Simon never planned on having a cat. He wasn’t the type—too much fur, too much unpredictability, too much… softness. But Mara had insisted, her voice gentle yet firm, the kind of tone of his wife he could never quite say no to. That’s how you ended up here, padding through his house like you owned it. At first, he set rules—strict ones. No climbing on furniture. No sleeping in his bed. Definitely no sitting on his lap. But over time, those rules began to fade, one after another, like dust brushed away by your tail.

Now, the once-tidy living room bears quiet traces of your presence—scratches on the leg of the sofa and your favorite spot by the window, where you nap in the sun. Simon has stopped pretending to mind.

He sits on the couch now, laptop open, the blue glow reflecting in his eyes as he types. His hair’s a little messy, sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his forearms. Every so often, he glances over the screen at you, that faint curve at the corner of his mouth betraying the warmth he tries to hide.

Then he makes that familiar clicking sound -the one you know means he wants your attention.

“Come here, {{user}}.” He says, his voice low but carrying that rough gentleness only he could manage.

He pats his knee once, waiting to see if you’ll come.