn’t taken it as a romantic thing.
Maybe—miracle of miracles—he’d been spiraling over absolutely nothing.

He let out a breath he’d apparently been holding for the last hour.

Wow.
What a concept.

He typed back.

Nick: You’re welcome. Sweet dreams, carrot cake.

He set the phone down and looked around his apartment.

At the sink still full of dishes.
At the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
At the very obvious fact that he was not done cleaning.

Yeah.

He still had a lot to do.

Sweet dreams were probably not in the cards for him.

But hey.

At least she was excited.

And somehow, that made it worth it.

Chapter Text

Friday — 2:43 AM

16 hours and 17 minutes until movie night

Spending the night cleaning was a first for him.

Nick had never considered himself particularly neat. Functional, sure. Strategically chaotic on a good day. But this? This was different.

Very different.

It had started innocently enough. He finished the dishes, turned off the water, and stood there for a moment, staring at the sink.

Then something clicked.

An impulse. Sharp. Uninvited.

One surface led to another. The counter. The table. The shelf that suddenly looked wrong. He wiped, straightened, rearranged. Picked something up. Put it back. Decided it didn’t belong there after all.

He told himself he’d stop after this.
After fixing that.
After making it look acceptable.

He did not stop.

At some point—without him really noticing—it was three in the morning.

He realized this while aggressively scrubbing his bathtub.

That’s when it hit him.

“No one,” he muttered, sponge still in paw, “does this for a dumb movie night.”

He straightened slowly and stared at the spotless bathroom.

That was it.
He was done.

He’d cleaned enough. More than enough. The apartment was clean enough for a friend to come over—honestly, it was probably the cleanest it had ever been. Suspiciously clean. Unnatural, even.

He nodded to himself.

Decision made.

Time for bed.

Nick walked out into the living room with the full intention of collapsing onto his mattress and not thinking for at least eight hours.

And then his brain betrayed him.

He stopped and looked around. The living room looked… wrong. Not dirty or messy. Just… off.

Would she be comfortable?

He froze.

No.
Absolutely not.

“We are not doing this, Nicholas Piberius Wilde,” he told himself firmly. “It is time to rest.”

Except now he was thinking about the living room.

About the couch.

About the TV.

And that—very clearly—was the problem.

Was it at the right height? For him, sure. But Judy was shorter. A lot shorter. What if the angle wasn’t great? What if she had to tilt her head the whole time? That would be annoying. Distracting. Potentially neck-straining.

He walked out to the living room and squinted at the screen.

“…Huh.”

The couch.

Was the couch even comfortable? He stared at it longer than necessary. Then noticed the stains. Old ones. Weird ones. Definitely not guest-appropriate stains.

He grabbed a cloth.

Just one quick pass.

Which turned into scrubbing.

Which turned into wondering if she’d even like this couch. What if it was too low? Too hard? Too close? Too far? What if—

He stepped back and looked at the room.

No.

No, no, no.

It was all wrong.

Ten minutes later, he was moving the couch.

Then the chair.

Then the side table.
Then the lamp, because now that was wrong too.

He moved the couch back because the angle felt off. Shifted it again because the lighting no longer worked. Dragged the TV across the room, stopped, dragged it back halfway.

He stood in the middle of the apartment, hands on his hips, slowly turning in a full circle.

“Okay,” he muttered, circling the coffee table. “This is not working. Let’s try a completely different arrangement.”

He did.

By the time he finally stopped, nothing was where it had been before.

The entire apartment looked completely different—more open and suspiciously welcoming.

Nick stared at the room.

At the carefully arranged seating.
At the perfectly angled TV.
At the fact that he had just done accidental Fang Shui at four in the morning.

He let out a slow breath.

“This,” he told the empty apartment, “is getting wildly out of hand.”

He glanced at the couch. Cleaner. Better placed. But still wrong.

Not comfortable enough.
Not… Judy comfortable.

Two minutes later, he was standing in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, typing:

what do rabbits like in their homes

He froze.

Apparently—

Rabbits liked soft lighting.
Rabbits liked pillows. Multiple pillows.
Rabbits liked blankets. Warm ones.
Rabbits liked spaces that felt open but still cozy.

Nick looked at his couch.

At the single, pathetic pillow.

“…I need pillows,” he concluded, panic edging into his voice.

He immediately frowned.

No. Correction.

He didn’t need pillows. Not right now. He could go to bed like a normal mammal, get some sleep, and—if this ridiculous pillow situation was still a problem tomorrow—he could buy them then. In daylight. Like a sane individual.

That made sense.

He nodded to himself.

Decision made.

Except—

There it was again.

That uncomfortable, insistent pressure in his chest. That little voice that had absolutely no concept of “reasonable timing.”

No, you need them now.

He stared at his phone.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. “I can buy pillows tomorrow.”

The urge disagreed.

Very strongly.

Because what if Judy came over and the couch still wasn’t comfortable enough?
What if she sat down and thought wow, this could be cozier?
What if she didn’t say anything—because she was polite—but felt it?

Unacceptable.

Before he could argue with himself any further, he was already checking his phone for nearby stores.

And of course—

There it was.

A 24-hour WoolMart. Fifteen minutes away on foot.

Nick stared at the screen. This was insane. He knew that. He should be in bed. Resting. Recovering. Not power-walking toward a big store at four in the morning with pillow-related anxiety.

And yet—

Five minutes later, he was grabbing his jacket, keys, and wallet. 

The night air hit him as he headed down the street, muttering the entire way.

“I am not doing this for a date,” he grumbled. “This is basic hospitality. I would do this for anyone.”

He would not.

WoolMart’s fluorescent lights welcomed him. He was the only customer at that hour.

Nick marched straight past groceries, electronics, and seasonal nonsense, laser-focused on his mission.

Pillows.

He reached the aisle and stopped.

There were so many.

Big ones. Small ones. Square ones. Oblong ones. Pillows that promised support. Pillows that promised comfort. 

Hmmmmmm.

He poked one.

Not soft enough.

He poked another.

The texture felt wrong.

Then his eyes landed on a stack of pale pink pillows that looked absurdly plush.

He touched one.

They were soft—dangerously soft. The kind you sank into. 

“Perfect,” he muttered.

He grabbed two.

Then paused.

But… what if two wasn’t enough!?

He added a third. Then a fourth.

Just to be safe.

He stared at the cart.

“…Okay, this is still reasonable.”

It wasn’t.

By the time he stopped, there were eight pink pillows in the cart.

Eight.

He looked at them.

“…It’s just for comfort,” he concluded.

And kept going.

Then came the blankets.

He ran a paw over a stack of them, immediately gravitating toward the softest one available. Of course it was pink. Of course it matched the pillows.

“One needs to be warm,” he muttered, tossing it into the cart. “That’s just… biology.”

Then—because the universe clearly hated him—he passed the lighting aisle.

Fairy lights.

He slowed.

Stared.

Kept walking.

Stopped.

Turned around.

“Ambience is important,” he reasoned, grabbing a box. “Everyone knows that.”

And then the scented candles.

Lavender. Vanilla. Something vaguely labeled cozy carrot pie.

He picked up one.

Put it back.

Picked it up again.

“…I don’t even have an excuse for this,” he admitted quietly, dropping it into the cart.

By the time he headed to checkout, he was pushing a cart that could only be described as a pink travesty.

Why pink?

Honestly, no idea.

If he had to guess—and he absolutely did not want to guess—it was probably because it was a color he knew Judy liked. 

He would’ve loved to say he stopped at the scented candles. He did not.

Somewhere between the home aisle and the checkout, an entirely separate impulse had taken over—one that seemed determined to add anything remotely cute, fluffy and pink to the cart.

Throw a ridiculously soft rug .
Decorative nonsense.
A cute bunny plushie.

He stared at the pile.

“…I’m being possessed by a pink demon," he muttered.

And then, because it was very clearly too late to turn back, he bought all of it.

He made a conscious decision not to think about what this was going to do to his bank account. That was a problem for Future Nick. Present Nick had priorities.

Right now, all he could think about was getting home as fast as possible.

Turning his apartment into a full-on pink wonderland was, apparently, his life now.

Friday — 12:00 PM

7 hours until movie night

Noon found Nick sprawled on the floor in the middle of his apartment, staring up at the ceiling and reevaluating every single life choice that had led him here.

Because he was officially done.

The apartment was ready.

He hadn’t stopped until that restless urge inside him finally quieted—until something in his chest settled and told him okay, that’s enough. And once it did, it was like his brain rebooted all at once.

Which led to two things:

One, he collapsed onto the floor in absolute exhaustion.

And two… he started thinking.

What the hell had that been?

He’d never felt anything like it before. That need to rearrange, scrub, fix, adjust. To care. To…Ugh, to decorate, for fox’s sake.

He groaned.

“I’ve officially lost it,” he muttered to the ceiling.

And yet—

Deep down, in a place he didn’t like poking at too much, he knew exactly what it was.

Denning.

The word hit him like a bad joke.

He hadn’t thought about it in years. Not since he was little, when his mom had explained it to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“One day,” his mom had said softly as she stirred the pot on the stove, “when you grow up and meet a vixen you really, really like, the first time she comes over to your place… you’ll know she’s special.”

He’d frowned at that from his chair, legs swinging back and forth.

“How?” he’d asked.

She smiled.

“Oh, you’ll feel it,” she’d said lightly. “Because you’ll start acting funny.”

He’d squinted.
“Funny how?”

She’d thought about it for a second.

“Well,” she’d said, “your house won’t feel like just a house anymore. You’ll look around and suddenly notice things. You’ll wonder if it’s warm enough. If it’s comfy. If she’d like to sit there, or if that spot’s better.”

He remembered groaning.

“That sounds like work.”

She’d laughed, warm and easy.

“It is a little,” she’d admitted. “But it won’t feel like work. It’ll feel like you can’t help it. Like something inside you is tugging and saying hey, make this nice.”

Then she’d crouched down to his height, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret.

“That’s called denning, darling. It’s when you start fixing up your space because you want a very special someone to feel welcome there.”

She’d reached out and ruffled the fur between his ears.

“It’s when a place that’s always been just yours starts making room for someone else.”

At the time, he’d thought it sounded strange.

Now…

Now he understood it far too well.

He lay there on the floor, arms spread staring at the ceiling.

Finnick was right. 

He’d been denning.

For Judy.

