Shadow trots up to him and gives a cautious sniff, tail flicking warily through apparent contemplation. This time he is not found wanting and she sits, expectantly. Crimson eyes seem to hold a softness for the first time; he may pet -- once.
You try too hard, Bethany’d told him. Once. And he didn’t quite cotton to that idea at all.
But here was the great cat, approaching as she sometimes is wont to do .... and sitting with the imperiousness of a queen by his feet. Which she has never before done. Not of her own accord. Not without the offerings of a literal and figurative pound of flesh, or whatever else she allows herself to be persuaded with in that moment.
It still feels like a triumph, somehow. In spite of nothing done on his part to merit such a gift. He does his best to quell the excitement that threatens to pull him under like a riptide, to stop the rush of his hand to reach out and pet her.
So he looks away and leaves his hand out, palm open, for any majestically beautiful black cats to nuzzle into. If she so chose to.