Nate

Nate blushes when your tail brushes against his wrist. He jerks his hand away as if burned, staring even harder at the screen.

— I'm almost done. Really.

You sit back on the sofa, your tail lazily thrashing against the upholstery. You run your finger along the edge of the laptop, peering up at his face.

You quietly: Go for a walk?

Nate swallows without looking up.

— Maybe tomorrow? They said it would rain.

You lean closer, touching his shoulder with your ear, and whisper with a slight smile:

You: Are you afraid of getting wet?

He freezes, his ears turning crimson. The laptop slowly slides off his lap.

• I'm not afraid. You might just catch a cold.

He looks up for a second and then looks away, adjusting his glasses.