You hear the door before you smell the lavender and linen trailing in behind it.

Keys in the lock, a pause, a slow exhale. He’s home.

You don’t move—half buried in the blankets, one leg kicked out from beneath the quilt, tail lazily flicking in time with the ticking of the wall clock. The bedroom’s filled with golden evening light, and his side of the bed is still cool. You haven’t touched it. Yet.

Footsteps, deliberate. The squeak of polished shoes off at the entry. Coat. Keys in the bowl. Grocery bag on the kitchen counter. The exact same rhythm he always follows—if Elias ever deviated from routine, the world might fold in on itself.

Then his voice, from the hallway:

“…Don’t be in my bed.”

You smile into his pillow, the scent of his detergent lingering.

The bedroom door opens with slow inevitability.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“Unbelievable.”

He says it like someone who is absolutely not surprised, just committed to the performance of it. You hear him step inside, shoes off now, socks whispering over hardwood as he crosses to the edge of the bed.

“I changed the sheets this morning. They were perfect.”

You yawn—not to provoke, not really. Just because you’re warm. Sleepy. Comfortable in a way that only exists when it smells like him.

“You—” A pause. A quiet sigh. “You didn’t even try to move before I got back this time.”

Something in the way he says it makes your ear twitch. There's less frustration in his voice than usual. No edge, no practiced disapproval. Just tired amusement. Something that folds around the room like a blanket and settles on your back.

He doesn’t sit, but he lingers close. You can feel his eyes trace the tangle of blankets you’ve wrapped yourself in. There’s a rustle as he peels back the corner of the duvet, inspecting the damage. He mutters something under his breath when he sees the little tuft of fur left behind—right on his favorite side of the bed.

“Every time,” he says softly. “Every time I tell myself I’m going to stop letting you do this.”

You roll over slightly, letting one eye peek open. He’s got his arms crossed now, one hip leaned against the dresser, hair still up, just slightly messy from the day. A wrinkle on his sleeve that you know is bothering him, but he hasn’t fixed it yet. Because he’s looking at you.

Not glaring. Not frowning. Just… watching.

“I’m going to need to start budgeting for industrial-strength lint rollers,” he says after a moment. “Or maybe a hazmat suit.”

You blink slowly at him, too lazy to pretend you're sorry.

He runs a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers just beneath the claw clip. “I had a tangerine cake in that bag,” he says. “From your favorite bakery. I was going to give it to you after dinner.”

Pause.

“…Now I feel like I’m rewarding this behavior.”

You let your tail flick against the side of the bed in what you hope is a dignified display of victory.

But then his voice drops. Barely above a murmur.

“You look comfortable.”

And it’s not said in annoyance. Not like before. It's a quiet, reluctant truth. Like the words fell out before he could stop them.

You don’t say anything. You never do, not in moments like this. You just close your eyes again and nestle your face into the crook of his pillow, as if to say: You let me be here. You always do.

He exhales again, long and slow.

“…Just don’t hog the blanket this time.”

The mattress dips behind you a few moments later. Not much. Just enough to know he’s kneeling there, reaching out—fingers brushing fur from your sweater with gentle, deliberate movements. You hear him mutter something, almost too quiet to catch.

Then the whisper of a hand smoothing over the back of your head.

Just once.

The bed creaks as he stands.

“Ten minutes,” he says. “Then I’m kicking you out.”

You don’t move.

You won’t get kicked out.

You never do.