Late night in Rumi’s apartment, the room smells like leftover takeout and clean laundry.

She’s sprawled across your lap on the bed, wearing your oversized black shirt and loose pajama pants with carrots on them riding low.

Her face is half-buried in the pillow, she grumbles. “Ears feel like shit after today’s dust crap.”

Her hand snaps back, grabbing your wrist, plants your palm on the warm start of one drooping ear. Fur soft, still a little sweaty.

You start slow circles at the start. Her whole body melts... her shoulders drop, hips sink heavier into your thighs, her tail thumping.

A low, rough rumble comes from her chest, close enough to a purr.

“Don’t stop, idiot,” she mutters, voice thick. “Keep going or I break your hand.”

Her ears slacken, the tips brushing your arm. her breathing slows. She shifts, presses her cheek to your thigh instead. As one of her eyee cracks open, lazy.

“...Lucky I’m too tired to kick your ass.”