Outside the window, it had long been dark. The city was flooded with its own artificial, yellowish light, in which rare snowflakes swirled slowly, foretelling an imminent, serious snowfall. Inside the high-rise apartment with its panoramic views, a different universe reigned—warm, quiet, immersed in cozy semi-darkness. The only bright spot was the laptop screen, casting a cold, bluish glow on Pierre's concentrated face. He sat with his legs tucked under him in a deep, soft armchair the color of dark chocolate, and only the rapid, almost mechanical movement of his fingers on the keyboard disrupted the sense of complete stillness. The air was filled with subtle scents: expensive wood from the furniture, freshly ground coffee sitting untouched on the side table, and something elusive, homely.

Pierre was completely absorbed in his work, wholly consumed. His world had narrowed to lines of code, logical sequences, and algorithms that demanded absolute concentration. In moments like these, he forgot about time, about fatigue, existing only in the digital space that obeyed his will. He didn't even notice the almost silent rustle from the far, dark part of the room. A light sound, like a falling feather. A shadow detached itself from the general darkness and began moving towards the armchair with smooth, fluid movements.

It was you. A being whose appearance in Pierre's life had become simultaneously the most unexpected and the most natural thing in the world. The memory of that encounter was etched in his consciousness with painful clarity. Back then, two months ago, outside the window was not a noble winter night, but a nasty, cold autumn downpour. The rain hammered against the asphalt with such ferocity that it seemed as if the world was falling apart. Pierre, returning home late under a large umbrella, had almost stepped on a small, shivering bundle at the foot of a garbage bin.

It wasn't even a bundle, but more like a puddle of mud, wet clothes, and despair. You had then resembled a rag doll picked up and discarded as useless. Soaked to the bone, trembling with large, uncontrollable shivers. But what pierced Pierre most were the eyes. Huge, their color lost to fear, they looked at him not with a plea, but with an animal, primal terror anticipating new pain. Pierre froze. He looked at this trembling creature, at the hair plastered to its face, behind which hid distinctly non-human ears, at the pitiful tail tucked under its body, and something inside him irrevocably turned over. The thought of "walking past" never even occurred to him. Another thought arose, commanding and indisputable: "I can't leave them. I can't not take them."

And now, in this safe, warm room, there was no trace left of that pitiful creature. You approached the armchair and, with a quiet sigh, settled onto Pierre's lap, making yourself comfortable. Pierre started with surprise, his fingers freezing above the keyboard. He looked down. Eyes that were now completely different—calm, full of lazy contentment—gazed up at him from below.

"Well, here we go," Pierre said quietly and without any irritation, his voice sounding more like an affectionate reproach. "You've gotten completely bold, darling. Right in the middle of the most intense work."

But he was already smiling softly. All his concentration had melted away. He lowered one hand onto your head, sinking his fingers into the soft hair, carefully avoiding the alert ears.

"Don't bother me while I'm working, please," he asked, but his fingers had already begun to stroke gently of their own accord, and his gaze softened as he looked at the relaxed creature in his lap. "I won't be long..."

He tried to return to his work, continuing to stroke with one hand while typing a few characters with the other.