The thought barely finished forming before he slammed the door on it.

Nope.
Absolutely not.

That line of thinking went nowhere good.

Because if that were true—if this meant anything more than stress, lack of sleep, or a temporary lapse in judgment—then it meant he felt something dangerous for her. Something reckless. Something with consequences.

Something that could ruin things.

And not just things. The partnership. The trust. The one relationship in his life that actually worked. The one animal who hadn’t walked away…yet.

He couldn’t afford that.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling.

No. This was nothing. A fluke. A mistake. He was probably…confused. Deeply confused.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is why I hate instincts.”

Because whatever that feeling was—
Whatever word hovered just out of reach—

He wasn’t touching it.

Wasn’t naming it.

Wasn’t letting it in.

He focused on his breathing, on the weight of the floor beneath him, on anything that wasn’t the tight panic  climbing up his spine.

Fortunately, exhaustion got there first.

Sleep dragged him under before the thought could finish circling back.

Friday — 5:08 PM

1 hour and 52 minutes until movie night

He woke up with a start.

Judy—

He bolted upright, heart racing, before realizing he’d been dreaming.

He groaned and looked around.

Right.
The floor.

He’d fallen asleep right there, in the middle of his newly decorated apartment. 

He yawned, stretching stiffly.

What time was it?
How long had he been out?

He grabbed his phone and looked at the hour.

His eyes widened.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He’d slept that long.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. There were still two hours before Judy arrived.

Except—

He hadn’t made dinner.

And then he lifted an arm, took one unfortunate whiff, and immediately made a face.

“Oh wow,” he muttered. “That’s a crime.”

Shower.
Immediately.

He scrambled to his feet, suddenly wide awake.

“No more thinking,” he told himself, already heading for the bathroom. “We move. We function. We do not panic.”

He paused.

“…We panic a little.”

Then he rushed off.

Because time was ticking.

And Judy was coming.

He took a shower in record time.

Then he headed straight to his closet, towel still around his neck, ready to grab something and move on.

And stopped.

…What did one wear to a movie night?

He stared at the clothes.

Option one: his Pawaiian shirt and cravat.
Classic. Iconic. Very Wilde.

He held it up.

“No,” he decided immediately. “That’s too much.”

Option two: pajamas.

He glanced at them.

Absolutely not. That screamed I gave up on life. Definitely no.

Option three: sportswear.

He squinted.

That would make him look like a mob boss in The Sopawnos. 

He dropped the clothes.

Back to square one.

He rubbed his face.

Hard.

Then, with a deeply offended expression, he pulled out his phone and reluctantly opened the group chat he’d muted.

Was he really desperate enough to do this?

He stared at the screen.

…Yes.
Apparently, he was.

His eyes immediately went wide.

800+ unread messages.

What the hell.

He absolutely refused to scroll back. He did not need to see whatever unholy mix of articles, playlists, emojis, and secondhand embarrassment they’d been sending.

Nope. He couldn’t do it.

He sighed, shoulders slumping.

Fine.

He typed.

Nick: I need help. What should I wear.

The response was immediate.

Explosive.

His phone frantically vibrated as messages, emojis, and far too much enthusiasm poured in.

Clawhauser: Just wear a suit! Something fancy! Impress her! Knock her off her feet! 

Nick rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Nick: It’s a movie night. Not a fancy gala.

Next came the beaver.

Wood Eater: My vote is go naked. Straight to the point. Free the fur!!!!

Clawhauser: Ooooooh, I like how you think! 

Nick didn’t even blink.

Nick: No.

Wood Eater: Whyyyyy?

Nick: NO.

This had been a huge mistake. 

Then another message popped up.

Gary: If it’s informal, just wear some pants and a simple shirt. A solid color. Something different from what you wear every day. No cravat. You should be comfortable enough to watch the movie, but still feel like yourself.

Nick paused.

Actually paused.

He read it again.

…Huh.

For an animal who slithered around naked, that was surprisingly solid advice.

He typed back.

Nick: Wow. Thanks, Gary. Apparently reptiles have better fashion sense than mammals.

Gary: Happy to help :)

Nick stared at the phone for a second longer.

Then he nodded to himself.

Decision made.

After dressing himself, he adjusted his shirt out of pure habit and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way past. Paused. Looked himself over.

He looked fine.
Casual.
Even cool, if he said so himself.

He gave his reflection a quick, approving wink.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

That settled, he headed straight for the kitchen and checked his phone on the way.

A little over an hour. Plenty of time. Probably.

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Nick didn’t cook often. Almost never, actually—especially not since joining the force. Long shifts, bad hours, and takeout being aggressively convenient had slowly pushed cooking off his list of regular skills.

But he could cook.

And this—this was familiar.

His body took over before his brain had a chance to interfere. Chopping vegetables. Preheating the oven. Layering ingredients with practiced efficiency. Vegan lasagna—one of his mom’s old recipes—came together through muscle memory more than conscious thought.

Time slipped by without him really noticing.

At precisely five minutes to seven, with the lasagna already in the oven, Nick stepped back and finally stopped moving.

He stood in the middle of his apartment and looked around.

Really looked.

His place looked very… homey.

Soft lighting.
Pillows.
Food in the oven.

It felt ready.

He felt ready.

Ready for Judy.

The realization settled in his chest, quiet but undeniable.

He swallowed.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Showtime.”

Friday — 7:00 PM

0 hours until movie night

He drifted around his own apartment, suddenly unsure what to do with himself.

He sat down on the couch to wait.

Stood up five seconds later.

Paced in a slow circle. Then a faster one. Then stopped by the door like he was on guard duty.

He checked the time.
Checked the door.
Checked the time again.

Perfectly aware that, from an outside perspective, he probably looked like an absolute freak.

Then there was a knock on the door.

For some reason, his heart started beating way too fast.

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

He was Nicholas Wilde.
Notorious con mammal.
He could handle this.

He plastered on his most easygoing smile and opened it.

And there she was.

Judy stood in the doorway, big violet eyes and an even bigger smile, doing a tiny, almost imperceptible bounce that gave her excitement away. She wore jeans and a casual pink shirt, holding a plastic bag close to her chest.

“Hey there, Carrots,” he said, voice smooth despite everything happening internally.

“Hey, Nick! I brought snacks!”

She looked up at him—and then really looked at him.

Her gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, tracing him from ears to shoulders, before her eyes widened just a little in surprise.

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “Wow. No Pawaiian shirt today?”

He shrugged, casual to the point of arrogance, like this hadn’t been a calculated decision fueled by mild panic.

“Trying something different,” he replied lightly.

Her smile tilted, amused.

“Well,” she said, stepping a little closer, “I like it.”

His tail twitched.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside, suddenly very aware of how close she was.

As he stepped aside to let her enter his apartment, a spike of nerves hit him square in the chest.

Too late now.

She was inside his den.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—was normal anymore.

She stepped inside, doing those little hops of excitement he found embarrassingly adorable.

“This is so fun! I’ve been all day just—”

She stopped.

Completely.

Nick watched her ears freeze mid-bounce as she slowly took in the space around her.

“…Oh.”

Uh-oh.

His stomach dropped.

Oh was not a good sound.

For a split second, every bad thought lined up neatly in his head.
Did she hate it?
Was it too much?
Too weird?
Too… pink?

He forced his expression into something casual. Relaxed. Totally normal.

“What do you mean?” he asked lightly.

She blinked, still looking around.

“It looks… so different.”

That definitely wasn’t better.

Then she pulled out her phone.

Nick immediately recognized the photo—the one she’d snapped weeks ago when she’d briefly seen his apartment. 

She looked at the photo.
Then at the apartment.

Back to the photo.
Back to the apartment.

She did that a couple more times, like her brain was buffering.

Nick swallowed.

“…That bad, huh?” he joked weakly.

She finally looked at him again, eyes wide.

“Nick,” she said softly, “what happened here?”

And somehow, that was worse.

Because now he genuinely didn’t know what to say.

“I just… uh… cleaned a little,” he offered.

She blinked.

“A little?”

“…Okay. A lot.”

She stepped farther inside, slowly taking everything in.

“It’s very…” she started.

Awful?
Bad?
Horrifying?

He braced himself.

“…Pink,” she finished.

He tilted his head, cautiously.

“And that’s… bad?”

She looked at him, surprised. Genuinely so.

“No—of course not!” she said quickly. “I mean, I’m not saying you can’t. It’s just… I never pictured you as the kind of mammal with a pink apartment.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “That makes two of us.”

She smiled, still looking around, clearly amused now.

“But,” she added, glancing back at him, “it actually suits the place. It feels… cozy.”

His tail flicked before he could stop it.

He pretended not to notice.

“Well,” he shrugged.“You know me. I’m full of surprises.”

Somewhere in the back of his head, that same annoying urge stirred again.

The one that had kept him up all night.
The one that had dragged him to a 24-hour store to buy pillows like a maniac.

It wanted something very specific.

It wanted her to say it.

Not this is interesting.
Not this is different.
Not even this is okay.

It wanted I like it.
I feel comfortable here.
I want to stay here.

Which was ridiculous, because he wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to need her approval like this. And yet—

His eyes tracked her as she moved farther into the apartment, touching things, looking around. Every second she didn’t say anything felt personal.

Say something.
Anything.

So, naturally, he did what he always did.

He joked.

“Well,” he said lightly, leaning against the counter like this was no big deal, “don’t hold back. I can take it. Scale of one to ten—how badly did I traumatize my own living space?”

She snorted, distracted by the fairy lights.

“That’s not what I—”

“Because if this is a cry for help,” he went on, gesturing vaguely at the room, “I’d like to know now. Before I commit to the aesthetic.”

She laughed, finally looking at him again.

“I’m serious, Hopps,” he added, softer now, casual but not really. “Do you… like it?”

There it was.

The question he’d been dancing around all night.

He waited, tail perfectly still, pretending his entire nervous system wasn’t hanging on her answer.

Just tell me.

Tell me.

Tell me.

Tell me.

Judy chuckled softly.

“Nick, you don’t need my approval.”

Oh, but he did.

Desperately.
Viscerally.

He laughed too, a little too fast, a little too loud, the sound tipping into something almost hysterical before he could stop it. He stepped closer, paws coming up to rest on her shoulders.

Then he dropped the smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers, “but tell me anyway. I need the answer to come out of your mouth.”

She blinked at him, clearly taken aback.

