They say we predators are one against ten. Only one predator among ten prey. Which makes the odds of what I'm about to tell you even more improbable. But then again, I've never been one to play it safe with odds.

His name is Bintang Terang. He's a rabbit. And somehow, impossibly, he's mine.

I met him in August, four months ago. Well, technically I'd seen him around TIA before that—hard to miss the IT guy who practically lives in the server room. But meeting him, really meeting him, that happened on a Tuesday afternoon when my tablet decided to brick itself right before a flight briefing.

I found him in the IT support office on the third floor, hunched over a desktop computer, muttering to himself in what I later learned was a mix of Indonesian, English, and Hokkien curse words. He's small, even for a rabbit. Maybe comes up to my shoulder. Brown and white fur, perpetually rumpled, with these huge yellow eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that were slightly crooked on his face.

"Excuse me," I said.

He jumped. Literally jumped, all four feet off the ground. When he landed, he knocked over his coffee mug, sending lukewarm kopi all over his keyboard.

"S-s-sorry!" he stammered, grabbing tissues and trying to mop up the mess while simultaneously backing away from me. His ears were flat against his head. "I-I didn't hear you c-come in."

Great. Another one afraid of the big scary dhole.

I'd been dealing with this my whole life, so I knew the drill. I stepped back, made myself smaller, softened my voice. "My tablet's not working. Can you help?"

He nodded quickly, still not making eye contact. "J-just leave it on the d-desk. I'll have it ready by t-tomorrow."

"I need it in an hour. I have a flight."

His ears twitched. He finally looked at me—really looked—and I saw the moment he registered the uniform, the wings, the three bars on my shoulders. "Oh. You're... you're First Officer B-Berlian. The one who f-flies the 737s."

"That's me."

"I've s-seen you around." He pushed his glasses up nervously. "You're... you're really t-tall."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. Of all the things people usually comment on—the teeth, the eyes, the predator thing—he went with tall.

"175 centimeters," I said. "You're what, 140?"

"150," he corrected, with a hint of indignation that made me smile.

He fixed my tablet in twenty minutes. Turned out to be a simple software issue, but he explained it in this rapid-fire way, stuttering less when he was focused on the technical details. I noticed he had stickers all over his workstation—anime characters, video game logos, a Starfleet insignia. There was a half-eaten carrot cake on his desk next to three energy drink cans.

"You work late hours?" I asked.

"Someone has to k-keep the systems running," he said, then added quickly, "N-not that I'm complaining! I like it. Fewer p-people around at night."

Fewer people. Meaning fewer interactions. Fewer chances to be scared.

I thanked him and left. Didn't think much of it beyond: nice guy, clearly terrified of carnivores, probably won't talk to me again unless his job requires it.

I was wrong.

---

The next time I saw him was at the gym. The company gym in the basement, the one hardly anyone uses because most employees have memberships elsewhere. I go there sometimes because it's empty—less chance of making people uncomfortable.

He was on the treadmill, running at a pace that was probably fast for someone his size but looked almost comical with his short legs. He had earbuds in and didn't notice me come in. I set up at the weight rack, started my routine, tried not to stare at the way his ears bobbed with each stride.

He finally noticed me when he finished his run and came over to the water fountain. He froze mid-step, clutching his water bottle, those big eyes going wider behind his fogged-up glasses.

I waited for it. The casual relocation to the other side of the gym. The sudden remembering of somewhere else to be.

Instead, he walked over to the bench press—right next to where I was doing deadlifts.

"H-hi," he said.

"Hi."

He started setting up his weights. Added plates that seemed optimistic for someone his size. I went back to my set, hyper-aware of his presence, waiting for him to reconsider.

He didn't leave. He did his bench presses (struggling with the weight but too stubborn to reduce it), then moved to the dumbbells. We worked out in parallel for twenty minutes, occasionally making awkward eye contact in the mirror.

When I finished my cooldown, he was still there, now attempting pull-ups on the assisted machine.

"Your form is off," I said before I could stop myself.

He dropped down, panting. "What?"

"Pull-ups. You're using too much momentum. Here—" I demonstrated on the regular bar. "Engage your lats first, control the movement."

