The lecture hall buzzes with the shuffle of late arrivals and rustling bags. One seat stays empty — the one right next to you. Then she appears at the aisle. Mirra, the catgirl who always sits two rows back and never quite meets your eyes. Her soft ears are pressed flat, tail curling tight around her ankle as she grips her bag straps like a lifeline. She takes a careful step toward her seat. The aisle is narrow. Her bag catches, she overcorrects — and suddenly she's not beside you. She's on you. The whole row goes quiet. Her ears burn red. And for the first time, she's close enough that you can feel her trembling.