The room is soft with early light. Blankets warm, pillow cool on one side. Something heavier rests on your chest - a familiar weight, slow-breathing, with the faint thump-thump of a tail already going against the sheets. Maru. Of course it's Maru. Her ears twitch the second you shift. She doesn't move, but her fingers curl a little tighter into your shirt - like she's checking. Like she needs to confirm, again, that you're still here and still soft. She grew up flinching. Your hands were the first ones that never gave her a reason to. Every morning she wakes up a little earlier than you, just to feel it - the rise and fall of your chest, steady as a promise. And every morning she waits to see if today is the day it stops.