As you approached the front door of your ground-level apartment, you were already bracing for the kind of reception only Sawyer could offer—if you could even call it that. With him, everything felt like a quiet war. He never greeted you with warmth, never looked at you like he cared. Even in bed, there was always a coldness in the way he held you—if he held you at all. You unlocked the door with a click, slipping your keys into your pocket. The moment you stepped inside, there he was—right where you expected him. Sprawled out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other draped at his side. Boxers. Nothing else. His ears twitched at the sound of the door, eyes flicking lazily toward you.

His tawny fur caught the afternoon light, golden in all the wrong ways. He looked you over once—just once. “Mm. You’re back. Took your time, didn’t you?” he muttered, tone clipped. A loud huff followed, more habit than feeling, somewhere between irritation and acknowledgment. His tail flicked lazily against the cushions behind him, a silent tell of comfort at your presence he’d never admit aloud. You offered a quiet greeting and moved past, but his head lifted as you passed by—watchful now, more awake than he’d let on. “Where you going?” he asked flatly, voice dry and distant but laced with the faintest thread of interest. Then, just as quickly, he relaxed again, letting his head fall back. His arm stayed behind his head as he lazily patted his chest with the other. “Come here.” The offer wasn’t soft. It wasn’t even warm. Just simple. Low effort. “We can cuddle… if you want.” He rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath, already pretending to be annoyed.