He watched, nodded, tried again. Still wrong.

"Can I..." I gestured. "I can spot you. Show you the motion."

He hesitated. I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Predator. Close proximity. Vulnerable position.

"O-okay," he said.

I guided him through three reps, hands hovering near his sides, not touching but close enough to catch him if needed. He smelled like rabbit and anxiety sweat and cheap shampoo. His ears kept twitching every time I spoke.

"Better," I said when he finished. "Practice that and you'll build the strength."

"Thanks," he said, breathless. Then, surprising both of us: "M-maybe you could show me s-some other exercises? Sometime?"

I looked at him—really looked—and saw something I hadn't expected. He was still scared. I could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his breathing was too fast for the level of exertion. But he was trying. Actively working against his instincts to be here, talking to me, asking for help.

"Sure," I said. "I'm here most evenings around six."

He showed up the next evening. And the one after that. And the one after that.

---

Bintang, I learned over the following weeks, was not what I expected. He was twenty-seven, born and raised in Kelapa Gading, North Jakarta. Only son in a family of four sisters, all of whom apparently doted on him to an embarrassing degree. His parents owned a chain of electronics stores and had very specific expectations for his life—expectations he was quietly, stubbornly failing to meet.

"They w-wanted me to be a doctor," he told me one evening while we were cooling down after a workout. "Or a lawyer. Something r-respectable. Instead I'm the IT guy who f-fixes printers."

"Nothing wrong with IT," I said. "Someone's gotta keep the planes flying safely. Can't do that without functioning computers."

He smiled at that. He had a nice smile when he wasn't nervous. "I like it. I g-get to solve puzzles all day. And I d-don't have to talk to people much."

"Except me."

"Except you," he agreed. His ears twitched. "You're... you're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Honestly? Someone m-more... I don't know. Aggressive? D-dangerous?"

"I am dangerous," I said flatly. "I just choose not to be."

He thought about that. "That m-must be exhausting."

It was such a simple observation, but it hit me harder than expected. Because yes, it was exhausting. And nobody—not my family, not my friends, not my colleagues—had ever just... acknowledged that before.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "It really is."

Something shifted between us that night. Some invisible barrier came down.

He started joining me for coffee before shifts. We'd meet at the palm civet's café I'd switched to, and he'd get some elaborate tea drink while I had my usual espresso. He'd tell me about the latest tech disaster at work—the captain who thought "the cloud" was an actual physical location, the accountant who fell for a phishing scam, the executive who tried to install pirated software on his work laptop.

I'd tell him about flying. About the beauty of sunrise at 35,000 feet. About difficult landings and strange passengers and the particular satisfaction of a perfectly executed approach.

We talked about other things too. Books, movies, the disaster that was Indonesian politics. He was surprisingly funny when he forgot to be nervous, with this dry, sarcastic humor that would sneak up on you. He was also incredibly geeky—he'd reference things from Star Trek or Doctor Who or some anime I'd never heard of, and his whole face would light up, stutter diminishing to almost nothing.

"You're s-staring," he said one morning in late October.

"Sorry," I said, not sorry at all. "You're cute when you talk about your hobbies."

He turned red. Like, visibly red underneath his fur. His ears went flat with embarrassment.

"I'm n-not cute," he mumbled into his tea. "I'm a g-grown man."

"You're adorable."

"Berlian..."

"Objectively adorable. Scientific fact."

He threw a sugar packet at me. I caught it, grinning.

That's when I knew. When I realized that somewhere between the gym sessions and the coffee dates that weren't officially dates and the comfortable silences that had started to develop between us, I'd developed feelings for this anxious, nerdy, impossibly sweet rabbit.

And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

---

The thing about interspecies relationships—especially predator-prey relationships—is that they exist in this weird legal-but-socially-unacceptable space. It's not illegal in Indonesia, hasn't been for decades. But that doesn't mean people are comfortable with it.

I'd seen a few mixed-species couples around Jakarta. A leopard and a deer at a mall once, holding hands, while people stared and whispered. A wolf and a sheep at a restaurant, sitting on opposite sides of the table like they were afraid to get too close in public. Everyone was always so careful, so conscious of the optics.

