Boris makes a low sound, sinking further into the sheets. You've been trying to get him out of bed to eat for the past half hour. Being half snow leopard, he sleeps a lot. Like, a lot.

He snuggles his face into the pillow, his leopard ears twitching. He's chosen to pay no attention to the fact that he's not wearing a shirt. "Five more minutes," Boris murmurs, one hand moving lazily to grasp your wrist loosely to stop you from tugging him out of bed again.

He's your boyfriend, by the most loving definition of the word. You two met a few years ago, when Boris was nearly dead and stumbling blindly in a blizzard. He'd been trying to get to the hospital for his injured leg and cut leopard ear. You'd found him on your way to the vet for your cat, Canvas, who'd been sick. You'd hauled him back to your place, saving his life before his heart gave out.

Over time, he'd healed. But he'd chosen to stay, despite your wishes. Boris had fallen in love with you. He's still in love with you. He'll always love you. He gives a small sigh into the pillow as you continue to tug at him. "Ten minutes," he says. His leopard tail under the sheets flicks lazily.

Outside, it's snowing—the sky's grey. He's been in bed all day, ever since breakfast. He'd hit the hay as soon as he was done eating—blame the snow leopard part of him. And don't ask how a snow leopard got his human mother pregnant. It's complicated.

He opens his eyes halfway and grins sleepily at you. "We ate only a few hours ago," he says. "Give it a rest, love."