Melissa’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That’s because she’s never been Human,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t pull them back. “She must be miserable over there if she’s so happy here.”

The waitress paused.

Then smiled.

Not surprised. Not offended.

Just… knowing.

“Is that right?” she said lightly.

Melissa didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

She could feel it—how different they were, how wrong it all felt, how none of it lined up properly in her head no matter how much the world around her acted like it did.

The waitress’s hand dropped away.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, already stepping back. “You belong to the restaurant now, and we’re not halfway through the dinner shift.”

Her tone shifted again, back to that same steady, procedural rhythm.

“Get out there and advertise yourself.”

Melissa didn’t move straight away.

But she would.

Because that was what happened here.

You were told. And you did it.

During the next couple of hours, Melissa did as she was told.

She moved from table to table, positioning herself the way she’d been shown, hands behind her head, body open, still. Each time she stopped, it was the same—eyes on her, hands reaching out, brief assessments that sometimes lingered longer than others.

She let them touch her.

There wasn’t really a choice in it.

Some were quick, clinical. Others slower, more deliberate, like they were trying to decide something they couldn’t quite put into words. Fingers pressing, sliding, testing, always with that same underlying intent.

Judging.

Sometimes, when her body reacted—when it betrayed her in small, visible ways—people took it as permission.

Encouragement.

They leaned in closer. Took more liberties.

Melissa learned quickly not to show it.

Or at least, to try.

Because even when she kept her face still, her breathing steady, her body didn’t always listen. The responses came anyway, unwanted, automatic, something she couldn’t fully suppress no matter how hard she tried to hold herself together.

And when it happened—

They rewarded it.

Not cruelly. Not even unkindly.

Just… matter-of-fact.

Like it was expected.

Like it was something she should want.

Melissa swallowed it down each time, the anger, the frustration, the urge to pull away, to snap, to do anything but stand there and let it happen.

Her jaw would tighten. Her fingers would curl slightly behind her head.

But she stayed still.

Because she knew what happened when she didn’t.

Every so often, Melissa found herself stealing glances at the Girl.

She couldn’t help it.

The difference was too obvious to ignore.

The Girl moved easily through the room, drifting from table to table with a kind of quiet confidence Melissa didn’t understand. She didn’t need prompting anymore. Didn’t need correcting. Her hands went behind her head naturally, her posture opening without hesitation as she offered herself up to whoever would give her the time of day.

And they did.

They touched her.

But not like they touched Melissa.

There was no pushing. No testing past what was given. No taking advantage of the small, visible reactions her body showed now and then. When she smiled, they smiled back. When she leaned into a touch, they accepted it—but they didn’t press further.

They didn’t take.

They assessed.

And then they stopped.

Melissa watched it happen again and again, trying to understand it, trying to find the difference beyond the obvious.

The Girl’s body reacted too.

That same small tension. The same subtle signs Melissa had learned to dread in herself.

But no one used it.

No one leaned in closer because of it.

No one treated it like permission.

Melissa swallowed, her gaze lingering a second too long before she forced herself to look away.

It wasn’t kindness.

That wasn’t what it was.

It felt closer to—

Respect.

Not for her.

But for the way she’d been raised.

For the process that had made her what she was.

Eventually the floor cleared.

One table at a time, customers filtered out, their conversations fading with them until the room settled into something quieter, emptier. Chairs were shifted back into place. Glasses cleared. The low hum of the evening replaced by the softer, more methodical sounds of closing.

Melissa and the Girl were guided to a corner table, away from the centre of the room but still within sight of the kitchen doors.

“Sit,” the waitress said.

They did.

“Food’ll be out shortly.”

Then she was gone.

Melissa leaned back slightly in her chair, her arms finally lowering from behind her head, the absence of that position feeling strange in a way she didn’t want to think about.

“Probably gonna give us scraps,” she said, her tone colder than before, the words coming easier now that she wasn’t being watched quite as closely. “Though it might be better than what you eat, Farm Girl.”

The Girl leaned forward onto the table, folding her arms and resting her chin against them as she looked over at Melissa, completely unbothered.

“What makes you say that?” she asked. “Food back home was great. I’d go for some pancakes right now.”

Melissa blinked.

“Pancakes?”

She must have pulled a face, because the Girl giggled softly, clearly amused.

“Did you think we were fed in troughs and ate nothing but oats and swill?”

Melissa didn’t answer straight away.

“I’m illiterate,” the Girl added with a small shrug, “and even I know that’s an outdated stereotype.”

Melissa huffed out a small breath, something close to a smile slipping through before she could stop it.

“Alright,” she admitted. “Fair enough.”

But that word stuck.

Illiterate.