And then there was the crude stuff. The jokes. The assumptions. That predator-prey couples were somehow kinky or perverted, that there was something sexual and disturbing about the size difference and the danger and the whole thing. People loved to make it weird.

I thought about that a lot in November. Thought about whether I was willing to subject myself—and Bintang—to that kind of scrutiny and judgment. Whether it was fair to him, sweet anxious Bintang who already struggled with social situations, to drag him into something that would make him even more visible, more vulnerable to commentary.

I thought about it. And then I kept showing up at the gym at six. Kept meeting him for coffee. Kept finding excuses to text him throughout the day.

I was dropping hints. Not subtle ones, either. Complimenting him, finding reasons to touch his arm or shoulder, laughing at his jokes a little too enthusiastically. I thought I was being obvious.

Apparently not obvious enough.

"Does Bintang seem... I don't know, oblivious to you?" I asked Captain Suryanto one day in the cockpit, somewhere over the Java Sea.

He glanced at me, amused. "Context?"

"Hypothetically. If someone was interested in someone else. And kept dropping hints. But the other person didn't seem to notice."

"Are we talking about the rabbit from IT?"

I stared at him. "How did you—"

"Berlian, you literally mentioned him three times during yesterday's preflight briefing. And you had that dopey smile when his name came up on your phone during cruise."

"I don't have a dopey smile."

"You absolutely have a dopey smile." He adjusted our heading slightly. "Also, my daughter told me you talk about him when you video chat with her. Something about 'the nice rabbit who helps with computer problems.'"

I groaned. "Is it that obvious?"

"To everyone except apparently Bintang, yes." He chuckled. "Have you considered just... telling him?"

"What if he's just being polite? What if he's not actually interested?"

"Then you'll know, and you can move on. Better than this endless pining."

I wanted to argue, but he had a point. We had an hour left before landing, and I spent most of it trying to figure out how to tell a rabbit I had feelings for him without sounding like I was about to eat him.

---

December came. Jakarta's weather turned slightly less oppressively hot. The city put up Christmas decorations even though most people were Muslim. Bintang started wearing this oversized hoodie to the gym that had cat ears on the hood and made him look even smaller than usual.

We were having coffee on a Thursday morning—I had a late departure, he had an early shift—when he suddenly put down his tea and said, "C-can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Are you..." He fidgeted with his cup. "Are you d-dating anyone?"

My heart did something complicated. "No. Are you?"

"N-no." He pushed his glasses up. "Would you... I mean, if someone asked you out, would you..."

"Depends on who's asking."

"What if—" He took a breath. "What if I asked you out? Properly. Like a d-date date."

I stared at him. He stared back, ears upright for once, looking more determined than I'd ever seen him.

"Bintang," I said slowly, "are you asking me on a date?"

"Y-yes. If that's... if that's okay. I understand if you s-say no, I know it's weird, I know p-people will stare, I know I'm not—"

I reached across the table and put my hand over his. He stopped talking immediately, eyes huge.

"Yes," I said. "I'd love to go on a date with you."

"Really?"

"Really. I've been dropping hints for weeks, you oblivious bunny."

"You have?" He looked genuinely confused. "I thought you were just being n-nice."

"Bintang. I called you adorable. Multiple times."

"I thought you were t-teasing me!"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. This impossibly sweet, impossibly dense rabbit had somehow missed every single signal I'd been sending.

"So," I said, still holding his hand, feeling his rapid pulse under my fingers. "When's this date happening?"

"Saturday? I-if you're free? There's a n-new ramen place in Senayan. Or we could do something else, whatever you w-want—"

"Ramen sounds perfect."

He smiled—that full, genuine smile I'd only seen a handful of times. "Okay. Okay. I'm g-going to plan this. I'm going to p-plan the best first date."

"Bintang?"

"Yes?"

"You're already doing great."

---

Our first official date was both wonderful and excruciatingly awkward.

The wonderful part: the food was excellent, the conversation flowed easily, and Bintang had clearly put thought into everything—he'd made reservations, he'd picked a corner table away from the main crowd, he'd even brought me a small gift (a keychain shaped like a Boeing 737, which was dorky and perfect).

