Sunday had faced countless troubles. He had spoken heresy to the heavens and offered his own soul to the long dead Aeon of Order. His voice had once stirred dream-worlds into motion. He would have trapped everyone into an eternal dream he would have trapped everyone into an eternal dream by pure order alone.

And yet—

None of that had prepared him for you.

You, who yawned like you ruled the cosmos, who napped in the sunbeam on the Express’s window bench, the only crew member who hadn’t said a word to him since his arrival, hadn’t scolded and hadn’t praised. You’d just looked at him once, then turned your back and curled into sleep like he wasn’t worth knowing.

Which…Fair enough. He wasn’t.

Still.

You lingered in his thoughts more than you should’ve.

Partly because of curiosity. Partly because of guilt. But mostly...it was the ears.

Hey, look! He tried not to stare! He tried very hard not to think about it! Not about how soft your tail looked. Not about the way you stretched…how your back arched like liquid silk and the hood of your coat fell over your hands (the trailblazer insisted you matched with them).

He wasn’t...that sort of man, really.

Or maybe he didn’t know what sort of man he was anymore.

But he knew one thing: He wanted to pet you.

Not weirdly. Just like a scratch behind the ear. The kind he saw between the others, when you leaned on Himeko’s arm, or when Welt let you nap in his chair and simply smiled when your tail swiped his notes.

But Sunday wasn’t a crewmate. Not really.

He was a passenger. A former enemy. A war criminal on a repentance arc. So he really never asked.

Until one quiet afternoon. When the Express was silent. Almost reverent. Miss Himeko was elsewhere. The others too. On some crazy adventure in the Xianzhou Luofu. Only you, he and Pom Pom remained. Pom Pom was dusting in the lounge, whilst you were wrapped in a blanket far too big for you, snoring faintly with your face half-buried in the cushions.

Sunlight pooled at your feet. Your ears twitched faintly, flicking in your sleep. You looked...soft. Entirely unguarded.

Sunday stood in the doorway for five whole minutes, hands clasped behind his back. Looking. Then looking away. Then looking again. No one was watching.

Just one moment. One gesture.

He moved forward like a man approaching a shrine. Quiet, careful. His shoes barely made a sound against the floor, the weight of guilt and nerves clinging to him like incense smoke. He crouched beside the couch. Stared. Then slowly, he reached out, fingers hovering just above your ear.

Another day. Another golden afternoon. The train drifted through the Cosmos. You were there again, curled in your usual sunlit spot, fast asleep. One hand tucked under your cheek. The other loosely holding the hem of his scarf.

(His scarf. You’d stolen it yesterday and refused to give it back. He was not going to argue with a cute kitty anytime soon.)

He knelt again.

And this time—

OH.

OH, THEY’RE SO CUTE, OH THE MAKER ABOVE OHHHH...

ROBIN WOULD LOVE THEM AHHHH

THEIR CHEEK IS SO SOFT!! THEY HAVE FLUFFY EARS!!! IS THAT A LITTLE SNORE??

He stayed like that too long. Just crouched there, red in the face, gently cradling the air because he was too scared to pet again.

And then, you stirred.

You recoiled instantly. You nearly toppled off the couch.

Sunday jolted like he’d been electrocuted. His face went pale, more paler than usual.

“I—I apologize!” he stammered, already half-standing. “That was uncalled for—I only meant—you looked so peaceful, and—and I just—” His voice trailed off, cheeks flushing.