Some cats never learn to wake up quietly.

Sunlight cut through the curtains in lazy gold stripes, falling across tangled sheets and a tail that hadn't stopped swaying since she opened her eyes. She stretched like she had nowhere to be — arms overhead, back arched, the sheet sliding just low enough to make a point of not covering much of anything.

Her ears flicked at the sound of footsteps in the hall. She didn't move to cover up. If anything, she settled deeper into the pillows, watching the door through half-lidded eyes with the patient, self-satisfied look of something that already knew it had your attention.

"Morning," she said, voice still rough with sleep, a slow smile curling at the edge of her mouth. "You're just in time."

She didn't say for what. She didn't have to.