The awkward part: the staring. So much staring.

We'd barely sat down before I noticed people looking. At first I thought I was being paranoid, but no—they were definitely looking. At the dhole and the rabbit having dinner together. At the size difference—me, tall and broad-shouldered, him small enough that his feet barely touched the floor in the booth. At the way he'd reach across the table to gesticulate while talking, and I'd lean in to hear him better, and the whole tableau probably looked surreal to anyone watching.

I saw a cervidae couple at the next table whisper and glance over. Saw a group of prey species near the window doing that thing where they pretend not to look while obviously looking. Even the waiter, a mousedeer, seemed uncertain about us, leaving our orders on the edge of the table like he was afraid to get too close.

"Everyone's s-staring," Bintang said quietly, about halfway through the meal. His ears were flat again.

"Yeah," I said. "They are."

"Does it b-bother you?"

I thought about it. About all the times I'd been stared at before—at the gym, at the supermarket, on the street. This was different, though. Before, they were staring at a predator and wondering if I was dangerous. Now they were staring at us and wondering... what? If this was real? If it was appropriate? If I was going to hurt him?

"A little," I admitted. "Does it bother you?"

He nodded. "But I d-don't care. I mean, I care, but not enough to... not enough to not be here."

"Smooth."

"You know what I m-mean."

I did. I reached across the table, took his hand again. Let everyone see. Let them stare and whisper and judge. Bintang's ears slowly came back up, and he squeezed my fingers.

"For what it's w-worth," he said, "I think we look g-good together."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're beautiful and I'm c-cute. That's a good combination."

I laughed. "You are cute."

"I'm s-starting to accept it."

After dinner, we walked around Senayan for a bit. The staring didn't stop, but we got better at ignoring it. Or maybe we just got better at focusing on each other instead. He told me about his childhood, about being the only boy among four sisters who constantly dressed him up and used him as a fashion doll. I told him about watching planes from my parents' roof, about the first time I knew I wanted to fly.

"My parents d-don't know," he said suddenly. "About this. About you."

"Mine either," I admitted. "I mean, they know I have a bunny friend named Bintang. They don't know we're... whatever we are."

"What are we?" he asked.

"I don't know yet. But I'd like to find out."

He smiled. "M-me too."

---

Over the next few weeks, we got comfortable with each other. More comfortable than I'd been with anyone in years.

Bintang stopped stuttering as much around me. Not completely—he still stammered when he was nervous or excited—but enough that I could tell he felt safe. He'd sprawl on my couch in his ridiculous hoodies, gaming on his Switch while I read or worked on flight plans. He'd fall asleep during movies, and I'd just let him, watching the way his ears would twitch in his dreams.

I learned things about him. That he was scared of thunderstorms but wouldn't admit it. That he was secretly really good at singing but only did it when he thought no one was listening. That his favorite food was actually carrot cake but he was embarrassed about the stereotype so he'd order other things when we went out. That he had a collection of vintage electronics in his apartment that he'd restore as a hobby.

He learned things about me too. That I had nightmares sometimes about crashes that never happened. That I was terrified of disappointing my parents even though I'd objectively succeeded by any measure. That I sang loudly and off-key in the shower. That I secretly loved romantic comedies but would never admit it in public because it seemed too soft for a predator.

"You're allowed to b-be soft," he told me once. "Being tough all the time m-must be exhausting."

There it was again. That simple acknowledgment of something I'd never quite articulated to myself.

The physical stuff came gradually. We held hands in private first, then in public. He'd lean against me when we watched TV. I'd rest my chin on his head when we hugged. We learned each other's boundaries, what was comfortable and what was too much too fast.

Our first kiss happened in mid-December, in my apartment, during a thunderstorm. He was trying very hard to pretend he wasn't scared, sitting rigid on the couch while rain lashed the windows and lightning lit up the sky.

"Come here," I said, and pulled him closer.

He buried his face in my shoulder, ears flat. "I know it's s-stupid. I'm a grown man. I shouldn't be s-scared of weather."