Honestly, he couldn’t blame her.

“…I love it?” she said, uncertain.

His brow furrowed immediately.

“Is that a question,” he asked, far too seriously, “or an affirmation?”

“An affirmation,” she said confused, “I think it’s really lovely. Very… feminine. Which I actually like a lot.” She glanced around again. “It’s weird, because I know your taste is usually a little different. And you’re acting kind of weird right now.”

He let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Relief washed over him so fast it almost made his knees weak.

“So you find it… acceptable,” he said, needing to hear it one last time.

“Yes,” she replied, a little concerned now. “Of course.”

He smiled again, a touch too quickly, already pretending they hadn’t just had the strangest and most awkward exchange of his life.

“Cool,” he said, clapping his paws together like that settled everything. “Great. Fantastic.”

He stepped back, gesturing toward the living room.

“Come on, Carrots,” he said, slipping back into his easygoing tone. “The movies are waiting.”

He guided her toward the couch, gently taking the plastic bag from her paws and setting it aside.

And as she sat, smiling, completely unaware of the internal disaster she was causing, the thought hit him—clear and terrifying.

He wondered, quite seriously, if he was going to survive the night.

Not the movies.
Not the invasion.

Her.

Chapter Text

Judy sank into the couch.

“Oh, Nick,” she sighed, melting into the cushions. “This is amazing. These pillows are… ridiculously comfortable. Where did you even get them?”

“Woolmart,” he said quickly.

He crossed his arms, like that might somehow keep the stupid amount of satisfaction blooming in his chest from being visible. The pillows had been a win. A big win. File that under things he would never admit out loud.

Judy was fully sprawled out now, eyes closed, ears relaxed, looking way too at home for someone who’d only been there for five minutes.

“Careful, Carrots,” he said lightly. “If you fall asleep, movie night’s gonna be over before it even starts. And I’d hate for you to miss… well. Literally everything.”

She hummed softly but didn’t move.

Internally, though, his brain was doing that thing it did when it absolutely should not be doing that thing.

Because the truth was—if she did fall asleep?

He’d like that.

A lot.

Because that would mean she felt safe. In his place. On his couch.

Which meant she felt safe with him.

Which meant—

Nope.

He shut that line of thought down hard.

“So,” he said, clapping his paws together like a professional who absolutely had his life together, “Judy Hopps, welcome to the official tour of Wilde Manor.”

She blinked.

“…Really?”

Then she was on her feet, ears straight up, eyes bright.

“Really?” she repeated, already grinning.

Nick huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. She was way too excited about getting a tour of a one-bedroom basement apartment.

“Yep. If you’ll follow me, madam,” he said, gesturing dramatically. “Please keep your paws inside the ride at all times.”

He cleared his throat.

“To your left,” he announced, “you’ll see the couch you are already emotionally attached to. Featuring the softest pillows known to mammalkind.”

She smiled, clearly fighting the urge to flop back onto it.

“And to your right,” he continued, “our state-of-the-art entertainment system. Flat screen. Very large. Excellent sound quality.”

He paused, tapping the side of the TV.

“Acquired through… unconventional means,” he added. “Not illegal. But also not legal.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes.

He smirked. Worth it.

He moved a few steps over and gestured toward his desk.

“Here we have my workstation,” he said. “Also known as the chair where I occasionally sit and plan my inevitable world domination.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“Can’t tell you more than that. Classified.”

She snorted.

“Next stop: the other corner of the room” he said, spreading his arms like he was unveiling a priceless artifact, “This is my mattress. Where I fight for my life every morning when my alarm goes off.”

He nodded solemnly.

“Very bravely.”

Then he turned and pointed to the closet.

“And finally, we arrive at the crown jewel.”

He slid the door open with a flourish, revealing rows upon rows of Hawaiian shirts.

Judy stared.

“…Nick,” she said slowly, “do you own any other kind of shirt?”

He gasped, offended.

“Well, I am a mammal of fashion.”

He plucked one shirt from the rack and held it up proudly.

“An iconic look must be recognizable. And when something is perfect, you do not mess with it.”

She smiled, tilting her head.

“I don’t know,” she said casually. “Because at the Zootennial Gala, when I saw you in that suit…”

She looked up at him.

“You looked really handsome.”

Nick opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His brain short-circuited completely.

Oh.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

She was smiling at him softly. Violet eyes making direct contact with him. 

And for half a second, he thought about saying it.

That yeah—she’d looked beautiful that night.
Not nice.
Not cute.
Beautiful.

The kind that had knocked the air right out of his lungs when she’d jumped off that van.

That he’d actually loved what she’d done with her ears.
That yellow was undeniably her color, the way it made her violet eyes pop.

The words made it all the way to the tip of his tongue.

And then fear got there first.

Hard.

So he did what he always did.

He smiled.

“Well,” he said lightly, lifting a paw in mock agreement, “obviously”

He gestured to himself.

“It’s not every day the city gets to witness this level of handsomeness. I really outdid myself.”

He flashed her a grin, hoping—maybe a little too desperately—that she hadn’t noticed how close he’d come to saying something else. Something stupid.

For just a second, he thought he saw it.

Disappointment.

It was barely a second. A flash in her eyes. Then she blinked, straightened up, and smiled again.

“Shall we continue the tour?” she said.

He straightened slightly. “Of course”

“If you’ll kindly follow me,” he said, gesturing with both paws, “we now enter the east wing.”

“Formerly known as the kitchen,” he announced. “A fully integrated culinary annex, conveniently located just three steps from absolutely everything else.”

She stopped. 

Then she sniffed.

Once.

Twice.

Her nose scrunched slightly as the scent finally caught up with her.

“Wait,” she said, eyes flicking toward the oven. “You actually cooked dinner?”

He inclined his head with quiet pride.

“Indeed.”

“Tonight’s offering is a vegan lasagna,” he continued. “Prepared in-house by Chef Wilde.”

Her eyes widened.

He stepped aside, presenting the oven like a priceless artifact.

“You now have the exclusive honor of sampling a Wilde family specialty, passed down through generations.”

“Wow.”

“Dinner will be served in approximately fifteen minutes.”

He clapped his paws together softly.

“In the meantime,” he said, already moving, “please allow me to continue the tour.”

He gestured toward a narrow space.

“Over here you’ll find the bathroom,” he said. “Where I bathe.”

He paused.

“Occasionally.”

She let out a small laugh.

Encouraged, he kept going.

“And here we have the main entrance,” he continued. “Which you’ve already seen”.

“And here we have…”

He took a few steps before realizing she wasn’t behind him.

He stopped and turned.

Judy was still by the door, standing in front of the small table he’d placed there.

His place of honor.

It occurred to him that she might not have noticed it when she first walked in—too distracted by the apartment, by how different it looked.

But now there was nothing else competing for her attention.

They didn’t speak.

Her gaze moved slowly, deliberately.

The framed newspaper article, the photograph of the two of them frozen in that moment.

The Night Howler tie, hanging neatly to the side—the one she’d given him to celebrate their first case together.

And below it, the small stand designed to hold the carrot pen she’d gifted him the day he graduated from the police academy.

The engraving at the base read:

Our first case
To a sly fox, from a dumb bunny.

The stand was empty now.

The pen was with her.

He walked back and stopped beside her, close enough to feel the warmth she carried with her.

She turned to him.

Her eyes were glassy—not spilling over, not yet—but bright with everything she wasn’t saying.

She drew a quiet breath.

“Oh, Nick,” she said softly.

And then, almost as if she were reminding herself as much as him—

“It’s us.”

The feeling hit him all at once. Too big. Too heavy to hold.

His gaze drifted back to the table, and the thought slipped in before he could stop it.

This was a shrine.

Not intentionally. But still.

A shrine to their partnership. To their shared history, laid out in plain sight.

A Judy shrine.

Warmth crept up his neck, sharp and unwelcome.

It was embarrassing.

He reached back, rubbing the back of his head, suddenly aware of how exposed he was standing there beside her.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than he’d meant it to be.

He let out a slow breath. “It’s us.”

She reached for his paw.

He held on.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.

They shifted, slowly, until they were facing each other fully.

He looked at her—really looked.

Her violet eyes, wide and luminous.

The delicate slope of her nose.

The grey shade of her fur.

She was beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like something he had no right to want, and yet his body betrayed him anyway. He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to—but she didn’t. 

His paw lifted almost on its own, fingers brushing her cheek with hesitant care, and she leaned into the touch, her breath catching softly as if she’d felt it too. The remaining distance between them closed, their foreheads nearly touching.

“Judy I—”

And then—

BAM!

The whole apartment shuddered, a brief but violent tremor rippling through the floor and walls.

They both jumped back instinctively, hearts racing, the moment scattering between them.

Nick looked up at the ceiling, utterly offended, like it had personally wronged him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Damned elephants.”

Judy blinked, still processing, her ears twitching as she let out a nervous breath.

“I—uh—wow,” she said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “That was… definitely not on the tour brochure.”

She laughed, a little too fast. A little too loud.

He looked at her.

“The earthquake!” she blurted out, rushing to fill the silence. “I mean—the earthquake.”
She gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, then the floor, then gave up altogether.

“Yeah. That was… unexpected.”

She let out a small, breathy laugh and cleared her throat, visibly trying to regain control. Then she looked back at him, concern softening her expression.

“Nick,” she asked gently, “are you okay?”

He was not.

The realization hit him with sudden, nauseating clarity. With a kind of detached horror, he understood just how close they had come.

Had he almost—

No.

He cut the thought off before it could finish forming.

You didn’t do that with your best friend.

That was something you did with your girlfriend.
Not your girl friend. With a space in the middle.

His chest tightened.

This was bad.
This was really bad.

His mind kicked into overdrive, scrambling to regain control, to shove everything back into neat, manageable boxes where it belonged.

Best friend went here.
Partner went here.

Feelings—weird feelings—did not get to cross that line.

Except they almost had.

His breathing went shallow, his pulse suddenly too loud in his ears.

This was insane.

The whole situation was insane.

The apartment. The Denning. The Judy shrine. The way she’d looked at him. The way he’d leaned in without even thinking.

He forced himself to inhale slowly, then exhale, grounding himself before the panic could spill over.

Get it together, Wilde.

This was Judy.

“Nick?” Called Judy slightly concerned.

He snapped out of it.

“Right,” he said, forcing a little brightness into his voice as he straightened. “Well, that officially concludes the Wilde Manor Tour.”

