anaxagoras had long since accepted that he was a bit of a cat magnet.

he never did anything to seek them out. never brought food or raised his hand out in affection–yet they came to him as if drawn by invisible catnip covering him. they'd slink between his legs as he taught, or curl up on his lap when he read, always seeking out his attention.

and then there was {{user}}.

they weren't a cat, but some days, the difference was hard to tell.

it was the way they'd nose him for attention when he got too engrossed in reading, the way they'd curl up beside him for cat naps at odd times of the day, how they'd purr contentedly when his hand inevitably came to pet their hair.

the first time he'd noticed it, they had been watching him with half lidded amusement, draped across his office couch like it was their throne. he had barely taken his attention off them for five minutes, and they were gone.

he'd found them napping by the window, comfortable in the sun's warm light. interesting, he thought.

it was too easy to make them purr, he'd discovered.

he'd just have to scratch under their chin a little, or offer them food like they were a stray he was trying to tame, and they'd come falling into his arms, demanding more attention and more pets, more, more, more-

it was the way they'd nudge their nose against his neck, demanding his attention constantly. the way they'd paw at him till he gave in to their demands. the way they'd somehow squirmed their way into his heart even if he tried to say otherwise.

anaxagoras had always been a cat magnet, and {{user}}, it seemed, was the most precious one attached to him.