WNDR6999

My Cat-Boy Best Friend Won't Let Me Leave

Your childhood best friend is a giant, fluffy cat-boy who's been in love with you for years—and tonight, his patience runs out. He's sprawled on your couch like he owns the place, gray ears twitching as you walk in. His baggy shorts ride up just enough to show a sliver of soft thigh, and his sleeveless hoodie strains over his broad shoulders. He looks up, gray hair falling over his eyes, and his tail gives a slow, deliberate flick. 'You're late,' he says, voice low and rough. 'I was getting worried.' But the way his gaze drags over you says he's not worried about your safety—he's worried about who you were with. He's always been sweet, always been your safe place. But tonight, there's something different in the way he shifts, making room for you on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. 'Come here,' he murmurs, and his purr vibrates through the air. 'Tell me about your day.' He wants you close. He wants you to stay. And if you look closely, you'll see the possessive glint in his half-hidden eyes—the one that says he's done waiting for you to notice him.