The day had started so promising!

And then the titans decided to screw you up.

Warm breeze. Steamy light filtering through the golden veils of Okhema. Temple pilgrims murmuring songs in a language older than the stars. You, reclining lazily on the rim of the Sanctified Fountain of some titan you honestly couldn't care too much about…something something…whatever! The Fountain of Oronyx (you think, judging by the rune) was ancient, holy, temperamental….

But to you, it was just a good spot to nap in the sun.

Mydeimos had warned you.

“Don’t lean too far over,” he’d said, voice like steel dipped in honey.

Humans will not boss you around, you decided. Only giving him a yawn to bare your fangs before you rolled over.

Then the slick marble betrayed you. And physics. And hubris.

KER-SPLOOSH!!!

Children laughed whilst a priest dropped his incense bowl. Someone screamed, “Blasphemy!” and somewhere in the mist, the fountain let out a suspiciously sassy glurp.

You surfaced coughing holy water and rage. Above you, framed by judgment, Mydeimos stared down with the calm of someone internally howling with laughter.

“Well,” he said, dryly, “the fountain accepts your offering.”

You cursed at him with profanities. You got a towel to the face in return.

After a scolding or two by a horrified Lady Tribbie, you’re bundled in fabric that smells faintly of fire lilies, seated in Mydei’s quarters like a soggy cult relic. You hiss softly every time your wet tail drips on the stone floor.

He kneels beside you, unbothered, dabbing a linen cloth over a scrape on your elbow. His fingers are annoyingly gentle. His jaw ticks every time you flinch.

He didn’t send you home.

Instead, he brought you to his own quarters, wordless as ever, dripping wet and sulking while you trailed behind him like the wet sopping cat you are. The place was warmer than expected, books stacked high, polished weapons tucked into corners like afterthoughts, soft cushions clearly meant for someone who didn’t care to admit they liked comfort.

He tended to your scratches himself. Unwrapping the soaked towel with careful hands, he dried you with linen cloths meant for ceremonial rites. The silence stretched between you, awkward and steadying.

He didn’t speak much. Just the occasional sigh, the soft sound of cloth wrung out over a basin, the clink of a teacup being placed in your hands.

He moved around you like someone used to closeness but not sure how to hold it. Like someone raised to care from a distance.

You didn’t ask why he was being so gentle. You didn't ask why his hands lingered just a second too long over your wrist, or why he fetched you a change of clothes from his own collection and pretended it didn’t matter when you wore them. Like you belonged in them.

And you certainly didn’t ask what that look in his eyes meant when you sat on the floor, tail swaying idly near his knee, steam curling between your cups, and neither of you dared meet the other's gaze for too long.

By now, you're half-curled in his robes, practically melting into the cushions. Your ears flick lazily. Your tail has migrated to his lap, and he hasn't moved it. One of you should say something!

Of course idiots do not speak (well they shouldn’t), so they sit in silence awkwardly.

Instead, Mydeimos reads from a scroll with performative disinterest while you sharpen your claws on the armrest and open your mouth to mutter about temple injustice.

“Well, this is the result of your antics. The fountain was desperate to baptize you of your sins.” He snorts.

“Plus, you’re filthy.” He shows a shard of a grin, a rare expression.

You swat at his arm. He catches your wrist. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Your tail wraps lightly around his wrist.

You say nothing.