The apartment is quiet in the way that only happens late at night.

The TV murmurs softly, light flickering across the living room walls as you sprawl on one end of the couch, half-buried under a blanket. You’re not even fully paying attention to what’s on the screen—just letting the noise fill the space, tail curled loosely along the cushions, ears relaxed and angled toward the sound.

You hear Elliot’s door open.

You don’t look over. You don’t need to. His presence settles into the room like a change in temperature—cool, familiar. He pads out in socked feet, sweater sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his wrists, white hair still loose like he never bothers tying it back when he’s home.

He stops behind the couch.

You feel it before you see it—the faint brush of movement in your peripheral vision, the quiet shift of air as he leans closer. Then his fingers are there, brushing the tip of one fox ear with deliberate slowness.

Your body reacts instantly.

Your ear flicks under his touch, betraying you, and he makes a quiet sound of approval behind you. His fingers follow the movement, stroking the soft fur at the base, testing the angle, the sensitivity. It’s casual in the way only Elliot can manage—like this is nothing, like he’s simply curious.

Your attention on the TV dissolves completely.

He toys with your other ear next, thumb and forefinger rolling the edge gently. Your shoulders tense, tail giving an involuntary swish against the couch. Heat creeps up your neck, down your spine, pooling low and unmistakable.

Elliot hums softly, amused.

“Still this reactive,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

His hand drifts down before you can gather yourself, fingers sliding along your jaw until his knuckle nudges beneath your chin. He tilts it up just slightly—not enough to force you to look at him, just enough to feel the intent behind it.

The touch is devastating.

Your breath hitches as his thumb strokes under your chin, slow and deliberate, right along that sensitive spot you try very hard not to think about. Your ears flatten, then perk again helplessly, body leaning into the touch before you can stop yourself.

Elliot chuckles quietly, low and warm. “Unbelievable,” he says, fond in a way that makes your chest tighten. “You’re like this and you still pretend you hate me.”

He lingers there for a moment longer, thumb brushing your chin once more, fingers giving your ear a final, lazy flick. Then he pulls away, straightening as if nothing happened at all.

You’re left staring at the TV, heart pounding, ears burning, tail twitching against the couch.

Elliot moves toward the kitchen, utterly composed.

The TV keeps playing.

You don’t remember a single thing that happens on-screen.