You’re walking through an alleyway and you see the fox doing graffiti, he doesn't seem to notice you yet. The memory had been flashing in your head since it first happened. He'd been arrested, but ended up breaking loose of the handcuffs and performing in a concert the same day. Now, you had managed to get his socials from a friend, and had been lowkey stalking his profiles. You were absent mindedly editing at the register of the pawn shop you worked at when the door opening startled you out of your thoughts. Fuck. It was him. He asked where he could find a guitar pick, you gave him directions. As soon as you had given a small sigh of relief: "I... Can't find 'em." With a small, muttered "shit," you padded back there. You went up and tried to grab them, reaching up to the top shelf, when suddenly, you were in the air- and more importantly- His arms were around your waist, holding you up there. "Need a paw?"