"Everyone's scared of something."

"What are you s-scared of?"

"This," I said honestly. "Us. Messing this up."

He pulled back to look at me. "You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're you. Because you're c-careful and thoughtful and you actually listen when I talk and you..." He trailed off, looking at my mouth. "Can I k-kiss you?"

"Please."

It was gentle and awkward and perfect. He tasted like the tea he'd been drinking, and his fur was impossibly soft against my face. When we pulled apart, he was smiling.

"That was n-nice," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can we do it again?"

We did it again.

---

The jokes started almost immediately once people at TIA figured out we were together. And people figured it out fast—apparently we weren't as subtle as we thought.

Some of them were harmless. Captain Suryanto asking if I needed any carrots for my "friend." The other pilots making rabbit-related puns. The flight attendants speculating about our relationship with varying degrees of accuracy.

Some were less harmless. Comments about the size difference. Jokes about "prey and predator" with obvious sexual implications. One guy in Maintenance asking if I was "keeping him as a pet."

That one almost got him a written complaint from me. Bintang convinced me not to.

"It's not w-worth it," he said. "People are g-going to say stupid things. We can't fight all of them."

"I want to fight him specifically."

"I know. But let's p-pick our battles."

He was right, but it didn't make it less frustrating.

The worst were the concerned comments. The people who'd pull me aside to ask if I was "sure about this." If I'd "thought it through." If I understood how "difficult" it would be. Like I hadn't already considered every possible complication, like I was some impulsive teenager rather than a grown woman making an informed choice.

"They think you're g-going to hurt me," Bintang said one night. We were in his apartment, surrounded by half-disassembled computers and vintage radios. "Not on p-purpose. But accidentally. Because you're b-bigger and stronger."

"I would never—"

"I know. But they d-don't."

"Does it bother you? What people say?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes. But mostly I feel bad for you. At least p-people just think I'm naive or s-stupid for dating a predator. They think you're d-dangerous."

"I am dangerous."

"Not to me." He said it with such certainty, such simple faith, that I had to look away.

"How do you know?" I asked. "How do you know I won't..."

"Because I trust you." He came over, put his hand on my arm. "Because I see how c-careful you are with me. How you always make sure I'm c-comfortable. How you ask before you t-touch. You're the least dangerous person I know, Berlian."

I pulled him into my lap—carefully, always carefully—and held him. He fit perfectly there, small and warm and somehow brave enough to date a predator despite everything his instincts probably screamed at him.

"I love you," I said, surprising both of us.

He pulled back to look at me, eyes wide. "You d-do?"

"Yeah. I do. Is that okay?"

He kissed me. "More than okay. I love you t-too."

---

We haven't told our parents yet. Not the real nature of our relationship. When my mother asks about my life, I mention "my friend Bintang from work." When his father asks if he's dating anyone, he says no.

It's not exactly lying. But it's not exactly the truth either.

"My parents are k-kind of speciesist," Bintang admitted once. "They wouldn't say it out loud, but they have... opinions. About carnivores. About appropriate r-relationships."

"Mine would probably be fine with it," I said. "Or they'd try to be. But they'd worry. About the social implications. About whether I'm making things harder for myself."

"Are we making things h-harder for ourselves?"

"Definitely."

"Is it worth it?"

I looked at him—this ridiculous, wonderful rabbit who'd somehow seen past the teeth and the eyes and the predator reputation to the person underneath. Who made me laugh and listened when I talked and fell asleep on my couch during movies. Who was brave enough to date me despite every instinct telling him I was dangerous.

"Yeah," I said. "It's worth it."

---

We're taking it slow with the parents. We both know we need to tell them eventually, but we're waiting for the right time. Building our relationship first, making sure it's solid before we subject it to external pressure.

In the meantime, we exist in this bubble. At work, we're professional colleagues who happen to be friends. At the gym, we're workout partners. At my apartment or his, we're... us. Completely, comfortably us.

We still get stared at when we go out. The size difference is still striking—me at 175, him barely 150, the predator and the prey. We've gotten better at ignoring it, though we still have moments of self-consciousness. Times when someone stares too long or makes a comment and we both feel that weight of being different, of not fitting the expected pattern.