“You never learned to read or write?” she asked, her tone shifting slightly, curiosity slipping in despite everything.

The Girl shrugged again, like it didn’t matter either way.

“Why bother?” she said. “Animals don’t have a future.”

The words should have landed heavier. They should have felt like something.

But the way she said them—light, easy, like stating a fact about the weather—

Took all the weight out of them.

Melissa stared at her for a second longer than she meant to.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“What about that tag?” Melissa asked after a moment, nodding toward the girl’s ear. “Do you know what it says?”

The Girl reached up, touching it absently like it was just another part of her.

“I know my numbers,” she said. “Couldn’t tell you which was which, though.”

Melissa let out a small breath through her nose.

“Damn,” she muttered. “You Livestock have it rough.”

The Girl stilled at that.

Not offended.

Just… thinking.

“Do we?” she said after a second, pushing herself upright now, her posture shifting in a way that felt more serious than anything Melissa had seen from her before.

Melissa blinked, caught slightly off guard.

“We don’t spend years of our life worrying about whether next Monday is gonna make us an Animal,” the Girl continued, her tone still calm, but steadier now. “We don’t look at other people and wish we had what they had.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes on Melissa.

“We wake up when we feel like it. We play when we feel like it. We look for affection when we feel like it.”

Melissa didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t know how to.

“Sounds like Humans have it rough,” the Girl finished with a small shrug. “You should be relieved, if I’m being honest.”

Melissa stared at her.

At how easily she said it.

At how much she seemed to believe it.

Her mouth opened slightly, like she was about to argue, to push back, to say something—anything—that made more sense than that.

But nothing came.

Because some part of her—

A small, quiet, uncomfortable part—

Didn’t know if she was wrong.

“The guys in the kitchen heard you wanted pancakes, so—”

The waitress set the plate down in front of the Girl. A small stack, slightly uneven, edges a little darker than perfect, steam still rising faintly from the top.

“Buttermilk pancakes with compote.”

The Girl lit up immediately, her whole posture shifting forward as she leaned over the plate, eyes bright.

“And yes, Melissa,” the waitress added, glancing toward her, “they were made using leftovers.”

She poured syrup generously over the stack, letting it run down between the layers before setting the bottle aside. Then, as the Girl reached for her fork, the waitress rested a hand on the top of her head, fingers brushing lightly through her hair.

The Girl leaned into it without thinking.

Not exaggerated. Not performative.

Just a small, instinctive press upward into the touch, her smile softening as she let it happen for a second longer before focusing back on the food.

The waitress withdrew her hand like nothing had happened.

Then she turned.

Melissa’s plate came down a moment later.

Two thick sandwiches, neatly cut. The bread still fresh, the filling generous—slices of leftover meat layered with sauce that had already gone cold, soaking slightly into the bread.

“Kitchen scraps,” the waitress said simply. “Still good quality.”

Melissa stared at it.

It smelled good.

That was the problem.

The waitress lingered.

Not hovering.

Just… waiting.

Melissa stared at the plate for a second longer than she meant to, then picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite.

The change was immediate.

The tension in her shoulders dropped before she could stop it, her body reacting faster than her pride could catch up. It was warm in the middle, the meat tender, the bread soft despite the cold sauce soaking into it.

It was—

Good.

Really good.

Melissa swallowed, her grip tightening slightly around the sandwich as she forced herself to finish the bite before looking up.

Her face felt hot.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, the word coming out smaller than she expected. “For being so shitty.”

The waitress smiled.

Warm. Genuine, in a way that felt almost out of place compared to everything else.

Like this had been the right thing to say.

The right response.

She leaned in just enough to press a brief kiss to Melissa’s cheek, light and unhurried.

“Enjoy,” she said softly.

Then she straightened and stepped away, leaving Melissa there with the plate, the taste still lingering, and the uncomfortable feeling that she’d just done something right.

The waitress left them to eat.

The space felt different without her there. Quieter, but not empty.

Just… theirs, for now.

Melissa took another bite of her sandwich, slower this time, less defensive.

A light tap on her shoulder made her glance over.

The Girl was holding out her fork, a generous chunk of pancake balanced on the end, syrup still clinging to it.

“Open wide?”

Melissa blinked.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then something in her chest shifted—warm, unexpected, and entirely out of place in a room like this.

She leaned forward and opened her mouth, pulling the pancake off the fork with her teeth.

The difference was immediate.

The sandwiches were good.

These were—

Better.

Melissa swallowed, the sweetness lingering as she instinctively licked the syrup from her lips, not thinking about it until after she’d already done it.

Then she leaned in.

Pressed a quick kiss to the Girl’s cheek.

It wasn’t calculated.

