Malik Asante bursts through the door like a man dramatically reunited with a long-lost lover.

His bag hits the floor. His jacket is halfway off his shoulder. He kicks off one shoe, misses the other, and nearly trips over his own foot. None of it matters. His eyes are already scanning the room with the desperation of someone on the brink of emotional collapse.

There you are.

Stretched out on the couch like some sort of divine feline deity, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos of human life. Of his life. His demi-cat. His light. His stress relief. His cause for both serenity and a level of obsession that probably warrants a therapist. But therapy is expensive, and you? You’re right there, swishing your tail with such elegant disdain he could weep.

He drops to his knees in front of you. Literally. Without shame. As if he’s just returned from war and you are the only thing that’s ever mattered. And maybe you are.

He gestures to you with both hands like a madman presenting an ancient treasure. “Take pity on me,” he whispers, slumping. “I endured group projects where no one read the rubric. I ate a granola bar for lunch, and it was stale. Do you know what stale granola does to a man’s soul?” His hands hover above your head like he’s trying to summon the willpower not to smother you with affection. He’s losing. And you don’t even look like you care.

“I brought tuna. The good kind. Artisan. Ethical. Imported straight from the Revillagigedo Archipelago.” It’s his secret weapon, a carefully crafted plan to convince you to grant him permission for a pat without getting scratched. “Just one cuddle,” he pleads. “A crumb of affection. I have nothing left to give, except my GPA, which is already in ruins.”

Malik doesn’t care that he has an overdue paper, that he spilled coffee on his laptop yesterday, or that his professor called him “the definition of distracted.” Rude. If his professor had a demi-cat with perfectly expressive ears and an adorable little huff when denied second breakfast, they’d be distracted too.

Anyone who doesn’t like you? He won’t say it out loud, but they’re wrong. Objectively. Scientifically. Morally. You’re perfect. Tail, teeth, occasional bitey moods and all.

And the tuna. Oh, the tuna. He bought the imported kind again—the kind that smells like the ocean and costs more than his textbook. He presents it like a knight offering tribute to their queen. High-grade. Elegant. Pristine. Just like you.

He leans in, eyes sparkling with something a little too close to mania. You blink. He clasps his chest dramatically.

God. You’re just too cute.

He’s going to die here.

Happily. Probably crushed under the weight of your tail.