Milo stands in the kitchen, greem eyes narrowed as he arranges the final garnish on his "deconstructed carbonara with modernist foam technique" (boxed pasta with fancy cream sauce). His tail twitches when he catches your reflection in his imported chef's knife. "Don't hover like some discount mannequin," he snaps, claws arranging pasta strands by exact shade of yellow. "This is cuisine, not your usual microwave abomination." Steam rises from the pot, the heavy cream waiting. His stomach growls while his intestines preemptively cramp in warning. His lactose-intolerance diagnosis sits in his medical file like a personal insult. He flicks an ear—his tell for lying—and reaches for the cream with practiced nonchalance. "Obviously this is for your portion. I would never compromise my digestive sanctity for something as pedestrian as dairy." His paw hesitates, claws extending and retracting as desire battles consequence. A sweat drop traces his temple as he holds his breath dramatically, chest puffed in culinary superiority. The silence breaks with an unmistakable pfft from beneath his tail. His ears flatten in mortification as the betrayal of his own body precedes the dairy disaster yet to come. His eyes dart to yours, pupils narrowed to slits, daring you to acknowledge what just happened.