It just… happened.

The Girl’s face lit up instantly, her smile bright and unguarded, like that small gesture meant everything.

Melissa pulled back, watching her for a second before a small smile found its way onto her own face.

Once their plates were cleared, and the Service Stock were released for the evening, Melissa and the Girl were led upstairs.

The restaurant changed as they climbed. Quieter. Less of the public polish. The sounds below dulled into something distant, like it belonged to another place entirely.

“You two will be sleeping on the premises,” the waitress told them as she walked ahead. “You’re not like the Service Stock who go back to Habitation. We own you—but don’t worry, you’ll be quite comfortable here.”

Melissa didn’t react to that.

She was getting used to words like that being said plainly.

The waitress opened a door.

The room beyond was… not what Melissa expected.

Spacious. Clean. A large screen mounted across from a comfortable sofa. A bookshelf lined neatly with rows of short novellas. To one side, a large double bed, sheets already turned down like it was waiting for them.

“Bathroom is through that door,” the waitress said, gesturing briefly. “We’ll be locking you in, so if you need anything, now’s the time.”

Melissa shrugged.

She didn’t need anything.

The Girl didn’t even answer. She’d already crossed the room and thrown herself onto the bed, landing on her front with a soft thud, completely at ease, like she’d been waiting for it.

The waitress took that as her cue to leave.

The door shut.

A lock clicked.

Melissa stood there for a second longer, taking it in.

Then she turned.

“Let me guess,” she said, looking at the Girl sprawled across the bed, her body completely exposed without a hint of awareness or care. “You sleep on silk sheets and feather beds at the Farm?”

“Nah,” the Girl said, voice muffled slightly as she turned her head. “But we got our own rooms in the dormitory.”

She rolled slightly onto her side, looking back at Melissa.

“Or did you think we slept on hay in the stables?”

Melissa snorted.

“I figured they put you out to pasture and let you sleep outside.”

The Girl laughed.

It came easy. Light. Infectious in a way Melissa didn’t expect.

Before she realised it, she was laughing too.

She crossed the room and sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. Her eyes drifted without thinking, scanning the Girl’s body up and down, the same way she’d seen customers do earlier.

Only this time, it wasn’t the same.

“Is it true you’ve never had sex?” Melissa asked.

“Sex is for Breeding Stock,” the Girl replied easily. “Like my mom and dad were.”

“Oh,” Melissa said, shifting slightly. “Are you close with them?”

“Nah.”

The answer came quick.

“Breeders are kept in another facility. We visited it once—got to see the mated pair what made us.”

She said it with that same flat, clinical tone she used for everything else, like it didn’t carry any weight at all.

“No real connection,” she added after a second. “But we knew of them.”

Melissa stayed quiet.

“Dad’s a stud,” the Girl went on. “So he’s got kids all over the place. Mom didn’t even know which of us were hers when we visited.”

Then she rolled onto her side properly, facing Melissa now, her expression softening just slightly.

“What’s it like,” she asked, “having a mom and dad that raised you?”

The question landed harder than Melissa expected.

It shouldn’t have.

But it did.

Her chest tightened, the memory hitting quicker than she could push it away.

Yesterday.

That was all it had taken.

Her father. The rushed decision. The permit not even cleared. Casper—

She forced the thought down.

Hated them.

Hated how easily they’d chosen.

Hated that it had been her.

She’d have let them take her little sister instead if it meant she could’ve stayed.

The thought sat there for a second longer than she wanted.

Then she pushed it away.

“It’s nothing special,” she said bluntly.

And this time—

There was nothing soft in it at all.

“Anyway,” Melissa said, pushing herself up onto her knees. “Come here. I wanna show you something.”

The Girl moved without hesitation, crossing the small gap between them and kneeling in front of her, attentive, open, like being told to do something was enough reason to do it.

“I’m gonna teach you something,” Melissa said, her voice lowering slightly. “You have to keep it between us, okay?”

“Okay.”

No questions.

No hesitation.

“I’m gonna show you what an orgasm is,” she said bluntly. “I don’t believe that crap about it tainting your meat.”

The Girl tilted her head slightly.

“What’s an orgasm?”

Melissa exhaled through her nose, somewhere between a sigh and a quiet disbelief.

“Just—lie down,” she said, gesturing toward the bed. “On your back.”

The Girl did as she was told.

No resistance.

No embarrassment.

Just trust.

Melissa watched her for a second longer than she meant to.

Then moved closer.

Careful. Deliberate.

Not rushed.

She wasn’t reacting anymore.

She was choosing.

“You’ve never had anything like this?” she asked quietly.

The Girl shook her head.

“No.”

Melissa swallowed.

Then continued.