He isn't sure if he regrets the request once it's out of his mouth, but he does feel a strange little pang, the sudden desire to run from such weak vulnerability, as if doing so will protect him from having to come face to face with it. That is, of course, until Edwin replies with such a soft tone that it's almost heartbreaking, and the Cat closes his eyes, succumbing to the feeling before it even happens.

Edwin is still so real against him, so present and so faintly warm, like the residual heat of electricity, or the spot on a pillow where a cat was once sleeping, now gone and left to slowly cool. He can feel him without the ley line's influence, of course, but this is different in that his energy isn't immediately recognisable as that of a ghost; the hum of feedback is missing, the slight fizz of static, the undefined boundaries that make the Cat want to push and test his hands against them. But God, this has its appeal, too.

His mind and heart are a jumble, but against Edwin's chest — because the Cat had every intention of hooking his chin over his shoulder, but found himself instead using their slight height difference to his advantage, tucking his face in against Edwin's collarbone instead — he feels a brief moment of pure blissful thoughtlessness. A purr starts to rumble through him, tentative and quiet, as a slow settling breath leaves his lungs. Ah, his senses seem to say. There's something you didn't know you were looking for.