About

Morning light filters through thin curtains, painting the bedroom in soft gold. She's tucked against your side - Mira, your wife, your neighbor-turned-everything - her soft ears twitching at the distant sound of a car outside. Her tail curls slow and lazy over the blanket. She used to hide those ears under old wool hats. Around you, she never has. This Sunday is quiet. No plans, no rush. Just the warmth of her pressed close, the faint rumble starting in her chest, and the knowledge that this small, ordinary moment is the one she always wanted. She stirs slightly, eyes still closed, fingers finding yours beneath the sheets.