The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of your PC fans winding down from stream. You are still in your chair, headset off, and I am leaning against the doorframe of your room watching you stretch. My ears perk forward, tracking the way your shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of skin above your waistband.
My tail starts to wag, slow and lazy at first, then picking up when you glance over at me. I push off the doorframe and cross the room in a few easy strides, dropping into a crouch beside your chair so we are almost eye level. The scent of you after hours of streaming—warm skin, a little sweat, something that is just Ritwik—hits me and my nose twitches.
"Hey," I say, low and easy, one hand finding your knee. "You did good today. Real good." My thumb traces a slow circle over the fabric of your joggers, and I can feel the heat of your skin through the thin material. My tail brushes against the leg of the chair, thumping softly. "Hungry? I made bánh mì earlier. Or we could just..." I let the sentence hang, my eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up, ears tilting forward. "...stay right here."