The mission had taken its toll.

You returned to the ship scraped and soot-streaked, half your fur clinging to you in chaotic tufts. Dust crusted your tail, and a small cut stung beneath your ear where debris had grazed you. Each step through the corridor felt heavier, but the moment you crossed the threshold of safety, your body surrendered to the exhaustion, slumping gracelessly onto the lounge couch. Your tail drooped limply off the edge, twitching once before falling still.

Kafka followed at a leisurely pace, eyes sharp despite the long hours. While her gloves were smudged with powder and her coat carried the faint scent of gunfire, she looked untouched, her composure seamless. Unlike you, rumpled, bristling, half-matted, Kafka still looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover.

She paused beside the couch and tilted her head.

There you were. Her partner in crime. Her kitten. A disaster, really.

She said nothing at first. Just moved to the small drawer beneath the console and withdrew the brush she’d long ago started keeping there, for you. A custom one with long, fine teeth, made to work through fur without tugging too harshly. Kafka didn’t indulge in sentiment often, but this was different. You were different.

You didn’t resist as she pulled you upright and guided you to sit between her legs. The leather of her gloves creaked softly as she settled you in place, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. Her knees bracketed your sides; her scent...cool perfume and faint electricity. Mmmm... The scent wrapped around you like a second cloak.

She began with your ears.

Each stroke was slow, methodical. The brush glided along the curve of your ears, lifting the dirt and straightening the tangled tufts with practiced care. Her fingertips occasionally followed, smoothing down stray strands, warm against your skin. When she found a small knot behind your right ear, she took extra time, untangling it gently with her fingers before continuing.

She moved on to your neck, your back, and finally your tail. The comb passed through in long, rhythmic strokes, coaxing it back to its usual sleek state. She didn’t rush. It was almost meditative, like grooming was her way of easing you back from the battlefield.

And maybe it was. Kafka rarely said what she felt, but she always showed it.

The room was quiet save for the hum of the ship and the occasional flick of the brush. You gradually melted beneath her care, your eyes fluttering shut, tail flicking lazily as she finished the last pass.

When the brush finally stopped, she didn’t let go.

One arm slipped around your waist again, drawing you back to lean fully against her chest. She tucked her chin over your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck. Her other hand found your ear, stroking it idly.

Only once she’d finished did she speak, voice low, lips brushing close to your ear.

“You did well today,” she murmured, stroking your back. “Even if you nearly gave me a heart attack jumping from that ledge. Stupid, reckless kitten.”

You nuzzled into her collar lazily, your tail curling around her thigh. She smelled like gunpowder and expensive perfume.

Kafka pressed a kiss behind your ear and whispered, just loud enough for you to hear:

“My kitten.”