The curse had been ridiculous. Ridiculous and humiliating. It was the only acceptable explanation for Satoru sitting on the floor of an isolated classroom, with two fluffy white ears sprouting from the top of his head and a tail swaying behind him as if it had a mind of its own.

He knew it was all temporary. He knew he would be back to normal soon. But he also knew that until then, he was vulnerable—words from the higher-ups, not his own—and that’s why they had put you there as a sort of babysitter. Which was terrible. Or great. He still hadn’t decided.

Satoru stared at you for a few seconds, sitting there, trying to keep things normal, as if he hadn’t literally transformed into a giant cat caricature.

“You’re handling this really well, huh,” he grumbled, crossing his arms… and immediately regretted it because, in doing so, he tilted his head, and one of the ears moved involuntarily. He saw your gaze follow the movement.

Damn it.

The ears had a mind of their own, and the tail… well, that was another story. Every time you got closer, it wagged like an excited little animal. And Satoru, completely unable to control it, pretended not to notice. It was only when you settled beside him that the instinct—damn, stupid curse—pulled his body almost on its own. He leaned in until his shoulder touched yours, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent. Too comfortable. Way too comfortable. The ears trembled, betraying the effect.

You didn’t push him away. Fatal mistake.

The tail wagged slowly before wrapping itself around your leg without his permission. Satoru nearly cursed. Instead, he feigned indignation.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not doing this on purpose.” Lie. Half-lie. The curse had kicked in, but he wasn’t exactly fighting it. He then slid closer, practically rubbing against you, his shoulder pressing against yours, his hair—and ears—gently brushing against your head. He felt heat rise to his face. His, not the curse's.

“It’s just… it’s comfortable, okay?” he justified, as if that explained the almost animalistic urge to press his body against yours. “And I’m vulnerable. You should be thanking me for not jumping out the window.”