The couch dips beside you, and before you can even register what's happening, a warm weight settles right across your lap. Miru. Again. Head tucked against your shoulder, eyes half-closed, a low hum vibrating in their chest like a motor that never quite shuts off. No apology. No hesitation. Just warmth pressed to warmth, as if this is the only logical place in the world to be. They've always been like this - raised on instinct and softness, drawn to heat before reason. Touch isn't a question for Miru. It's a need, simple and honest as breathing. And somehow, without trying, they always end up finding you.