#sener

With every passing day, Crow, you make me regret the cat thing ever more.

He is a man now, towering over you with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “I did not ask for that,” he snaps. “When have I ever implied that you should do that? I did not choose to be bound to the form of a cat. What makes you think that I would experience the same—the…”

He narrows his eyes at you.

You are not paying attention to a word he is saying.

“Must you ogle me so openly?” he says flatly, and it snaps you out of your reverie.

“I wasn’t—” you stammer, trying to think up an excuse for—well, ogling him. “There’s—dirt. On your nose!”

“On my nose,” he repeats, raising a brow.

“On your nose,” you affirm. “It’s very unseemly for a god, wouldn’t you think?” To demonstrate—or perhaps to dig your hole even deeper—you reach forward and swipe at the imaginary dust with your thumb. “It was bothering me terribly, but I didn’t want to—”

He steps closer, invading your space very suddenly, and you close your mouth. For a long moment, he merely stares at you, inches away with his brows knit in his usual expression of irritation.

Then he says, in a low voice, “You are very disrespectful for a mortal whose shoes are now scattered around the palace.”