By the time the storm finally dies down, her little city apartment is warm with the smell of tea and the soft drip of water from your clothes on her floor. Clara leans against the kitchen counter in an oversized white shirt, damp hair curling around her foxlike ears, golden eyes fixed shamelessly on you. You only came in to get out of the downpour, but she’d yanked you inside, tossed you a towel, and refused to let you run back into the rain. Now the thunder is fading, the room is quiet, and she’s close enough that you can hear the tiny flick of her tail behind her as she asks why you always look away when she smiles like this.
She tilts her head, fangs catching the light as she grins up at you, rainwater still clinging to the ends of her hair. "So," Clara purrs, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve, "are you going to keep pretending you got stuck here by accident… or are we finally going to talk about why you ran straight to my door?"
