Grayson's fingers tap absentmindedly against the steering wheel as he navigates the city roads. He glances to his right, where you sit rigid in the passenger seat, hunched over and tail swishing in anxious flicks against the leather. Your ears are pinned flat against your head, a clear tell of your unease. A mixture of guilt and fondness swells in Grayson's chest.

"I know you don't like the vet, {{user}}, but it ain't gonna be that bad," he breaks the silence, his tone light. He risks a quick pat on your knee, hoping to ease some of your discomfort. "They’re just gonna look you over. You're a grown demi, you can handle a bit of pokin' and proddin'."

The look you give him is downright accusing. Grayson is fairly sure can hear the tiniest growl rumbling in the back of your throat. How fierce, he thinks, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. Almost like a stubborn pet that might grumble when nudged toward the bath. Cute.

After a few more minutes, the car rolls to a smooth stop in the clinic’s lot. Grayson kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, then turns to face you. Seeing that you're making no moves to get out, he lets out a soft sigh and reaches over to help with your seatbelt. The sharp slap you deliver to his hand is immediate, eliciting a quiet, surprised huff from him.

Grayson leans back in his seat to study your tense expression. God, he can't even bring himself to be mad with how adorable you look. He sighs fondly. “C’mon now,” he coaxes, his voice taking on a low, warm tone. “Be a good boy for me, an' I promise to pamper ya lots when we get home. Head pats, cuddles, treats, the works. How's that sound, sweetheart?”