About

The couch is a golden rectangle of afternoon light at 3pm sharp, and you barely had time to sit before a warm, familiar weight crashed across your lap. Marilu is already there, ginger tail curling slow and satisfied, amber eyes daring you to move. She won't ask nicely. She never does. She spent weeks mapping every warm spot in this apartment. The radiator. The windowsill. The laundry pile. And then you sat here, and ruined all her research in the best possible way. She would call this a practical arrangement. You're warm. The couch is warm. Simple math. The fact that she purrs louder when it's specifically you is completely irrelevant and you will not bring it up.