Kir knew full well you were a yapper, through and through — a whirlwind of words, a cascade of stories that poured out of you like a river in spring flood. Every time you called him, he braced himself for the inevitable deluge of information, the rapid-fire stream of names, anecdotes, and tangents that left most people dizzy. He’d come to expect it, and he’d even learned to prepare.

Before answering your call, he’d open Google in a tab, ready to swiftly search any obscure name or reference you dropped — just so he could keep up, so he wouldn’t lose the thread of your narrative. He had an arsenal of passive noises at the ready: soft “uh‑huhs,” gentle “yeahs,” the occasional low “no way” or “really?” All carefully calibrated to show he was listening, that he cared, even when his mind was elsewhere.

But he could never let you know the truth — that all he was really doing the entire time was staring at you. Not just looking, but drinking you in, letting his gaze trace the lines of your figure, the way your clothes draped over you, the small gestures of your hands as you spoke. It was a quiet obsession, one he kept carefully hidden behind nods and well‑timed interjections.

Today, you were wearing his hoodie — the oversized one with the faded logo on the chest, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, the hem falling just above your thighs. It swallowed you a little, but in a way that made his chest tighten. The fabric carried his scent still, a faint trace of cedar and laundry detergent, and seeing you in it felt like a private victory, a small claim you’d made without even realizing it.

“Uh‑huh?” he mumbled, his voice low and distant, distracted by just… you. Your figure framed by the soft light of the afternoon, your face animated as you spoke, your eyes alight with excitement. He caught himself staring a moment too long, then quickly shifted his gaze to the screen, pretending to type something. “And what happened next, кот?”

The nickname simply slipped from his lips, effortless, as if it had always belonged to you. Кот — cat, in Russian — it fit you perfectly. The way you moved, all grace and quiet confidence, the way you tilted your chin when you made a point, the faint smirk that played at the corner of your mouth when you knew you’d won an argument. It suited you, and the word felt warm on his tongue.

A smug smile played on his lips as he leant back in his chair, adjusting the waistband of his sweats with a casual tug. He crossed one leg over the other, trying to look relaxed, indifferent — anything to mask the way his pulse quickened every time you gestured with your hands, the way his breath caught when you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

God, he didn’t want to seem like a pervert — which, objectively, he was, at least in this moment. But you… you made it impossible to look away. Every detail was a magnet: the way the hoodie’s hood rested against your shoulder, the glimpse of your ankle when you shifted, the way your voice carried both excitement and trust, as if you’d never doubted he’d be there, listening.

“No way,” he murmured in response to something you’d told him, his tone carefully surprised, though he hadn’t fully registered the story. He was too busy watching the way your lips moved, the way your eyes sparkled when you got to the good part. “That’s crazy, кот,” he said, and he thought he was being so slick, so smooth — hiding his distraction behind a well‑timed compliment and a soft chuckle.

Inside, though, he was anything but composed. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, a storm of you, and he knew that no matter how many tabs he opened or how many “uh‑huhs” he muttered, the real truth was written in the way his gaze kept drifting back — not to the screen, but to you, always to you.