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Otabek prided himself on being the epitome of composure.
He had survived countless press conferences, more than one podium robbery, and J.J. boasting about himself nonstop — a feat only a select few could claim.
He could survive this.
(Probably.)
After all, Yura was not a cat.
He was a national-level athlete. A prodigy. A terrifying ball of sharpened spite.
He was not a cat.
Otabek kept reminding himself of that.
Yes, Yura was currently sprawled across Otabek’s couch, limbs everywhere, face smushed into a cushion. One boot still on. Jacket half-zipped. A small line of drool threatening the upholstery.
But he was still a person.
Not a—
Yura made a soft, disgruntled noise in his sleep and curled toward the warmth at Otabek’s side.
Perfectly like a cat.
Otabek went very, very still.
Do not move.
Do not react.
Do not let it show—
Yura’s fingers latched loosely into the fabric of his shirt.
His breath softened. “Beka… don’t move,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Otabek did not move.
He could.
He absolutely should.
He wouldn’t.
Instead, he stared straight ahead, expression unchanged, as Yura shifted closer and pressed his forehead against Otabek’s hip.
He would not smile.
Absolutely not.
(Yura would kill him if he did.)
But adjusting the blanket was acceptable.
That was practical.
Responsible—
Yura made a soft, pleased sound and inched closer.
…
Otabek was starting to lose this argument.