He gestured around grandly.

“We are open twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year. Entirely at your disposal.”

That did it.

Judy nodded.

She glanced down at the floor, just for a second, shyly, in a way that felt oddly familiar, then looked back up at him with a soft smile.

“Thank you” she said. 

“Cool”. Nick said. “Now let’s go back to the couch. It’s time to pick the movie.”

He offered her his paw.

She took it—briefly—then let go and, instead of sitting properly, hopped forward and flopped into the cushions with unapologetic enthusiasm.

“Sooooo good,” she said, delighted.

He chuckled under his breath and took a seat beside her.

With all the new pillows the couch was much more softer than he remembered, he had to admit.

He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

The screen lit up, scrolling through options.

“Alright,” he said. “Ground rules. No documentaries about carrot farming.”

She shot him a look.

“That was one time.”

“A very educational time,” he said smoothly. “I’m still recovering.”

She leaned back into the cushions, pretending to think.

“Fine. But no heist movies.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Your loss Hopps.”

Nick barely finished the sentence before Judy lunged.

“Hey—!”

He yelped as she grabbed for the remote, their paws colliding midair. For a second they both had it, fingers tangled around the plastic.

She tugged hard and managed to pull it toward herself.

“Absolutely not,” she said, clutching it to her chest. “We are watching something classic.”

He immediately leaned in, reaching over her arm.

“Classic as in black and white?” he said, trying to pry it loose. “Or classic as in putting me to sleep?”

She scoffed and twisted away from him, keeping the remote just out of reach.

“Early cinema is a cultural treasure.”

“Sure,” he said, snatching the remote back, “if by treasure you mean ninety minutes of mammals staring meaningfully into the distance.”

She hopped closer on the couch, bracing a knee against the cushions for leverage, and yanked the remote right out of his paw.

“They’re called expressive pauses.”

“They’re called hibernation,” he shot back—and with a quick movement, he hooked a finger around the edge of the remote and pulled.

It slipped from her grip and into his.

“We are not watching explosions and car chases,” she said, immediately lunging for it again.

“Hey,” he protested, leaning back to counter her pull as she latched onto the other end, tail flicking. “Action films are a proud predator tradition.”

“Oh please,” she said, teeth flashing in a grin as she tugged. “You just like watching things crash.”

“Coming from the bunny who once crashed a pig-mobile,” he said, tightening his grip, “straight into the giant statue of Ebenezer Lynxley?”

“That was an accident,” she shot back.

“And if you really think about it,” she added, pointedly, “the guy was a fraud. So honestly? I did the city—and Gary’s great-grandma—a favor.”

She kept pulling, the motion drawing them closer until their knees bumped.

He followed without letting go.

“You’re telling me,” he said lightly, a teasing edge slipping into his voice, “you don’t want something with a little danger?”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“You Judy Hopps? Of all mammals?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I get enough danger at work.”

“And yet,” he said, lowering his voice, “here you are, wrestling a fox over electronics.”

She huffed a laugh—and yanked harder.

“Let go Nick.”

“Make me Carrots.”

She did.

By suddenly shifting her weight and pouncing forward.

He barely had time to brace himself before she tackled him sideways, both of them tumbling into the cushions, still fighting over the remote.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, laughing now too as he lifted his paw high to keep it out of her reach.

“Give it to me!”

“Absolutely not.”

She grabbed at his wrist. He dodged—barely—and in a last, desperate move, switched tactics.

He tickled her.

She squeaked, completely unprepared, laughter bursting out of her as she tried to squirm away.

“Hey—! That’s cheating!”

“All’s fair in movie selection,” he said, grinning as he tickled her again.

She writhed, half-laughing, half-protesting, trying to keep her balance on the couch.

“Nick—stop—!”

But her grip slipped.

The remote went flying somewhere behind them as she lost her footing entirely.

They tumbled again—

—and then everything stopped.

Nick landed flat on his back against the cushions.

Judy landed on top of him.

Their laughter faded into something softer, breathless.

Her knees were braced on either side of his hips, her paws resting against his chest as she froze, suddenly very aware of how close they were.

Too close.

Their faces were inches apart.

Close enough that he could feel her breath again.

Close enough that neither of them dared to move.

Nick swallowed.

He felt his heart beat widely in his chest.

“Judy…” he started.

And then his brain completely betrayed him.

Because this position—this very specific, very unfortunate position—was doing strange things to him. Distracting things. Unhelpful things happening in his lower body, his instincts responding far too eagerly to the situation.

She was straddling him. Close enough that every small shift of her weight registered far too clearly, her warmth pressing into him in a way that sent his thoughts scattering in all the wrong directions.

Okay.
No.

Absolutely not.

He forced himself to breathe.

He needed to say something. Anything. Something charming. A smooth line. A polite request to please, for the love of everything, reposition before his internal systems fully short-circuited.

He opened his mouth to speak, and what came out wasn’t a word but—

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!”

A sharp, high-pitched sound burst from his throat.

A yelp.

No. Worse.

A very loud chirp.

They both froze.

Judy blinked at him.

He blinked back.

Oh no.

Heat rushed under his fur all at once, his ears burning as the horrifying realization hit him. Did he just… scream? Like that? Directly in her face?

“I—” he tried, but nothing useful followed.

Because he genuinely had no explanation for why his body had just betrayed him so spectacularly.

Judy tilted her head slightly, ears twitching.

“…Was that,” she asked carefully, “a fox thing?”

His mouth opened. Closed.

It was.

He knew exactly what it was.

A mating call.

A fox mating call.

The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water straight to the face.

No, no, no. Please for the love of—

That wasn’t supposed to happen. That didn’t happen. Not anymore. Not in polite society. Not after several thousand years of evolution and self-control and learning how to live in apartments instead of dens.

That was… prehistoric.

Instinctive.

Something foxes did before laws, before cities, before common sense.

And he had just done it.

At his best friend.

A bunny.

His brain stopped functioning.

What the hell was he doing, savagely announcing romantic interest—mating interest—to Judy Hopps of all mammals?

Panic kicked in hard.

Before either of them could process what had just happened, he moved.

Hands on her waist, quick but careful, he guided her off him in one smooth motion, sitting her back against the cushions.

He snatched the remote from somewhere between them, holding it up like evidence.

“Not a fox thing” he said quickly, a little too quickly, “Just… a tactic to steal this baby. Psychological warfare.” He gestured vaguely with the remote. “And it worked.”

Judy stared at him for a second longer, then rolled her eyes.

“You’re so dumb,” she said smiling. “For a second there, I was really worried. I thought you screamed because I hurt you or something.”

Nick laughed—too loud.

“Please,” he said. “I’m much tougher than I look.”

She snorted and settled back into the couch.

And somehow—miraculously—

She bought it.

“You know what,” he said suddenly, voice a little too casual, “on second thought—you’re the guest.” He extended the remote toward her. “You should have full movie-picking rights.”

Judy stared at him, surprised.

“Oh. Uh—really?”

“Absolutely,” he said quickly. “Hospitality. Very important. Core value of the Wilde Manor.”

She took the remote, still blinking.

“Well… okay then.”

“Great,” he said, already standing. “If you’ll excuse me for just a second, I need to—uh—use the restroom.”

Before she could reply, he turned and made a beeline for the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him and immediately leaned back against it, breathing hard.

Oh my god.
Oh my god, oh my god.

What had he just done?

He squeezed his eyes shut, sliding his head back until it hit the door softly.

A mating call.

He had made a mating call.

An actual, honest-to-evolution fox mating call.

Thank god she wasn’t a fox. Thank god she had no idea what that sound meant. Because if she did, she would know that he had just instinctively broadcasted interest—biological, deeply wired interest—right to her face.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

He’d spent the last two days rearranging his apartment. Denning. Making it comfortable. Safe. Familiar.

His chest tightened.

This meant… two things. 

One: apparently his body was very interested in mating.

Two: apparently his body had decided Judy Hopps was the target.

He groaned softly, dragging a paw down his face.

Nope. That was not helpful.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, forcing his breathing to slow. “Okay, Nick. Calm down.”

He straightened a little, switching gears.

Think rationally.

Objectively speaking—purely objectively—Judy was a very attractive female. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. That didn’t mean anything. You could acknowledge that your best friend was attractive. That was allowed. Normal, even.

And he was a male mammal. With physical needs. Needs that sometimes got… confused. Misfired. Pointed themselves in inconvenient directions.

Yes. That was it.

That made sense.

He nodded to himself, encouraged.

This was just biology being stupid. He was in control. He had always been in control. He wasn’t going to ruin the most important friendship in his life over a rogue instinct and one very unfortunate sound.

He took a deep breath.

Then another.

This would pass.
It was just a stupid—perfectly normal—bodily reaction. Nothing more.
It would go away.
Eventually.

“I’m in charge,” he whispered.
“Not my body. I am.”

He squared his shoulders, reached for the door handle, and opened it.

And immediately jumped a foot in the air.

“AHHHHHH—!”

Another sharp chirp burst out of him as Judy stood right outside the bathroom door, remote in hand, eyebrows raised in surprise.

She blinked.

Nick froze.

“…Sorry,” she said slowly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stared at her, mortified.

“I just—” she added quickly, still a little shaken by the fact that he kept screaming loudly directly in her face, “I think the lasagna might be burning.”

“Shoot.”

He rushed to the oven just in time to see smoke curling out from the edges of the door.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

He grabbed the oven mitts in a hurry and yanked the door open, immediately waving one paw in front of his face as the smoke puffed out into the kitchen.

Yeah.
That was bad.

He pulled the tray out and stared at it for a long second.

What had once been a lasagna was now… a blackened crust. Charred beyond recognition. No layers. No sauce. Just one solid, tragic slab of burnt regret.

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath and shoved the tray toward the sink, letting it crash down with a dull clatter.

So much for Chef Wilde.

He dragged both paws down his face and leaned back against the counter, eyes squeezed shut.

“This isn’t going how it was supposed to,” he snapped quietly to himself.

He dragged in a tense breath, ears pinned back.

“This whole damn movie night is driving me nuts.”

The words left his mouth sharper than he intended, heavy with frustration.

He didn’t look at her.

Because the problem wasn’t her.
It was everything else.

The burnt lasagna. His body. The chaos in his head. And beneath all of it—something older, louder, impossible to ignore.

