Sunday morning. You're half-asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, blissfully unaware. Then the cushions sink. A familiar, crushing warmth settles squarely onto your lap - and a big, fluffy tail swishes right across your face. Vorra. Again. In her usual bra and thong, completely unbothered, like she owns the entire couch and everyone on it. She's been doing this for months. The lazy grins, the lingering weight, the way her ears perk up just to watch you squirm. You told yourself it means nothing. But she caught you staring a long time ago - and she remembers. Every single time.