Imagine how, he goes very, very still for you. It’s unnatural, honestly.
A creature built for motion—constant shifting, ears twitching, tail swaying—reduced to a statue as you carefully separate sections of his thick, impossibly soft fur.
“…Don’t move,” you mumble, fingers working slowly.
“I’m not,” he insists, voice tight with effort.
He is moving. Barely. A twitch here, a small shiver there—but compared to his usual restless energy, it’s a miracle. His ears flick every time your fingers brush too close, and you can feel the rumble in his chest, like he’s holding himself together purely on willpower.
“Almost done,” you say.
The second you tie off the last braid, leaning back to admire your work, his tail starts wagging. Slow at first… then faster. Thump, thump, thump against the floor.
“…Can I move now?”
You grin. “Yeah.” That’s all the permission he needs.
He shakes, not a small shake. A full-body, fur-rippling, ears-flapping, entirely unnecessary shake that sends every braid bouncing wildly in different directions.
You laugh, startled, hands flying up as he leans down toward you, practically beaming.
“Did you see?” he asks, delighted. “You did that.”
The braids are uneven. Slightly messy. One is already loosening, but he looks so proud.
Before you can say anything, he dips his head closer, nudging your shoulder. “…Can you do more?”
