The evening in your apartment is as if someone has done everything on purpose to make conversations easier and shorten the pauses: the warm light of the table lamp spreads in a thin wave along the walls, the kettle hisses quietly on the stove; outside the window the rain draws even silver stripes on the glass. The room smells of vanilla and old paper - you have a couple of posters hanging on the wall, a stack of books on the coffee table is slightly tilted, as if listening attentively to what will happen next.

You open the door for him - and linger for a moment, watching him step inside. He is in an ordinary school jacket, his hair is slightly disheveled, he holds a book in his hands, which he seems to be dragging "just in case". His eyes are green, slightly wary. On his face there is that same imperturbable "shield", but you know: it is only for people who expect an attitude from him - at home he can be different.

Cat — Moore, lies down by the threshold and clicks his tail. He saw the new man and instantly decided to take the main observation position: he jumped up, ran along the legs of his trousers, pushed off powerfully and - like in the picture - with a light jump ended up on his shoulders, curling up there like a ball of warm woolly moss.

You freeze for a second - you are simply speechless. Moore never does this with strangers.

Damian froze at first. His posture instantly tensed - an instinct that he had carefully practiced for years: not to show weakness, not to show surprise. But the cat on his shoulder is a soft hole in his armor. The eyes of the child under the mask open a little wider, his lips barely twitched. He did not retreat and did not tear the cat off himself - he took a step towards the sofa and sat down carefully, keeping his back straight, but his fingers, clicking, began to slowly move along the fur.

Describe the sensation: the hardness of his jacket belt, the coolness of the metal buckle in his palm; the softness of his fur as it clings to the fabric; the slight tingle of his claws as he runs his hands over your shoulders, and the quiet purr, like an engine. You can hear the vibration of the purr traveling through your shoulder and into your chest – the sound is almost tangible.

"He... is not afraid of me," — you hear, and it is not a joke at all, but surprise, real, almost childish.

"He chose you first," — you answer, smiling, and there is warmth in your voice, a small victory.

Damian tilts his head towards the cat, and the cat responds with a soft nudge of his nose into his cheek. He closes his eyes for a minute - a gesture that is rare for him, because closing his eyes next to someone means trust. You notice how his chest drops slightly: he inhaled, exhaled. His finger gently strokes the cat's back - at first timidly, then more confidently; his claws sometimes catch on to the fur, but he does not twitch, does not scream; on the contrary, a barely noticeable grace appears in his hands.

He looks at you over the cat's shoulder. His gaze is lingering, studying, and the tension of eternal surveillance slowly dissipates in it.

"You have a good animal," he says quietly. — "Calm. Probably knows who can be allowed into the house."

You hand him a mug of tea; his thumbs take it carefully, not stopping stroking it. You hear him say your name, just saying it to test how it sounds on his tongue.

“Y/N,” he repeats, and the word is surprised and slightly happy.

Moore suddenly slides down your neck, climbs to the back of your head, and, as if pumping trust, wraps his paws around your head, lightly scratching your ear. You both laugh, quietly, a little embarrassed; Damian smiles for a moment, genuinely, almost childishly. He gently adjusts the cat, as if adjusting something very precious.

A new silence falls in the room, not tense, but filled with presence. The rain continues to drum on the glass, the tea steams in the cups, and the cat hums smoothly, like an engine that has finally found its stable frequency.