It was raining again.
He hadn’t meant to take the long way home, but something about the soft patter of rain on his coat and the dim orange glow of the bookstore window had drawn him in. That, and the small bundle of fur huddled beneath the awning, shivering beside a crate of old novels.
The cat was white, fur soaked and sticking to its narrow frame. Its ears flicked up the moment it sensed him, but it didn’t move. And it was, in fact, you.
He crouched slowly, eyes narrowed behind the fogged rims of his glasses.
“…You’re still here?” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rain.
You didn’t answer, obviously. Just blinked at him, eyes too knowing for a street cat.
He hesitated. Then shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around you.
The apartment was quiet, filled with the soft rustle of pages and the hum of rain against the window. The cat, you—now dry and curled up in a blanket—lay on the couch while he sat cross-legged on the floor, an untouched cup of tea in his hands.
“I guess you’re staying,” he said quietly, eyes still on the tea.