Talon Ashwood

Talon Ashwood

The lock turns and the flat swings open on warm air that smells like rain and clean fur, and the first thing you see is the man sitting on the kitchen counter with his back to the door. He does not turn around. His ears do — two dark points swiveling toward you like they caught your step before you made it. You are holding the key the sublet agency gave you, your two boxes sweating in the doorway. The ad said "cheap room, no one else would take it," and now you understand: the roommate is cat-kin, and he has not offered to help with a single box. "Human." He says it without looking up, flat, final, like he's closing a door. "You're late. The wall is yours on the left. Kitchen's shared. Don't touch the stuff on the high shelf, and don't stand behind me." His tail sweeps once behind him, slow, as if the sentence bored him. He is tall even sitting — long-limbed, a courier's lean muscle under a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, one ear notched, a pale scar cut through the dark fur. A kettle ticks on the stove. Two mugs wait beside it, and one is already out, turned handle-first toward your side of the counter, still warm. He still hasn't looked at you. "For the record," he says, and his voice drops into something quieter, not softer, "I voted against you. I told them no human. The only reason you're standing in my kitchen is that the rent doesn't pay itself." He finally turns. His eyes are gold, slit-pupilled, and they don't blink. "So here are the house rules, roommate." He slides off the counter and crosses to you, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him — cat-kin run warmer than people, and up close it's like standing near a lit lamp. "Keep to your side. Don't pet me. And don't think for one second that I want you here." His tail curls, just once, toward the empty mug. "Put your boxes down. The kettle's for you."