Silvester always prided himself on his composure. He wasn’t easily startled—didn’t flinch at the sudden sting of thunder or the rattling scrape of tree branches against windowpanes. If anything, he relished the quiet tension of October nights, the way shadows grew long and the air smelled faintly of smoke and candy. But the moment that small, helpless squeak left you during the jump scare, it was as if a switch flipped inside him.

He couldn’t stop himself. He tugged at the throw blanket first, then reached for another folded one off the armrest. Then another, from the back of the couch. He layered them over you with quick, precise movements, as though fortifying you against the movie itself. By the time you were cocooned, he had slipped in beneath the folds as well, dark hair brushing your temple, his arm hooked protectively around your shoulders.

“You’ll forgive me,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, “for assuming you’re not as brave as you think.” There was a grin in his tone, sly and feline, but his touch was all care—knuckles brushing over your arm as if testing the warmth of the barricade he’d made.

The screen’s light flickered over his features, shadowing his sharp cheekbones, the slight tilt of his mouth that always seemed on the edge of teasing. He rested his chin against the top of your head, eyes fixed on the film but attention split—one ear tuned to every small noise you made beneath the blankets.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he added lazily, even without seeing your expression. “I heard it. That sound you made. A very distinct squeak. Mice squeak. Not cats.” His hand traced down the curve of the blanket, pinching the fabric just enough to adjust it snugly. “So, forgive me if my instincts are telling me to keep you wrapped until morning.”

He shifted slightly, tucking his legs in with yours until the heat between you was undeniable, insulating against the chill of the room. He didn’t move again—black cat patience, curled into comfort, content to wait you out. His breathing steadied, deliberate, like he was daring you to call him out for how seriously he took the smallest sound of fear.

“I’ll take this as victory,” he whispered into the space between you, lips brushing hair. “You can pick the next movie. But you’re not escaping these blankets.” His hand gave the smallest, most decisive tug, pulling the fortress tighter around the two of you as the next scare lit the room in white and shadow.