But then he'll make a joke about Star Trek, or I'll tell him about a difficult landing, or we'll just sit together in comfortable silence, and none of it matters. The species difference, the size difference, the social implications—they all fade into background noise.

"Do you ever wish I w-was a carnivore?" he asked once. "Would it be easier?"

I thought about my date with the snow leopard, about his self-hatred and internalized speciesism. About how he'd wanted me to be something other than what I was.

"No," I said honestly. "You're perfect exactly as you are."

"Even though I'm p-prey? Even though people think it's w-weird?"

"Especially because of all that." I kissed his forehead. "You're with me despite everything telling you not to be. That's not naive or stupid. That's brave."

"I'm not b-brave. I'm just in love with you."

"Same thing."

---

We don't know what the future holds. We're taking it one day at a time, building something real in the spaces between flights and IT emergencies and social judgment. Eventually we'll have to face our families, face the broader implications of what we're doing. Eventually we'll have to decide if this is sustainable long-term.

But for now, we have this: early morning coffees before my flights, late night gaming sessions at his place, text messages throughout the day, stolen kisses in my apartment, the comfortable weight of him sleeping against my shoulder.

For now, we have each other. A dhole and a rabbit, a predator and prey, an extroverted tomboy pilot and a shy geeky IT guy. We don't make sense on paper. But somehow, in practice, we work.

"You know what I like m-most about us?" Bintang said recently. We were on my couch, him playing his Switch while I worked through some flight manual updates.

"What?"

"You don't treat me like I'm f-fragile. Everyone else does. My parents, my sisters, even p-people at work. They're always so careful around me, like I might b-break. But you... you treat me like an actual p-person."

"You are an actual person."

"I know. But most p-people see 'rabbit' first and 'Bintang' second. You've always seen me."

I set aside my tablet, pulled him closer. "For what it's worth, you do the same for me. Everyone sees 'predator' first. You see Berlian."

"Of course I do. That's who you are."

"That's who we are," I corrected. "Together. Just two people who happen to love each other."

"Two p-people of wildly different species who society thinks are m-making a mistake."

"That too."

He smiled. "Want to keep making this m-mistake with me?"

"Bintang, I'm a pilot. I'm very good at calculated risks." I kissed him. "And you're the best risk I've ever taken."

---

Tomorrow I have an early flight to Surabaya. Bintang promised to meet me for coffee at 5 AM, even though he doesn't have work until eight. He'll be half-asleep and adorable, clutching his oversized tea while I have my espresso. He'll kiss me goodbye before I head to the plane, not caring who sees.

And I'll fly knowing that when I land, there'll be a text waiting. Something dorky about Star Trek or a complaint about a printer malfunction or just a simple "miss you already."

It won't be easy. It never is when you're one in ten, when you're different, when you're choosing a path that most people don't understand. But we're choosing it anyway. Together.

Because some things are worth fighting for. Some things are worth the stares and the jokes and the complications.

Some things—some people—are worth everything.

And up here at 35,000 feet, with the sky all around me and the ground far below, I understand something I didn't before: love doesn't care about the odds. It doesn't care about species or size or social expectations.

Love just is.

And I'm very, very lucky to have found it with a rabbit named Bintang who somehow saw past the teeth and the eyes to the person I've always been underneath.

We're still figuring this out. Still learning each other, still navigating the complicated reality of being predator and prey in a world that isn't quite ready for us.

But we're doing it together. And that makes all the difference.

———

Story and characters: Berlian and Bintang Terang ©  judyjudith

Art by:  tony07734123/KangWolf

———

Tags

berlian tony07734123 kangwolf dhole ajag ajak cuon_alpinus_javanicus female carnivore predator bintang_terang bunny rabbit male prey herbivore indonesian chinese_indonesian asian southeast_asian interspecies couple interspecies_couple boyfriend girlfriend taller_female bigger_female larger_female shorter_male smaller_male size_difference height_difference age_difference older_female younger_male genz generation_z millennial zillennial social_commentary nerd geek shy timid tomboy girlboss introve