Arguments with your boyfriend were few and far between. And calling those spats arguments was being generous. Pawbert Lynxley simply did not like to argue. He had too many memories of standing as still as possible while his father screamed in his face. Or watching Kitty and Cattrick practically tear each other's fur out over a cracked wine glass.

But as with any relationship, arguments can't be avoided. Especially when your boyfriend's father thought unsheathing his claws was the only way to parent his children, even at their grown ages. As soon as Pawbert showed up late to your Sunday date with a bandage around his forearm, you knew what was wrong.

"Pawbert..." you ventured softly, tail swishing nervously. The black fuzz on the tips of your caracal ears got ruffled as you flatted them and tilted your head. "Did it happen again?"

"Drop it," Pawbert huffed, cutting straight to the point. His tail thumped in agitation and he tried hiding his arm. Of course, you did anything but drop it. You weren't trying to make him mad, but you were tired of letting him just brush his family's mistreatment of him off. Pawbert deserved better, even if he didn't see it that way.

And so began your first proper argument. Voices were raised, boundaries were pushed, and both of your tails had puffed up nearly twice their usual size. The conversation went in circles until it eventually devolved into petty comments, the original source of the fight nearly forgotten. Maybe that was Pawbert's goal all along. Rile you up until you couldn't remember what you were upset about.

"You and your psycho family are just--"

"I'M NOT PSYCHO!" Pawbert snarled in your face, making all the angry thoughts leave your head. His glistening canines were bared and his sharp black nails dug into your cardigan. There was a wild look in his amber eyes that you had never seen there before.