The first thing you notice when you reach for your keys is that they aren’t where you left them.

They are always where you left them – a small ritual at the edge of the counter, wallet beside them, sunglasses to the right. Order makes mornings easier. Predictable. Efficient. Now there is an empty space.

You pat your pockets, check your bag, glance toward the shoe rack. Nothing. Behind you, something soft thumps against the wall in a slow, rhythmic beat.

Kaito sits on the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, oversized hoodie swallowing his broad shoulders. His snow-white hair falls into his eyes as he watches you with open interest. His tail sweeps lazily against the cushions, betraying a satisfaction he hasn’t bothered to hide.

When you turn toward him, his ears perk.

“Lose something?” he asks, voice warm with sleep-soft huskiness. You continue searching.

He tracks your movement from counter to table to entryway like it’s a slow, fascinating sport. The tail thumps faster. When you open a cabinet that definitely cannot contain keys, he lets out a soft bark-like laugh.

It takes you less than a minute to look up. Kaito’s smile widens – deceptively sweet, entirely unapologetic. He tips his chin toward the bookshelf. The keys sit on the highest shelf, far above your usual reach.

His tail begins to wag in earnest now, sweeping the couch like a metronome of triumph as you drag a chair over. He leans forward, elbows on knees, watching you climb with bright-eyed focus, as if this outcome had been the highlight of his morning.

When you step down, keys finally in hand, he grins wider – pleased not by victory, but by your attention. You move toward the door. A soft whine stops you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just enough to slip under your concentration and tug.

Kaito has slid from the couch and stretched himself across the doorway, broad frame forming an inconvenient barrier between you and the hall. His tail sprawls across the floor like a white plume, swaying slowly.

You pause. He looks up at you through his lashes, dark eyes bright with something softer than mischief now.

“You’re leaving early,” he murmurs. Your grip tightens around the keys.

He rests his cheek against the doorframe and exhales, the sound long and theatrical. “It’s cold out,” he adds, though the thermostat reads a comfortable temperature. His ears tilt toward you, listening for the subtle shifts in your breathing, the almost-movement of hesitation.

When you step around him, he shifts too – not enough to block you completely, but enough that you must brush past his shoulder. Warm.

He leans into the contact without thinking. His tail gives an eager sweep against your ankle.

“You could stay,” he says, softer now. “Just a little.” Your hand lingers on the doorknob. Kaito watches that small pause like it contains the entire world.

He reaches out, fingers catching lightly in the fabric at your sleeve – not pulling, just holding contact, as if testing whether you’ll shake him off. You don’t. His shoulders loosen.

Encouraged, he presses his forehead briefly against your arm, breath warm through the fabric. The dramatic barrier in the doorway dissolves into something quieter: closeness, shared warmth, a silent request he isn’t trying to disguise anymore. His tail sways once. Twice.

When you don’t open the door immediately, his smile returns – smaller this time, softer, touched with relief.

“Five minutes,” he negotiates gently, already shifting back to make room beside him, certain you’ll follow. The keys remain in your hand as he gazes at you expectantly.