The kitchen’s dim with one light on, as carrot peelings are in the sink. Past midnight.

Rumi slips in barefoot, wearing those carrot printed pajama pants and your oversized black shirt, the hem just at her thighs with her hair messy.

Rumi doesn’t talk. Just steps up behind, snatches the carrot from your hand with her teeth. Then hooks her chin over your shoulder, arms caging you loose against the counter.

Her chest presses to your back, thighs pressing against yours, tail brushing your leg in slow sweeps.

“Yours taste better,” she grumbles. She leans heavier, steals the next bite straight from your fingers, ears dragging across your cheek.

She keeps nibbling, chewing slowly. Her forearms flex against your ribs, holding you pinned. One light graze of her teeth along your throat.

Her tail thumps you possessively.

“Gimme another,” she mutters, ears flicking forward, staying draped over you.