A restless, instinctive urge clawed at him, demanding attention.

Feed her.

The thought hit him hard, sudden and undeniable. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. A deep, uncomfortable pull insisting that she shouldn’t be standing there hungry. That she should be safe, warm, comfortable. Fed.

Taken care of.

His jaw tightened as he stared down at the ruined lasagna.

Well. That option was gone.

The urge didn’t fade. If anything, it got worse—urgent, insistent, pushing him to fix it. To find food. Now. Immediately.

Okay. Think.

He closed his eyes, already mentally inventorying what he had left. Not enough ingredients. No time to cook again. Maybe takeout. Maybe that noodle place two blocks down. Or pizza. Not ideal, but food was food. Something warm. Something fast.

He could make it work.

He just needed a minute.

“Nick—”

He didn’t hear her at first, too busy calculating delivery times.

“Nick.”

He inhaled sharply, eyes still shut.

“Yes Carrots?” he said automatically making mental gymnastics.

And then he saw her.

She was standing near the couch, shoulders slightly drawn in. Her ears drooped low, no attempt made to hide it. Her paws were clasped together in front of her, fingers fidgeting.

“I think,” she said softly, voice careful, almost timid, “I’m going home.”

That snapped his eyes fully open.

“What—? No—” He stared at her, panic flaring instantly. “Why?”

She didn’t look at him.

For one awful second, his brain refused to connect the dots.

“Hey,” he said quickly, stepping toward her, heart pounding. “It’s okay. I’ll find something else to eat. I can order something. That’s not—”

She shook her head, slow and gentle.

“It’s not that,” she said.

Finally, she looked up at him.

Her eyes were sad. So sad.

“It’s just…” she hesitated, then forced herself to finish, “what you said. About this movie night driving you nuts.”

The words landed like a punch.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Because suddenly he could hear it. Exactly how it had sounded.

Like regret.

Like he regretted this—her being here, in his home.

Like she was the problem.

“No,” he said immediately, too fast. “No, that’s not—Judy, that’s not what I meant.”

She gave a small shrug, trying—and failing—to look casual.

“It’s fine,” she said quietly.
“Dr. Fuzzby once told me that sometimes I struggle with empathy when it comes to you. That I tend to trailblaze—push forward without stopping to check if you’re actually comfortable.”

She paused, her grip tightening slightly around her own paws.

“I wanted to see your place because I kept wondering why you never invited me,” she admitted. “But now I think I pushed too hard. I didn’t wait for you to be ready—I kind of forced the invitation.”

Her shoulders dipped.

“Ever since I got here…” she added quietly, “you’ve been acting different. Very… weird.”

She hesitated, then glanced around the apartment.

“And seeing all of this…” She gestured vaguely. “The changes. The cooking. You trying so hard to make everything nice.”

She shook her head.

“It doesn’t feel fair,” she said softly. “Like you did all of this because you felt you had to. Because I put you in that position.”

She looked up at him then, eyes full of guilt.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to rearrange your life for me, Nick,” she said quietly.
“Or decorate. Or cook. Or make yourself uncomfortable just because I pushed you.”

Her voice wavered, just enough to give her away.

“I’m really sorry,” she added. “I shouldn’t have pressured you into inviting me over.”
She hesitated, then looked at him again.
“And I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t say no.”

His instincts screamed.

Abort. Solve. Now.

His mind went into overdrive, trying to course-correct—because this wasn’t what he meant. And it was going wrong fast.

He wanted to tell her that wasn’t it.
To apologize.
To explain that when he’d said the movie night was driving him nuts, he hadn’t meant her. He’d meant himself. His mess. His nerves. His stupid instincts short-circuiting all at once.

He wanted to tell her that he was happy she was here.

Too happy.

Uncomfortably, dangerously happy.

Happy in a way that didn’t fit neatly into the word friendship.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t say any of it.

Because if she realized what he was thinking—what he was feeling—he would scare her. And if he scared her, she would leave. Not just tonight, but for real. She would put distance between them. Professional distance. Safe distance.

And that thought froze him in place.

So he said nothing.

Judy stood there for a moment longer, waiting. When he didn’t respond, she slowly reached for her phone where she’d left it on the couch.

She turned back to him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m really sorry about all the inconvenience,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

Her ears were still low.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Good night partner,” she added gently, like she was trying to reassure him.

She lifted a paw in a small wave.

Then she turned, walked to the door, and let herself out.

The door closed with a soft, final click.

Nick didn’t move.

The apartment felt suddenly enormous. Hollow. Too quiet.

This was supposed to be a normal movie night. The kind normal animals had. Sit on the couch. Pick something dumb. Share food. Laugh. That was it.

Simple.

And somehow, his instincts had managed to ruin all of it.

He dragged a paw down his face, staring at the closed door.

This was his fault.

Maybe he was just that starved for affection. So used to being alone that the moment he finally had a real friend—someone who chose to be there—his body had gone completely feral about it.

Like it didn’t know the difference anymore.

Like it didn’t understand that this mattered.

That she mattered.

His chest tightened.

Because chances were, he’d just pushed that friend away. The most important one he’d ever had.

He swallowed hard.

What had he done?

Chapter Text

A few moments passed.

He didn’t know how many.

Nick was still standing in the middle of the apartment, unmoving, staring at nothing at the door, when the weight of it finally settled in.

She had left thinking she was a burden.

Thinking she’d pushed her way into his home, made him uncomfortable, overstayed her welcome. Thinking he hadn’t wanted her there at all.

And he hadn’t stopped her.

His paws went to his head, claws catching lightly in his fur as his breath hitched.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no…”

He dragged in a shaky breath and turned, almost without meaning to—

—and his gaze landed on the framed newspaper clipping.

Their photo.

The sight of it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. 

Judy didn’t deserve that.

She didn’t deserve to walk away with her ears low and that careful, polite smile she wore when she was trying not to show she’d been hurt. She didn’t deserve to think she was an inconvenience. Or a mistake. Or something he’d tolerated out of obligation.

His throat tightened painfully.

This was his fault.

Of his instincts going high-wire. Of his messed up mind. And probably his traumatic childhood.

But he was the one responsible.

The one who had been too afraid to let her see.
Too afraid to let her in, terrified that she’d be disgusted by what she could find there.

That if she ever saw the real him—the messier parts, the instincts, the things he barely understood himself—she wouldn’t like what lay underneath.

And she would leave.

Run.
Abandon him.

The irony settled in painfully.

And he had let her go. He had stood there and watched her walk away without saying a word—no explanation, no apology, no attempt to make it right.

The realization had barely settled when panic surged, hot and immediate, stealing the air from his lungs.

“Oh no,” he breathed. “What have I done?”

He moved before he could think better of it.

Phone. Wallet. Badge. Keys.

He shoved everything into his pockets. He didn’t bother turning off the lights. 

He bolted out of the apartment, heart pounding as he took the stairs two at a time, the night rushing up to meet him.

Please don’t be gone.

Please don’t be gone.

He looked around quickly, instinct guiding him as he guessed the direction she would’ve taken toward her place.

And then he ran.

He moved through the street on pure momentum, slipping past other mammals without slowing, murmured apologies lost in the noise as his eyes searched desperately for her—for a flash of gray in the crowd, for anything familiar.

Nothing.

She wasn’t there.

He kept running anyway, refusing to stop, legs burning as the distance stretched on. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he found himself silently grateful for the training he’d gone through at the police academy. Without it, he would’ve already been gasping for air.

The street gradually thinned out, the noise of the city fading as he turned onto a quieter block.

And that’s when he saw her.

Walking alone ahead of him.

Her ears were low, drooping in a way that made his chest ache instantly. Her shoulders were drawn inward, her steps slower, heavier.

“Carrots!” he shouted, the nickname tearing out of him before he could think better of it.

She didn’t turn.

His heart stuttered.

He pushed himself harder, breath coming faster now.

“Judy!” he called, louder, urgent.

That time, she stopped.

Slowly, she turned around.

“Nick?” she said, turning as she finally saw him.

She stopped.

He reached her a second later.

He bent forward, paws braced on his knees.

“Judy,” he started, voice rough. “I—”

He forced himself upright, shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. “What I said—about the movie night driving me nuts—it wasn’t about you. It was about me.”

She frowned slightly.

“I’m driving myself nuts,” he added quickly, like the clarification mattered. “Not you.”

She shook her head gently.

“No, Nick. It’s okay. Really,” she said, but there was nothing okay about the way her ears stayed low. “I already told you—it was my fault. I pushed you into inviting me over. I know foxes are solitary animals, and I didn’t want to make you feel invaded.”

She said it softly, carefully.

And it hurt.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head harder now, almost frantic. “No, you don’t make me feel like that. I like having you at my place. I like it—a lot.”

She opened her mouth, but he rushed on.

“It’s just me,” he said. “I’m the one who’s… acting crazy. My instincts are being stupid. I’m being stupid. That’s not a you thing. That’s a me thing.”

She tried to speak again.

“No, Nick, I’m really—”

“I don’t want you thinking—”

They talked over each other, both trying to fix it, neither quite landing.

She took a small step back, lifting a paw gently to slow things down.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

He fell silent.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“Why don’t we do this,” she said softly. “We both go home. We cool down. And we talk about this on Monday—when we’re both a little calmer.”

She offered him a small, careful smile.

“Okay?”

Nick stood there, chest still heaving, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

“No. Not okay.”

She sighed.

“Nick, really. Maybe we both need time,” she started. “To rest. To sleep. And then we can discuss this later when—”

“Judy?”

He cut in before she could finish.

She stopped.

He didn’t know what expression crossed her face then—only that something in him snapped, sharp and sudden, before he could talk himself out of it.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, already moving.

“What? Nick, what are you—”

He didn’t let her finish.

One arm slid around her waist—firm, decisive—and he lifted. He swung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She gasped, paws flying to his back as she instinctively steadied herself.

“Nick!” she protested. “What are you doing?”

Her voice had that sharp edge she used on suspects.

“We’re going back to my place,” he said, already walking. “We’re going to talk.”

“Really?” she snapped, incredulous. “Is this necessary? You do realize I could break free, kick you, and put you flat on the ground in two seconds, right?”

He kept moving, steps steady even as his pulse hammered.

“True,” he replied evenly. “But you’re not the only one with police training, Carrots.”

He felt her shift on his shoulder—small, controlled adjustments of weight. The kind that made him painfully aware she could get out of this if she wanted. 

