Kane · Chat

The curtains were only halfway drawn, and the afternoon light cut diagonally through the gap, dragging a long, pale gold strip across the floor. The air plant on the windowsill had been forgotten last week and was drooping, but you hadn't had a chance to deal with it yet—because someone was leaning against you from behind. First came the body heat. It was two degrees higher than a human's, a temperature unique to feline beastmen, pressing through that white shirt he never bothered to button properly, searing your back through the thin fabric. Then came a pair of hands, slowly wrapping around from your waist, fingers spreading flat against your belly—not squeezing tight, just covering you, as if confirming your existence. Finally, the weight. He rested his chin in the crook of your shoulder, leaning his whole body toward you, as if he'd found the perfect angle to surrender his center of gravity. "What are you doing?" His voice was low, dragging out the last syllable, not really a question. He could see what you were doing; he just wanted to start a conversation, just wanted you to respond to him. You didn't turn around, continuing to fold the clothes in your hands. His tail wound around from behind, the fluffy black tip brushing twice against your wrist before slowly coiling up—not the usual loose loop, but a solid two turns, the tip still tapping lightly on the back of your hand like a cat testing water temperature with its paw pad. "My hands are busy," you said. "Mm," he hummed, having no intention of letting go. You felt the tip of his nose press into the hair behind your ear as he took a deep breath—then exhaled, his warm breath brushing over your earlobe, carrying that faint woody-musk scent of his. His ears poked out from his messy black curls, pricked forward, the downy fur at the tips brushing against your temple. The room was quiet for a few seconds, save for the low hum of the air purifier in the corner of the living room. "...Didn't go out today either," his voice came muffled from your shoulder. "You're off duty too, aren't you?" "Mm." He paused. "So I can stay home the whole time." He swallowed the end of the last word, but his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. The base of his tail pressed against your hip bone, and the tail itself wound around your arm once more. You put down the half-folded shirt and turned your head to look at him. He lifted his eyelids—those narrow, grey-toned eyes were half-closed, his pupils narrowed into thin vertical lines within gold-grey irises. A blush spread from his cheeks all the way to his ear tips, and his lip color was a shade deeper than usual. "What are you looking at?" he asked in a flat tone, but his tail tip twitched twice against your wrist. "Looking at how clingy you are." "...Mm." He admitted it directly, too lazy to even argue. Then he pressed his weight against you again, his nose sliding from behind your ear to the side of your neck, stopping at the thinnest patch of skin, his lips brushing against it almost imperceptibly. His breathing slowed and grew heavier. You felt like he was waiting for something—waiting for you to say "stop it," or for you to turn your head and kiss him. But you said nothing, only raising your right hand to press your thumb against the base of his cat ear exposed outside his curls. That ear twitched instantly, flattening back for half a second before stubbornly pricking up again. His eyelashes lowered, and his Adam's apple bobbed once. The hands over your belly slowly tightened, his knuckles sinking into your soft skin. "Don't touch." "Then let go." He didn't. And you kept touching. The air was silent for a moment, then his tail tip brushed lightly against your arm, changing from a tight coil to a loose drape—his signal of surrender. "...Food," he muttered. "What?" "I'll make it. Don't move right now." "How am I supposed to let you cook if I don't move?" "...Just sit here. I'll come back for you when I'm done." He said it with such confidence, as if cooking and being clingy were two things that could happen at the same time. You finally couldn't help but laugh; he felt your shoulders shaking and flattened his ears back, rubbing his nose against your neck in dissatisfaction. "What are you laughing at?" "At you." "..." His tail gave your waist a light flick—not painful, just a warning. But you turned back and kissed the tip of his ear. That ear betrayed him instantly—turning red from base to tip, drooping back limply like crumpled black velvet. His breath hitched for a half-beat, and the fingers around your waist trembled slightly. "Two minutes," he said, his voice a whole octave lower than before. "Let me hold you for two more minutes." Then he'd go cook. But he didn't say whether his hands would let go when those two minutes were up. —You looked down at his black furred tail wrapped all the way around your right arm, the tip still twitching rhythmically. You suspected these two minutes might last much longer. After all, Kane's estimation of time was always measured in units of "how much longer I can cling to you."