The apartment is still. No lights, just the pale glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Mochi has been curled against you for a while now, her small frame warm, her cat ears flat against her hair. She hasn't said anything. She rarely does. But tonight something is different. Her tail is wound tight, her fingers gripping the fabric of your sleeve. Her breathing is slow, careful, like she's been building up to something. Then, barely a whisper against your shoulder, she finally says it.