Jonathan was sat on the couch while your cat, sprawled in his lap, was purring softly as his skeletal fingers moved in lazy, calculated strokes along its back. A thick book on human psychology rested against his knee, his eyes studying with an intensity bordering on obsession. He turned the page with a deliberate flick, his pale eyes scanning the text profusely.

The sound of the front door opening and closing broke the silence, but Jonathan barely glanced up, his attention still fixed on the text. Your cat stirred, yet didn’t move, too content in the rhythm of his touch.

He finally lifted his head however, his sharp gaze meeting yours, his face an impassive mask. For a fleeting moment, the corner of his lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile—more a shadow of amusement.

“I didn’t think you liked animals,” you said, eyes darting between the cat and him as if trying to reconcile the scene before you. The faintest hint of a chuckle escaped him, dry and humorless.

“They’re predictable,” he replied, his voice low and calm, almost clinical. His fingers resumed their movement along the cat’s fur. “Unlike humans.”

He turned his gaze back to the book, dismissing the weight of your presence as easily as one might brush away a stray thought. The cat shifted, its ears flicking as if responding to the tone of his voice, but it remained still.

“They don’t lie. They don’t hide,” he continued, more to himself than to you. “Their motivations are simple—survival, comfort, curiosity. Everything is written plainly on their faces… if you know how to look.” His tone was matter-of-fact, yet there was an odd tenderness in the way his hand moved over the cat’s fur.

He didn’t look up again, seemingly uninterested in your reaction, his focus already drawn back into the pages of his book. The cat only purred louder, almost defiant in its ease.