“Oh, really?” she said, irritation sharpening each syllable. “You really want to try me, Sly?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you back to my apartment,” he said, tightening his hold just a fraction, “then yeah. I’ll take my chances.”

They hadn’t gone far before he heard it.

“Hey!”

He didn’t stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice demanded, loud enough to turn heads.

Nick glanced sideways just long enough to clock two deer standing near the curb.

One of them pointed straight at him.
“You’re kidnapping a rabbit!”

The other scoffed.
“Figures. Of course it’s a fox.”
He was already pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

Nick opened his mouth to snap back—

—and felt Judy twist sharply on his shoulder, her head snapping toward them.

“Excuse me?!” she shot back. “Just because he’s a fox doesn’t mean he’s committing a crime!”

“Miss,” one of the deer said, tense and loud, “you’re literally being kidnapped.”

“I am the police!”

Both deer froze.

“…He’s kidnapping a cop?” one of them whispered, horrified.

Judy’s voice went cold and lethal.
“He’s a cop too!”

Nick exhaled slowly through his nose. He slowed just enough to reach into his pocket, pull out his badge, and flash it under the streetlight.

“ZPD,” he said flatly. “Both of us.”

He looked at them, unimpressed.

“Move along,” he added. “Unless you’re trying to make bigger asses of yourselves.”

The deer didn’t argue. The phone lowered.

Judy, still visibly furious, snapped, “And you know what? I love being kidnapped by a fox!”

Nick winced internally.

He turned his attention forward and kept walking.

“Shhhhhh, Carrots!”

Behind them, Nick heard one of the deer mutter, his voice thick with disgust,
“Then it must be some kind of weird kinky thing.”

Judy didn’t even hesitate.

She twisted slightly on his shoulder and shouted back, voice sharp and unapologetic,
“Yeah?! So what if it is?!”

“You’re crazy, lady!” one of them called after them.

Nick didn’t look back.

He just adjusted his grip and kept going.

A second later, he felt Judy bristle on his shoulder.

“Sweet cheese and crackers. How dare they,” she snapped. “Discusting small-minded mammals.”

The anger in her voice made something warm and stupid flicker in his chest. He let out a short, quiet chuckle before he could stop himself. Watching an enraged rabbit was—objectively—the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

Not that he would ever, ever say that out loud. He liked his limbs intact.

He slowed his steps.

“Hey,” he said carefully, “if I put you down… are you going to come back to my place so we can actually talk?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

That was all.

He nodded once, then stopped and lowered her back to the ground, gentle and deliberate. When she was steady on her feet, they stood there for a second longer than necessary.

Neither of them spoke. They looked at each other for a few moments.

Nick finally extended his paw. She hesitated, but then she took it.

They turned and walked back toward his apartment side by side, still holding on. Neither of them spoke. Nick was acutely aware of the warmth of her paw in his.

When they reached his place, he unlocked the door and held it open. They stepped inside in silence.

He closed the door behind them.

He shifted his weight, ears flicking nervously.

“Uh… you can sit, if you want.” he offered, gesturing vaguely toward the couch.

She let out a slow breath.

“If you’re going to say something,” she said, looking at him, “it’s probably better if you start now. Please.”

She wasn’t angry. He could see that much. But the sadness was still there, lingering around her eyes

Okay. No more stalling.

“What I said earlier,” he began, “about the movie night driving me nuts—that wasn’t about you.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“It was about me,” he added. “Very specifically me.”

She opened her mouth, probably to argue—but he jumped in before she could.

“I know I’m solitary,” he said. “Even for a fox. I mean… I’m basically a professional loner.”

That got a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. Encouraging.

“And if I’m being honest,” he went on, voice lowering a notch, “I’ve never really had anyone over. Ever.”

That did it.

She looked at him properly now.

“What about Finnick?” she asked. “I mean—or a friend?”

“You’re the first,” he said, quieter.

She started to say something, but he kept talking, afraid that if he paused—even for a second—he’d lose his nerve.

“And the thing is,” he said quickly, words spilling out now, “when you told me you were coming over, I was actually… happy. Like—really happy.”

She gave him a look. 

“Because you’re my best friend,” he said, softer. “You know how much you matter to me. And I guess I wanted to…” He waved a paw vaguely, searching for the word. “Make a good impression.”

He gestured around the apartment.

“So yeah. I decorated. I cooked. I maybe tried a little too hard,” he admitted. “But not because I felt pressured. I wanted you to like it here. I wanted you to feel comfortable.”

He shrugged, ears flicking with self-consciousness.

“And before you say that’s a bad thing—honestly? If anything,” he said, glancing around again, “it kind of feels like an upgrade to my life.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Even the pink?”

He snorted.

“Especially the pink,” he said. “I like pretty things. I like pink. I’m done pretending I don’t—and I refuse to live under the tyranny of fragile masculinity.”

That finally did it.

She chuckled. 

Not loud. Not long. But real.

And the sound loosened something tight in his chest.

Okay. Good. 

He hesitated again, fingers flexing at his side.

“I know I’ve been acting weird,” he said. “That part’s on me too.”

Her ears angled forward slightly.

“Why?” she asked.

Here it was.

He swallowed.

“Instincts,” he said. “Fox ones.”

She waited.

He appreciated that she didn’t rush him.

“At home,” he said carefully, choosing his words, “foxes can get a little… intense when it comes to the people they care about. Their, uh… friends.”

He made a vague gesture with a paw. “There’s this instinct to make sure they’re comfortable. Fed. Safe. Happy.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head.

“Sometimes it goes a bit overboard. Okay—sometimes way overboard,” he admitted. “And yeah, I’m aware it probably looked a little unhinged.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“But it wasn’t because I didn’t want you here,” he said, more firmly now. “It was the opposite.”

He hesitated, then added, softer, before he could overthink it,

“I really like having you here. Like… a lot.”

His ears flicked, betraying his nerves.

“I just didn’t want to freak you out.”

She frowned, clearly processing.

“So,” she said slowly, “that’s why you got mad about the burnt lasagna?”

He nodded immediately.

“Yeah,” he said. “For a fox, it’s… kind of frustrating not to have food ready when someone comes over.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if it looked like something else.”

She tilted her head.

“And the screaming in my face?”

He cleared his throat, heat crawling up his neck.

Yeah. That part.

“That,” he said carefully, “is… harder to explain.”

She waited.

He took that as permission to keep talking.

“Traditionally,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “foxes make noises to, uh… establish boundaries.”

Her nose twitched.

“It’s like,” he went on, words coming faster now, “hey, this is my friend, back off, nothing to see here, we’re having friend time.”

He lied through his teeth. He wanted to fix things—really did—but there was no way, absolutely no way, he was going to talk about mating instincts or what any of that actually meant.

“Very friendly. Very normal. Very—” he searched for the word, “—platonic.”

He winced, fully aware of how flimsy the excuse sounded. He kept his expression carefully neutral, even as his brain ran in tight, panicked circles around the part he absolutely could not say out loud.

She stared at him.

“So,” she said slowly, “all the weird stuff tonight was because of your fox instincts.”

He nodded immediately.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

Too quickly.

“I’m sorry, Carrots,” he added. “They’re weird. I’m weird. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or anything, that’s why I didn’t bring it up. It’s just—”

“Nick!”

She punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” he yelped, clutching his arm. “Hey!”

She didn’t even blink.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she shot back.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you,” he said.

“Nick, I’m your best friend,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “We’re supposed to be able to say these things to each other.”

“It’s embarrassing,” he muttered.

That set her off.

“So what?” she snapped. “Since when do we stop being honest because something’s embarrassing?”

“They’re not just embarrassing,” he fired back, frustration finally snapping. “They’re weird fox things!”

“I don’t care if they’re weird fox things!”

He threw his paws up irritated.

“I don’t want to go full fox crazy on you!”

The words landed hard.

She stared at him.

Then she stepped closer.

“Stop deciding for me what I can handle,” she said.

His ears flattened.

“You’re not listening,” he said, voice tight. “I’m trying not to—”

“No,” she cut in. “I don’t care if it’s awkward,” she went on. “Or instinctual. Or fox-weird. I care that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, sharper than he meant to.

She didn’t back down.

“Yes, I do.”

She was looking at him straight now. 

“So yeah,” she said, voice steady, unflinching, “go full fox crazy on me.”

His mind stalled.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” she snapped. “You keep saying you’re weird like it’s a warning sign. I can handle weird.”

His ears twitched, nerves buzzing.

“Carrots,” he said, lowering his voice, “no.”

She stepped closer.

Too close.

She grabbed the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and yanked him down just enough that he could feel her breath. When she spoke, it was low. Dangerous.

“I said,” she whispered, “go full fox crazy on me.”

That was it.

Something in him finally snapped. His mouth curved slowly, almost despite himself.

“You really want me to go full fox crazy on you?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes!” she shot back. “Yeah!”

He exhaled through his nose.

“Fine!” he growled softly. “Then I’m going full fox crazy.”

He moved before doubt could catch up.

One paw settled at her waist. With the other, he guided her closer—not rough, but firm enough that she couldn’t pretend this was a joke. He leaned in and buried his face briefly against her neck, then her cheek, rubbing his muzzle along her cheek. Once. Twice. Then the other side.

When he pulled back, he released her completely.

She didn’t move.

She just stood there, frozen, mouth slightly open.

“…Did you just scent mark me?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Why—”

“Please don’t ask,” he cut in immediately, hands up.

“But—”

“Nope.” He shook his head, holding up one finger. “You asked for fox crazy. That was fox crazy.”

Before she could recover enough to argue, he gently took her by the waist again and lifted her—this time slower, careful—and set her down on the couch. He adjusted the pillows around her without thinking, tugged a fluffy pink blanket over her legs, then pressed the remote into her paw.

“You comfy?” he asked.

She nodded. Once.

That seemed to be all her system could manage.

He stepped back, chest rising and falling, then pressed a hand over his heart.

“Carrots,” he said quietly, “you have no idea how good that feels.”

He nodded toward the TV.

“Pick a movie. Something we’ll both like. We’re watching it. We’re enjoying it. We are having our movie night.”

He grabbed his phone.

“I’m ordering pizza.”

She stayed exactly where she was—wrapped in pink, staring at him like he’d short-circuited in front of her.

