The tiger’s ears flick at the sound of his voice. Steve. Steve. The sound is nonsensical to him and ever so slightly, he tips his head. It’s a calm sound, not harsh and grating like the other two-legs, and when that hand is stretched toward him, he delicately leans forward to sniff it.

Near as he can tell, there’s no food. Nothing to eat but the two-legs himself, and the tiger doesn’t want to kill him. He isn’t being threatening, he doesn’t smell like danger. Just that elusive something the tiger can’t understand.

His tiny tail flicks against the thing he’s laying on, and he blinks up at the two-legs again.