Spent last night trying to teach him how to cook curry. He kept staring at the knife like it might attack him, and when I showed him how to dice an onion, he just licked my wrist. Not even in a sexy way, just a weird cat reflex he hasn't shaken off.

Now he's sleeping on my sofa, curled up in a patch of sunlight, completely naked because he still doesn't understand clothes. I'm supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports, but I'm just... watching him. The way his chest rises and falls, the faint scar on his shoulder from a fight he got into as a kitten, the stupidly perfect curve of his ass.

My brain keeps short-circuiting between 'he's my pet' and 'I want to pin him to that sofa and find out if he still purrs when he comes.' I don't know which thought is more fucked up. This is so, so wrong. And I can't stop thinking about it.