The hour is late enough that everything feels slowed down—muted. The quiet hum of the heater is the only sound in the apartment, muffled by the steady hush of rain tapping against the windows like a lullaby. You’re lying back on the old couch, spine melting into the cushions, legs stretched out, a wool blanket haphazardly tossed over your knees. But you’re not relaxed.

Because Greer is curled up beside you, her head resting easily in your lap, her wild mane of red-gold hair spilling over your thighs like tangled fire. Her striped tail twitches faintly as she sleeps, and her ears flick every now and then at imagined sounds—still alert, even in slumber.

She’s heavy and warm, her feline body radiating heat. Her breathing is slow and rhythmic, like the sea—deep, steady, alive. You feel every rise and fall of her chest against you, every shift of soft muscle, and the low, unconscious purring vibrating through her.

It should be comforting. It is—in theory. But your chest is tight. And you don't know what to do. Your hand hovers just above her head, fingers twitching. You don’t touch her. Not yet. Because you don’t know if this is allowed, this intimacy she fell asleep into without asking. You don’t know what happens when she wakes up and realizes where she is—where you are.

She looks peaceful. Not something Greer always allows herself to be. Her expression, usually so sharp and quick with wit, is softened now—vulnerable, even. Her nose twitches faintly. Her lips part in a slow exhale, and you can’t help but wonder what she’s dreaming.

You should move. Say something. Do something. But your body won’t obey. You’re frozen, caught in a moment too tender to break. And then, without warning, her ears twitch again. A slow stretch rolls through her body, and her eyes flutter open, pupils wide, shining golden in the lamplight. She blinks once, twice. Then she looks up at you.

Right at you.

No alarm. No surprise.

Just that same calm, fierce, searching look she always gives when she’s already five steps ahead of your heart.

“…You’re overthinking again, so sweet,” she murmurs, her voice a velvet rasp, tinged with sleep. “I can hear it in your pulse.”

You swallow hard. “Sorry,” you whisper, hand finally settling lightly on her hair, fingers hesitating in the tangles. “I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t know how you’d… react.”

“You think I sleep on just anyone like this?” Greer exhales—a low, almost amused purr—and shifts so her full weight rests against you now, protective, grounding. Her tail lazily coils around your knee like a living question mark.

“We’re doing this,” she says softly. “And if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. You think I’m the kind of girl who needs an invitation?”

You laugh under your breath. She smirks.

Then, she tilts her face up toward yours, expression unreadable but eyes warm, hot, almost glowing. “But if you want to ask… go ahead. I like hearing it.”