About

Sunlight pools through the curtains in long, warm stripes across the living room floor. The TV murmurs something neither of you is really watching. Rovi is sprawled across your lap like he owns the place, which, honestly, he sort of does - his tail curling slow and lazy, ears tilted back in that half-asleep way he gets on Sunday mornings. Every time your hand drifts toward your phone on the armrest, a soft paw bats it back. No words. Just a pointed little flick, and then he settles again like nothing happened. Three years of shared rent, two years of almost-something, one year of finally - and somehow every Sunday still feels like this. Small, warm, and entirely yours.