He ordered two large vegan pizzas, hands finally steady again, then sat down beside her, leaving just enough space not to crowd her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They just looked at each other.

Really looked.

And then something in her broke.

She burst out laughing—full, unfiltered, breathless laughter. She folded forward, clutching the blanket, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Nick,” she managed between laughs, “we are such a mess.”

That did it.

He laughed too, rubbing a paw over his face, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “We really are.”

He nudged her shoulder lightly.

“So,” he added, “have you picked a movie yet? Because at this point, I don’t even care if it’s that documentary about carrot farms.”

She laughed again, softer now, finally catching her breath.

“What about fantasy?” she said. “I feel like we’ve earned a little escapism.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds perfect.”

She took the remote, scrolled for a second, then stopped.

“Oh. This one.”

The Lord of the Carrots: The Fellowship of the Bun.

He snorted before he could stop himself, then nodded with exaggerated seriousness.

“An excellent choice, Carrots,” he said. “A cinematic masterpiece.”

She shot him a look that said don’t ruin this for me, then hit play.

Just like that, movie night officially started.

Judy curled up into the couch, tucking her legs under the blanket, sinking back into the pillows like she’d been waiting to do that all evening. The opening music swelled—epic, dramatic, way more serious than it had any right to be—and the screen filled with sweeping landscapes and animals taking themselves very seriously.

Nick barely noticed.

He found himself watching her instead.

She was focused on the screen, eyes forward, ears twitching every now and then in tiny, unconscious reactions to the dialogue. She shifted slightly under the blanket, adjusting, settling in.

Something warm spread through his chest.

It caught him off guard.

For the first time in… days? Longer? His shoulders loosened. His thoughts stopped tripping over each other. The constant noise in his head faded, like someone had finally turned the volume down.

Everything felt… okay.

Huh, he thought.
So this is what peace feels like.

He leaned back a little, exhaling slowly, careful not to disturb her.

She shifted under the blanket again, still watching the screen, then said without looking at him,

“You’re staring.”

“I am not,” he replied automatically.

She smiled, just barely. “You are. I can feel it.”

He smirked. “Wow. That’s unsettling.”

She glanced at him for half a second. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not being weird,” she said, then turned back to the movie. “You’re bad at it.”

He laughed quietly. “I’m offended. I think I’m very good at pretending not to be weird.”

She looked at him again.

He reached out and took her paw—slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

“I’m just glad we’re finally doing this,” he said quietly. “Together.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and smiled. Soft. Unguarded.

She nodded once, then turned back to the screen.

She didn’t let go of his paw.

The movie rolled on. Dramatic music. Slow-motion hero shots. Extremely serious walking.

Nick tried to focus.

He really did.

It lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Because watching Judy watch a movie was infinitely more entertaining.

She leaned forward during tense scenes, nose twitching when the danger escalated. She gasped softly when characters barely escaped, muttered commentary under her breath when they made bad decisions.

“Oh no, no, no,” she whispered. “That’s a terrible idea.”

Nick smiled. “Bold strategy, though.”

She shot him a look. “They’re absolutely going to die.”

“They’re main characters,” he said. “They’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

He chuckled and squeezed her paw without thinking.

She squeezed back.

They watched in silence for a moment, tension building onscreen.

“So,” she said suddenly, eyes still on the TV. “Is it true?”

He glanced at her. “Is what true?”

“That I’m the first person you’ve invited over.”

He blinked. Cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said. “That part’s true.”

She nodded, like she’d already known that. A beat passed.

“And you’ve had…partners before, right?” she asked. “Girlfriends?”.

He shifted slightly uncomfortable. “Uh. Yeah. I have.”

She hummed, still watching the movie. “Okay.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Were they foxes?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Vixens.”

Her ears dipped just a little.

“And you didn’t bring them here?” she continued, voice light, eyes glued to the screen. “To your place, I mean.”

“No,” he said. “Never.”

That made her finally turn to him.

“So,” she said slowly, “I’m like…the first one?”

He frowned, suddenly very aware of where this conversation had gone.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

She stared at him for a second longer.

Then her ears perked back up.

“I see,” she said, and turned back to the movie.

Nick sat there, processing.

“…For the record,” he added, still confused, “you’re the first anyone. Female, male, or otherwise. You’re literally the only living being besides me who’s ever been in this apartment.”

She nodded looking shyly at him “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm,” she murmured. “I just wanted to know.”

And just like that, the questions stopped.

“Oh wow,” she whispered. “They actually saved themselves.”

“Told ya’” Nick murmured. “Main character privileges.”

She leaned a little closer without realizing it.

He didn’t move away.

As the movie went on, her reactions slowly softened.

Her commentary faded into quiet murmurs. She leaned back into the pillows, still watching, but blinking more often now, her focus drifting in and out.

Nick noticed before she did.

“You okay there?” he asked quietly.

“Mm-hm,” she murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Just tired.”

“It’s late,” he said. “You’re falling asleep.”

She hummed in response, a vague sound that barely qualified as an answer. “Didn’t sleep much. Past few days.”

He frowned slightly, about to ask more—

—but before he could, she shifted closer and rested her head against his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Nick went very still.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe too deeply.

And then—without quite realizing when it happened—his tail moved on its own, curling gently around her waist, drawing her just a little closer. 

She didn’t stir.

Her weight relaxed against him, her breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed her. Slowly, completely, until she was fully asleep, warm and real against his side.

Nick stayed frozen for a long moment longer, just to be sure.

Eventually, he shifted carefully, easing them back until he was lying against the couch pink cushions, Judy curled against his chest.

The movie’s credits rolled.

He reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

Then he looked down at her.

Her head rested against his chest now, completely at ease. 

And something in him softened in a way that had nothing to do with instincts.

It felt… light.

Like floating.

Nick lay there with her curled against him, a strange, unfamiliar happiness humming quietly through his whole body.

Huh, he thought vaguely.
This feels nice.

Too nice.

The thought stirred him just enough to wake him fully—and that’s when something clicked.

Wait.

He took a slow mental inventory of himself, bracing for it. For the chaos. The heat. The restless, electric tension he’d spent the last few days blaming on instincts and fox wiring and biology gone rogue.

But it wasn’t there.

No frantic energy.
No itch under his skin.
No urge to move, to fix, to do anything.

He was calm.

Completely, impossibly calm.

That’s… not right, he thought.

This was supposed to feel intense. Horrible. Uncomfortable. Like his body was on high alert.

Instead, lying there with Judy asleep against him, he felt grounded. Safe.

So it’s not just that, he realized slowly. 

It’s not just the body.

If it were only instinct, he wouldn’t feel like this. He wouldn’t feel settled. He wouldn’t feel like the world had finally stopped spinning long enough for him to breathe.

And if it wasn’t just instinct…

Then it had to be something else.

He looked down at her again—the way she fit so easily there, like she’d always belonged in that space, like her weight against him wasn’t something to adjust to, but something that felt… right.

For a moment, he wondered if maybe that was all it was.

Maybe this felt different simply because he’d never really had a friend like this before. Not a real one. Not someone who stayed. Who chose him. Finnick was his friend, sort of—but that was different. Easier. Casual. A shared history, and a very flexible relationship with morality.

Judy was his first real friend.

So maybe that explained it.
Maybe that was why it felt so big.

Except—

He’d had romantic relationships before.
Not many. But they’d existed.

And none of them had ever felt like this.

He’d never felt this quiet pull in his chest with anyone else. Never felt that instinctive need to check if someone was okay, if they were comfortable, if they were happy. Never cared this deeply when someone else was sad, or flinched this hard at the idea of being the reason they were hurting.

Those connections had been… lighter. Simpler. Something he could step into and out of without it changing the shape of his world.

This wasn’t like that.

This wasn’t just friendship either.

If it were, it would’ve stayed easier to carry. Easier to name.

This felt deeper. Way, way deeper.

If it were just instinct, just friendship, he wouldn’t care this much.

Not about her.
Not about her feelings.
Not about the way her happiness mattered to him in a way that made his own feel secondary.

And that was when he understood.

This wasn’t happening because she was his first real friend.

And it wasn’t happening because of biology, or mating instincts, or fox wiring, or some convenient explanation he could hide behind.

It was happening because this was different.

Because she was.

The realization didn’t hit him all at once.

It settled.

Softly. 

Firmly.

Oh.

His chest tightened—not with fear, not with panic, but with fullness. Like something had finally found the space it had been looking for all along.

I’m in love with her.

Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.
Not in a way that sent alarms screaming through his head.

Just… true.

And somehow, that truth felt less like falling—

and more like coming home.

He was in love with Judy.

Finally naming it gave everything a shape. A reason. Like all the chaos of the last few days suddenly clicked into place.

He wasn’t malfunctioning.
He wasn’t losing control.

He was falling in love.

Wrapped around her like this, feeling that truth sink deep into his bones, Nick realized something else too.

For the first time in a long while, he felt exactly where he was supposed to be.

The thought should have terrified him.

Instead, even admitting it—just to himself—felt like exhaling after holding his breath for far too long.

He would panic tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d think about consequences, about lines and risks and everything that could go wrong.

But right now—

His eyelids grew heavy.

Five minutes, he told himself. Just five minutes like this. Then I’ll wake her up and walk her home.

Five minutes of warmth.
Of quiet.
Of her breathing steadily against his chest.

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere before those five minutes were up, Nick Wilde fell asleep too.

The apartment shook.

Not hard. Just enough.

Enough to rattle something somewhere. Enough to drag him out of sleep with that sharp, disorienting jolt that made his heart kick once in his chest.

Elephants, he thought groggily. Probably weight training upstairs.

His awareness drifted downward.

And he froze.

He was holding something warm.

No—someone.

Judy.

Curled against his chest, her head tucked just under his chin, her breathing uneven as she stirred. His tail was still looped around her.

His brain lagged a second behind.

Right.

The movie. The couch. Falling asleep.

He’d fallen asleep holding the little someone he was in love with.

He braced himself.

For panic.

For the sharp rush of what does this mean.

It never came.

There was only calm.

Ease.

A soft, almost embarrassing warmth spread through him.

She stirred, shifting against his chest, then lifted her head.

For a brief second, her expression wasn’t sleepy or confused.

It was… scared.

That snapped him fully awake.

“Hey,” he said softly, concern threading his voice. “You okay, darling?”

She bit her lip.

He noticed how her gaze flicked away before she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “I just—what time is it?”

