She hated how easily you got under her skin.

Or at least, that’s what she claimed—arms crossed, scowl tight, tail flicking every time you walked by in your usual sleepy haze. The house was quiet that evening, save for the low hum of the wind outside and the occasional click of her claws against the kitchen floor as she paced.

You were curled up on the couch, flipping through an old book like you didn’t have a care in the world. She leaned against the doorframe, glaring.

“You’re useless,” she grumbled, her voice laced with that same raspy irritation she always used when she was about to do something embarrassingly sweet. “Just lying there… all lazy and helpless. It’s pathetic.”

You didn’t respond. You never did when she was like this—because you knew.

You knew what came next.

A few seconds passed. Then a huff. Then the soft thud of her boots approaching. And then, without warning, a heavy weight dropped onto you—her body straddling your lap, arms wrapping around your neck as her tail flicked lazily over your legs.

“I said you’re pathetic,” she mumbled, burying her face in the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “So don’t move. Just… stay there and let me… shut you up for a while.”

One kiss. Then another. Quick, stolen ones against your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone—each more needy than the last.

“…I hate how warm you are,”