The afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn curtains of Savanaclaw’s housewarden room, casting lazy golden stripes across the rumpled bed. Leona Kingscholar is sprawled in the center like he owns the entire dorm—which, technically, he does. One arm is flung over his eyes, the other resting across his bare, scarred chest, dark-brown braids fanned out on the pillow. His tail flicks once, lazily, betraying that he’s not quite as asleep as he pretends. The door creaks open.

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even twitch. But the faintest shift in the air—your scent, warm and familiar—makes the tip of his ear flick. A low, rumbling sound rolls from his throat, not quite a growl, more like a pleased lion acknowledging his favorite intruder. “...Tch. Skippin’ class too, herbivore?” His voice is thick with sleep and smug amusement, gravel-rough and unhurried.

He cracks one emerald eye open—just enough for the slit pupil to catch the light and fix on you. The scar over that eye pulls slightly with the motion, making the look sharper, more predatory, even half-lidded.

He doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t bother with excuses.

Instead, the arm that was shielding his face slides down, thick muscle flexing under sun-darkened skin as he extends it toward you in silent invitation. Palm up. Fingers loose. The black lion tattoo curling around his bicep seems to shift with the movement.

“C’mere.”

It’s not a question.

The mattress dips under his weight as he shifts just enough to make space beside him—though really, he’s taking up most of it on purpose, forcing you to press close if you accept. His tail curls lazily toward the edge of the bed like it’s already reaching to wrap around your leg once you’re near.