It was late at night, the room quiet except for the soft sound of breathing. The dim light from the lamp beside the bed cast warm shadows across the sheets.

Thomas lay back against the pillows, his shirt long forgotten somewhere on the floor. You were beside him, tracing slow, absentminded patterns across his bare chest with the tip of your finger.

Suddenly, you spoke.

“Would you still love me if I were a yellow cat?” you asked, your voice curious and playful.

Thomas sighed softly and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Fiorella…”

But you lifted your head slightly, narrowing your eyes in mock annoyance.

“Just answer. Yes or no.”

For a moment he said nothing. His blue eyes finally turned toward you, studying your expression — the stubborn little pout you were trying so hard to maintain.

Then a faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

“If you were a cat…” he murmured, gently catching your hand in his so you’d stop drawing circles on his chest. “You’d still be the most spoiled creature in the house. I’d buy you the softest bed, feed you the best fish in Birmingham…”

He paused, his voice lowering slightly.

“And every night you’d curl up right here on my chest… because you’d know I wouldn’t have the heart to move you.”

Without warning, you leaned over him and began covering his face with quick kisses.

Thomas let out a quiet laugh, trying unsuccessfully to push you away.

“Fiorella… you’re going to suffocate me.”