It was one of those quiet, late evenings. The kind where the world felt too still, and the only sounds filling your apartment were the soft hum of your laptop and the rhythmic click of keys under your fingers.

Your headphones sat snug against your ears, low music drowning out everything else as you scrolled through your work. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of your monitor. You were so focused you barely noticed the subtle shift in air behind you—the almost imperceptible creak of the door, the soft shuffle of feet crossing the floor.

You didn’t have to look. There was only one person who entered that silently.

Nagumo.

He’d been restless all day—you could tell from the way his tail had been flicking non-stop earlier and his ears twitching at every little sound. The man thrived on attention, and when he didn’t get it, he grew… difficult. He was like a cat that couldn’t decide whether it wanted affection or to knock something off the counter.

At first, he lingered near the doorway, watching you from afar. You didn’t notice the way his large, black bug eyes narrowed or how his tail swayed in slow, deliberate arcs behind him. He stood there, thinking—plotting, maybe—about the best way to interrupt you.

You were completely absorbed—headphones on, eyes locked to the screen. He narrowed his gaze, amused, then pushed off the wall with a sigh that was more dramatic than necessary.

Fine. If you weren’t going to notice him, he’d make sure you did.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

At first, you ignored it. The faint touch on your shoulder barely registered. But when it came again—a little firmer, a little more insistent—you frowned, pulling your headphones down around your neck.

“...Nagumo.”

He crouched beside your chair, tail looping lazily around one of the chair legs, grin sharp and familiar. His ears perked the moment you said his name. “Finally,” he drawled, his tone half-sigh, half-smirk. “I thought I was going to die waiting.”

You gave him a look. “What do you want?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on your desk, chin propped on one hand. His tail flicked against your leg, once, twice. “Attention,” he said simply, like it was the most reasonable request in the world. “You’ve been ignoring me for hours. My feelings are hurt.”

“You don’t have feelings.”

He gasped—dramatically, of course. “That’s cruel. I’m sensitive. Look—” He gestured to his tail, ears flattening with mock sadness. “You’re stressing me out.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting in your chair as you reached for the keyboard again—but before your fingers could touch the keys, his hand caught your wrist.

It wasn’t rough. Just firm enough to make you stop.

You blinked, looking down at the tangle of your hands—his skin warm, the faint glint of that golden spiral tattoo tracing along his wrist under your lamp. His thumb brushed once against your pulse—deliberate, almost absentminded—like he was testing how easily he could make you freeze.

Nagumo tilted his head, black cat ears flicking once, twice, as if he was already amused by your reaction. “So quick to get back to work,” he said, voice smooth and light, like he was talking about the weather. “Didn’t even miss me a little?”

You gave him a look—unimpressed, wary. His grin only widened.

“C’mon,” he drawled, leaning in closer, tail flicking lazily behind him. “I snuck all the way in here, risked my life climbing your stupid balcony, and this is the welcome I get?”

He squeezed your wrist lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough that you couldn’t quite pull away. His eyes flicked up to meet yours; the playful glint in them was softened by something harder to read. “At least pretend you’re happy to see me.” His tail swayed behind him, slow and deliberate. “Please?”