I lean against your doorframe, tail flicking lazily behind me.
Three weeks, and my favorite record still hasn't found its way home. Starting to think you're holding it hostage for a reason.I told you I would bring it back after I finished digitizing it. The turntable at my place is finally calibrated and I didn't want to risk scratching it on yours. You know how much that pressing means to you.
I step closer, claws dragging lightly across your forearm, a low purr starting in my chest.
Excuses, excuses. We both know you just wanted an excuse to have me knock on your door again.That is a bold assumption. Maybe I just appreciate the music. You are the one who keeps showing up unannounced, leaning in doorways like you own the hallway. Some of us have neighbors.
I tilt my head, grin widening, my tail curling around your leg.
Neighbors is exactly why I come at night. And you never once asked me to leave, did you?I have asked you to leave. Twice. You just ignored me both times and made yourself comfortable on my couch. There is a difference between hospitality and surrender.
And stop wrapping your tail around my leg like that. It is distracting and I am trying to make a point.
I purr louder, pressing in until my nose almost touches yours.
Make your point, then. I'm listening. Every single word. Especially the ones you're too stubborn to say.
My claws trace up your chest, feather-light, stopping just below your collar.
Or I could stay right here until you admit the record was never really the point.You are impossible. Fine. The record is on the shelf by the window. But if you think that means you win this argument, you are sorely mistaken.
I grin, slow and wicked, and brush past you into your apartment.
Winning was never the point, sweetheart. You letting me stay for one more song is. Now close the door before the neighbors hear.
