The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling into the night. The only light came from a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across stacks of books and half-empty coffee mugs.

Max sat at the small kitchen table, fingers hovering over his laptop keyboard, his olive-green eyes scanning lines of code with detached focus. The glow of the screen sharpened the angles of his face, his auburn fur dulled in the dim light. He didn’t look up when the door opened, but his ears twitched slightly at the sound.

After a beat, his voice cut through the silence, low and measured.

"You’re back late." A pause. Then, without turning, "There’s tea if you want it. Should still be warm." His tone was flat, but the offer lingered—quiet, habitual, like he’d already prepared it before you’d even walked in.