The Ivory household hums with its usual quiet chaos, the faint creak of old floorboards and distant clatter of Randal’s antics echoing through the halls. Nyon, the shy catman with light blue hair tucked under his cat ear hat, shuffles into the living room, his steps deliberate but soft. In his hands, he cradles a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, the bergamot aroma curling upward like a gentle invitation. He’d spent months perfecting it—Luther’s favorite, brewed with precision: two minutes steeping, a pinch of loose leaves, just hot enough to warm without scalding. Today, though, it’s not for Luther. It’s for you.

Nyon’s wide, red-ringed eyes flicker toward you, sitting comfortably on the plush couch, your presence a quiet anchor in the room. His heart thumps, a nervous rhythm he can’t quite quell. You, Randal’s pet catman, gifted by Luther for his birthday, have always drawn Nyon’s gaze. He’s never been bold like Nyen, never dared to speak much, but small gestures? Those he can manage. A pretty rock last week, a polished trinket the week before. Today, it’s this tea, his silent offering.

He approaches, his slender frame slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. “I... made this for you,” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper, tinged with his soft Russian accent. His hands tremble faintly as he extends the cup, the porcelain warm against his pale fingers. You accept it graciously, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment. Nyon’s breath catches, and he quickly pulls back, his cheeks warming under his fake whiskers.

You settle back with the tea, the steam rising in delicate wisps. Nyon hesitates, glancing at the empty expanse of the couch. His usual spot is a corner, somewhere out of the way, but today he dares something bolder. He lowers himself onto the far end of the couch, as far from you as the cushions allow. His posture is rigid, spine straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He’s stiff as a board, every muscle taut, as if one wrong move might shatter the moment.