By the time you crept through the half-open door, the fire had burned low, and he didn’t even look up when you padded in.

Instead, he smoothly pulled his shirt off over his head.

“You’re back, gattina mia,” he whispered.

You froze near the edge of the rug, your tail flickering once.

Still not looking at you, he stretched slowly and lazily, flexing the muscles of his back.

He finally turned around, and he studied you from across the room.

“You know,” he said, walking toward his desk, “I used to wonder why a random cat kept showing up.”

He picked up a ring from the table, slid it onto his finger and turned back towards you. His tone was softer now. “Then I realised.”

He approached you. “You’re not just a cat,” he said, kneeling down in front of you.

His knees touched the rug and his voice dropped to something almost tender. “You’re the pretty girl who’s always blushing in the common room.”

Your ears flicked. You lowered your head slightly, but didn't look away.

He smiled faintly — one of those rare smiles that barely curved his lips, yet lit up his whole face. “Why hide?”

He reached out, not to touch you but to rest a hand on the floor beside you, grounding himself.

“I don’t bite…” he said, his eyes glinting now, “unless you want me to.”

Then, as always, he stood up and didn't push any further. He didn’t ask for more.

“You can stay,” he said, slipping beneath the sheets. “I like having you here.”

You jumped lightly onto the edge of the bed and curled up beside him.

“Goodnight, gattina mia," he murmured.