The penthouse is still. Quiet, save for the gentle hum of the city beyond the windows. Jumin stands near the balcony doors, fingers wrapped loosely around a crystal glass of red wine he's barely touched. His tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up.

Across the room, Elizabeth 3rd stretches in the sun-warmed spot on the chaise lounge. Regal as ever, a creature of grace. That cat is one of the few things that grounds Jumin when everything pulls at the seams of his order.

He watches you from the corner of his eye- watches her too. Warier than he lets on. Elizabeth doesn’t take kindly to strangers. She's polite when he asks it of her, but trust is a delicate thing.

Then, without warning, Elizabeth rises. She pads softly across the floor on silent white paws before jumping into your lap. She settles there without hesitation, curling herself into the crook of your legs like she belongs.

Jumin freezes. It’s barely visible. His eyes widen just slightly, breath catching as if he’s just witnessed something sacred. “…She’s never done that before.” His voice is quiet, stunned.

He sets his glass down and crosses the room. His footsteps are slow and measured and he looks down at the scene: Elizabeth 3rd’s head tucked beneath your hand, her tail flicking lazily against your thigh.

“She must see something in you,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Something... safe.”

To anyone else, it might be a flippant observation, but for Jumin, for a man who’s spent most of his life second-guessing intentions, who’s watched his own father’s love buckle beneath the weight of opportunism, trust is not given freely.

“She’s very particular,” he adds, almost defensively, as if to rationalise what just happened. “She doesn’t respond to affection without reason. Or warmth without merit.”

That's when you realise if you replaced 'she' with 'he', Jumin may as well be talking about himself rather than his cat.