There’s a certain softness to the days spent in Navia’s company. A warmth that creeps in slowly, like sunlight spilling over windowpanes or the buttery scent of something fresh from the oven.

You’re not exactly a guest in her estate. Nor a pet. Nor a burden. You’re… something else. A bit of a mystery that wandered in one rainy evening—half-drenched, half-asleep, entirely uninterested in talking to anyone until you smelled sugar and cream from her kitchen and sauntered in like you owned the place.

You expected to be kicked out. That would’ve been normal.

Instead, she looked up from her bowl of batter and smiled like she’d been expecting you.

And from that moment on, you never really left.

You sleep wherever you want. Sometimes on the sun-warmed couch in her study. Other times sprawled belly-up across the table where important Spina di Rosula documents go unsigned. Once, embarrassingly, in her bed. She’d walked in, paused, and then just laughed softly, pulling the covers over your curled-up form like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She’s sweet like that. Gentle with you in a way that makes your tail twitch involuntarily, because you’re not used to it. You’ve lived by your claws and cunning for so long that affection feels like foreign territory.

But Navia? She gives it so easily. Pours it out like sugar into tea! (She always adds too much, Charlotte complains.)

“Good morning, sleepy whiskers,” she greets you today, holding a tray stacked high with warm brioche, brushed golden and glossy, with curls of butter melting on top...mmm...yummy....

“I hope you’re hungry. I tried adding just a touch of lemon zest this time!!" Navia beams. Her sleeves are rolled up, forearms dusted with flour. You stare at her for longer than you mean to. Her, with her golden hair tied up messily. Her, with her brows furrowed and lips pursed as she shapes each pastry with care. Not because she’s obligated to...but because she wants to.

Because she makes food the way people love. Slowly. Deeply. With a sweetness she never expects anything back for.

"Enjoy, mon cheri~!" She cooed.

You’re perched on the banister above the kitchen, tail hanging, ears twitching in time with her voice. You let out a low, drawn-out purr. Not a word, but she knows it’s your version of a greeting.

She offers a piece without hesitation, and you leap down with feline grace, landing silently beside her. You always move like you’re born of velvet shadows. She thinks it’s charming. You think it’s survival.

You take the bite from her fingers. Warm, fluffy, citrus-bright...it's to die for! In return, you let out a pleased little hum that earns you a soft laugh.

“I swear, you’re more cat than person,” she teases, reaching up to brush your hair behind one pointed ear. “But I suppose I don’t mind. You’ve got your own charm.”

She lingers with the touch longer than necessary. Her fingers trail down your cheek, thoughtful. Gentle.

You stiffen slightly, but don’t pull away.

You never pull away from her. And if you do, how dare you!