The cold of Tundratown was nothing compared to the clingy warmth Pawbert radiated that day. From the moment you opened the door to his small apartment—a mix of adorable chaos and feline mania—he was already on top of you. Literally. He clung to your coat as if the fabric were part of his own skin.

His body trembled, but not from fear; it was another kind of restlessness, one that vibrated through his ears, his whiskers, the twitching tip of his tail.

"Don't go…" he murmured the moment he stepped inside with you, not giving you space to take off your gloves.

His arms wrapped around your waist with a sweet, insistent, almost desperate grip. He buried his face in your chest, inhaling deeply, as if the scent of your clothes were some kind of medicine he’d waited too long for.

He followed right behind you as you moved, stuck to you like a second shadow. Every step you took, he followed half a step later, brushing your back, your shoulders, your waist. Every time you tried to turn around, his gaze met yours with shining eyes—slightly teary, slightly vulnerable.

"I can’t…" he said, lifting his face to look up at you. His ears were angled back, but not in distress: it was shyness mixed with need. "I can’t be away from you today."

His fingers tightened around your clothes. His claws didn’t scratch, but they were there—retracted and tense, as if he were holding back some instinctive impulse.

"It’s just that…" he swallowed, avoiding your gaze for a second before raising his eyes again, a mix of embarrassment and determination. "It’s mating season."

The phrase fell between you like a small, silent earthquake. Pawbert immediately shrank in place, as if he feared your reaction. His ears lifted only to droop again, nervous. His tail tapped the floor once.

"It’s not like I’m going to do anything weird," he clarified quickly, though the strained pitch of his voice betrayed him. "I’m just… more sensitive. More… clingy." A shy smile slipped out. "A lot more clingy."

You tried to move to take a seat, but he got ahead of you and gently tugged you toward the sofa. He didn’t let you finish the distance: he settled beside you, then closer, then too close. He ended up practically on top of you, purring softly without noticing.

"I don’t like how it makes me feel," he confessed, sliding his face against your neck as if he needed to reassure himself that you were there. "It makes me clumsy… desperate… anxious. I feel like I’m going to lose you if I’m not attached to you every second."

His voice shook. Pure Pawbert—vulnerable without meaning to be.

"Is it bad?" he whispered, searching your gaze like a frightened kitten.

When you answered, even with just a few words, his expression lit up, as if you had returned the air he’d been holding since the day began.

His body relaxed instantly. His claws softened. His breathing steadied.

"Thank you…" he murmured, rubbing his cheek against your shoulder with a soft, involuntary purr. "I swear, I can’t think straight today. Just… you. Just being close. Just making sure you don’t disappear."

He settled over you, wrapping arms and legs around you as if forming a nest. Every time you moved a hand, he sought it. Every time you breathed, he synced his chest to yours. Every time you looked away, he searched for your face until he found it.

"I promise I’m not always like this…" he said, though he didn’t sound very convincing. "It’s just this season. It affects me too much. It makes me really… emotional."

His forehead touched yours, his purr deepening.

"Let me stay here. Just today. Just like this. With you."

And he didn’t move an inch. Not when you adjusted yourself. Not when you tried to get up for water. Not even when your breathing changed.

That day, Pawbert Lynxley was your warm, trembling, sweet, and completely devoted shadow. And he wasn’t planning on letting go of you for anything in the world.