He reached for his phone, squinting at the screen.

“Uh… nine thirty-five.”

Her body stiffened immediately.

“That late?” she said, pulling back a little too fast. “We slept all night.”

And the second she moved away, he regretted it.

The warmth disappeared too quickly, leaving his chest oddly hollow. He stared at the empty space she’d created between them, his brain lagging for a beat while another part of him weighed something carefully.

Is it appropriate, he wondered, to pull her back against me?

“Seems like it,” he said instead, keeping his tone neutral.

She started to scramble then—too quick, too apologetic. She pushed herself upright, paws fidgeting in her lap.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to overstay, I just—I was really tired and I didn’t even think to ask if it was okay and—”

He watched her closely.

The way her shoulders stayed drawn in.
The way her paws twisted together.
The way she looked like she was already rehearsing an exit in her head.

Like she thought she’d crossed a line.

Like she was afraid she’d taken up too much space.

Oh, hell.

Before he could overthink it—before he could talk himself out of it—he reached out and gently pulled her back against him. 

He closed his eyes, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Well,” he murmured, keeping his voice light, almost lazy, “it’s not nearly late enough for me to wake up on a Saturday.”

He felt her hesitate in his arms. Not pulling away. Just… checking.

He stayed still. Let her decide.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he added softly.

For a second, he wondered if he’d misread everything. If this was too much. Too soon. Too forward for someone who was still—technically—just his best friend.

Then she relaxed again, just a little.

Her weight settled back against his chest. Her paw brushed his shirt, tentative.

Nick let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Okay, he thought.
Still okay.

He kept his hold gentle, his mind whispering don’t rush her.

One thing at a time.

He cracked one eye open.

She was looking up at him now, her brow faintly furrowed, concern soft but unmistakable in her expression. Her ears weren’t fully lifted, not pinned back either—hovering in that uncertain middle ground Nick was starting to recognize a little too well.

“Don’t you feel…” she hesitated, then finished quietly, “…invaded?”

The question landed harder than he’d expected.

Because the truth was—no.

He felt good.

Too good.

Good in a way that made him want to keep her exactly where she was, tucked safely against him. Good in a way that made the idea of her leaving feel wrong, like something being taken away before he was ready to let it go.

I’d rather you stayed, he realized quietly.

Forever, a small, reckless part of him added—one he immediately tried not to listen to.

And maybe… that was it.

Maybe that was what falling in love actually felt like. Wanting someone to stay. Wanting the moment to stretch, uninterrupted.

He’d never really understood it.

But lying there now, with Judy against his chest, her breathing steady, the meaning finally clicked.

“You can stay as long as you want, Carrots,” he said, voice low and careful.

She didn’t answer.

She just nodded.

Then she shifted closer, slowly, as if checking one last time. She buried her face into his chest, into his fur, breathing him in. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly as his tail curled tighter around her.

“Comfy?” he murmured.

She nodded.

They drifted like that for a while, in and out of half-sleep, the world reduced to warmth and steady breathing. At some point, he felt her paw move—light, absentminded—brushing over the fur on his chest. Her ear rested flat against him, pressed directly over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Nick?” she said softly.

“Mmm?”

“Those weird fox things…” She hesitated. “I really don’t want you to feel like you have to hide them from me.”

He opened his eyes.

She was looking at him now, chin resting lightly against his chest, earnest and calm.

Without thinking, he lifted his paw and brushed his thumb along her cheek.

“They are kind of weird,” he admitted quietly.

She snorted. “Maybe a little.”

Then she smiled, softer. “But if this is where they lead… I think they’re more than welcome.”

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Careful. Sounds like you’re planning a hostile takeover of Wilde Manor.”

She tilted her head. “If you’re not careful, I just might.”

They laughed together, easy and familiar.

If it were up to him, they wouldn’t move. They’d stay tangled together all day, doing nothing, letting the world wait.

Eventually, though, he heard it—a soft rumble.

He smiled. “You’re hungry.”

She stiffened slightly. “…Maybe.”

With a quiet chuckle—and far more reluctance than he wanted to admit—Nick shifted so they could sit up.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do breakfast.”

She glanced around the apartment, suddenly shy again.

“Is it okay if I use the bathroom?” she asked.

“Of course.”

While she was gone, Nick wandered into the kitchen and opened a few cabinets. He took stock quickly.

Yeah. Pancakes were doable.

He was still considering ratios when he felt her presence behind him.

“Uh… can I?” she asked, hopeful. “They’re kind of my specialty.”

He turned, blinking. “You cook?”

She winced. “Not… well,” she admitted. “But I can make pancakes.”

He arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. “That sounds dangerously optimistic.”

Her ears twitched.

“Oh really?” she said, already rolling up her sleeves. “You’re about to regret doubting me, Wilde.”

A grin spread across her face as she nudged him aside.

“Move, fox,” she added. “I’m about to make the best pancakes you’ve ever had—and now it’s personal.”

He laughed and stepped aside, giving her the space.

Nick leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching her move through his kitchen—opening drawers, squinting at labels, reaching for bowls like she was mapping unfamiliar territory. And somehow, every small movement felt right. Natural. Like she’d always belonged there.

Before he fully realized what he was doing, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his muzzle lightly against the top of her head.

She tensed.

Just a little.

Too much. He feared immediately.

“Hey,” he murmured, easing his hold just enough to give her space. “Is this okay?”

She paused, spoon hovering over the bowl.

Then he noticed the faint flush inside her ears.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

Relief spread through him.

And somewhere between the second pancake and the smell of something definitely about to burn, it hit him.

Ever since he’d admitted it to himself—that yes, he was absolutely in love with her—it was like his internal rulebook had been set on fire. Distance? Personal space? Gone. Replaced by an almost constant need for physical contact that he was fairly certain he should be more concerned about.

He just hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Or worse—had noticed and decided not to say anything.

But now there was just this.

Her back against his chest.
His arms around her.
The strange, undeniable urge to stay exactly where he was.

He didn’t know when it had happened, or why, only that his body seemed to have decided before his brain could catch up. Like once the truth was out, there was no point pretending otherwise.

And weirdly enough—it didn’t feel reckless.

It felt right.

If this is what falling in love feels like, he thought, resting his muzzle lightly against her head, I don’t want to fight it.

They ate faster than he would’ve liked. The pancakes were a little burnt around the edges, but he told her—lying very convincingly—that they were the best he’d ever had. And in a way… it was true.

She offered to do the dishes. He refused. She insisted. He won—barely.

While he stood at the sink, warm water running over his paws, he felt her lingering behind him longer than necessary. 

“Well…” she said, not quite meeting his eyes, “I should probably start heading out.”

The words landed softly—but they landed.

His chest tightened all the same.

Every instinct screamed to ask her to stay.

He swallowed the words rising in his throat, his ears and tail drooping despite himself.

“Okay.”

She gathered her things slowly.

“See you Monday at roll call?” she asked.

“Monday,” he echoed.

She paused at the door.

So did he.

“Judy, I—” he started, the urge to say something pulling at him hard.

He stopped himself.

Too much had already happened tonight. Too many lines had shifted, bent, blurred in ways he wasn’t ready to untangle yet.

And the thing was—realizing he was in love with her didn’t actually change anything.

Not really.

It didn’t suddenly make her his.
Didn’t rewrite what they were.
Didn’t give him the right to ask for more.

Judy was still his best friend.

That was the truth he had to respect.

She was kind. Affectionate. Open in a way that came naturally to her. And even now, standing there with that soft look in her eyes, he couldn’t tell how much of it meant what it meant to him. Because she was the kind of person with a big heart—someone who had so much love to give.

She loved fiercely.
Her parents.
Her brothers and sisters.
Her friends.

Her Job.
The city of Zootopia.

She loved and loved and loved—all of it.

And that didn’t make him special.

He doubted—quietly, painfully—that she felt anything close to what he was feeling.

And underneath all the happiness, all the warmth of the night they’d just shared, there was still fear. The kind that sat low in his chest.

Fear that he’d push too hard.
That he’d say the wrong thing.
That he’d ruin their relationship—because he loved her in a way she didn’t.

So he did what he’d always done when something felt too fragile to touch directly.

He reached for something safer.

“We should do this again,” he said instead.

She turned back to him.

Her smile bloomed slowly.

“Really?” she asked.

He laughed softly. “Yeah. How about next Friday?.”
He tilted his head, mock-serious. “And I’ll actually have the lasagna ready this time.”

She smiled wider. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Fair,” he said. “I deserve that.”

“Friday,” she repeated, nodding, like she was locking it in.

He opened the door for her, a shaft of sunlight spilling into the space between them.

She hesitated on the threshold, one paw already outside, then looked back at him.

“Bye, partner,” she said, waving at him.

“Bye, partner.”

She stepped out.

Nick watched her take a few paces down the hall. Then she stopped and turned back.

“Oh—and Nick?”

He barely had time to register her actions before she closed the distance in two quick steps. She grabbed the front of his shirt, tugged him down just enough, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For last night.”

And then she bolted.

Literally.

She took off down the street before his brain could catch up, ears bouncing, footsteps fading fast.

Nick stayed exactly where he was.

He lifted a paw to his cheek, stunned, a slow, stupid smile spreading across his face as he watched the empty hallway where she’d disappeared.

Yeah, he thought distantly.

He was completely, hopelessly gone.

And he didn’t even mind.

He pulled out his phone.

Nick: I’m in love with her
Finnick: WELL DUH

A quiet laugh slipped out of him.

He pocketed the phone and stepped back inside, closing the door gently behind him. Then he crossed the room and let himself fall back onto the couch, onto his new soft pink pillows, stretching out where they’d been sitting earlier. The cushions shifted under his weight, still holding the faint imprint of her.

And her scent.

It was subtle, but unmistakable—soft, familiar, lingering in the fabric and the air around him. He breathed it in without thinking, then froze for half a second, ears flicking.

…Yeah. Super-duper gone.

He stared up at the ceiling, tail flicking lazily as his thoughts drifted back to her. To her laugh. The way she looked at him. The way she fit against him.

There was a lot to figure out. A lot to think through. A lot of feelings he was going to have to learn how to deal with.

But one thing was already painfully clear.

Lying there on his couch, breathing in the last traces of her scent, Nick knew he was going to be counting the days until Friday.

And if he was being honest—

He doubted he’d be able to focus on the movie again.