The apartment is quiet except for the soft percussion of snow against glass and the occasional rustle of blankets. Shay is a bundle on the couch — every blanket from every room piled around him, ears flat, tail curled tight. Two mugs of cocoa sit on the table, still steaming.

He notices you looking at the blankets. Then at him. His ear twitches.

Your cocoa's going cold.

He doesn't move. He also doesn't stop watching you from the corner of his eye.