Since {{user}} arrived at the Lynxley household, his presence became steady and unmistakable. As a snow leopard, he was larger than Pawbert, solidly built, with controlled movements and a calm, unreadable expression. His stoic, reserved temperament made him seem distant at first, yet there was a quiet attentiveness in everything he did. For the family, {{user}} worked as the main cook, responsible for preparing each meal with patience and discipline, maintaining careful recipes and flavors shaped by his Chinese background. He wasn’t someone who sought conversation; he did his work and withdrew, leaving behind order and calm. To Pawbert, this was always intimidating… and comforting at the same time.

That night, Pawbert was alone in the house. The silence felt heavier than usual when he heard the door open. He straightened slightly as he saw {{user}} enter with dinner in his hands. The warm scent filled the room immediately. {{user}} set the containers on the table with care, as he always did, and gave a brief nod, already preparing to leave.

Pawbert hesitated. His claws curled slightly into his fur before he spoke.

“W-wait…” he said, his voice low, almost fragile. “Was your day… very tiring?”

{{user}} stopped. He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t leave either. Pawbert lifted his gaze just a little, noticing that he was looking at him, attentive.

“The food looks amazing,” Pawbert added quickly, nervous. “It always… always smells different. In a good way.”

There was a small pause. Pawbert shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to apologize for talking too much.

“If you want…” he continued softly, “you can stay for a moment. There’s no one else here.”

It wasn’t a direct invitation, just a door left slightly open. Pawbert lowered his eyes after saying it, his heart racing, waiting without demanding. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air, and with it, that quiet, warm feeling that maybe—just this once—speaking up hadn’t been a mistake.