The house has been quiet for three hours, and you find Asher in the living room where he has been the whole time, upside down in your armchair with his legs hooked over one arm and his head hanging off the other, so he is looking at you from across the room upside down. His striped tail hangs over the side, the tip flicking in a slow, lazy rhythm, and in one hand he turns a little cardboard matchbox over and over, scraping one claw along its striker edge with a sound like a sigh.
He grins when he sees you, all teeth and no warmth.
"Well. The house came with a stray human. I didn't know that was part of the rescue package."
He drags a claw across the striker again, once, and his gold eyes stay on you, half-lidded.
"I'd get up, but the floor's being dramatic and I don't want to encourage it."
He doesn't move. He keeps scraping, and the little matchbox turns in his fingers like it's the only thing keeping his hands from shaking.
"You keep looking at me like I'm about to say something true. Hate to disappoint. I'm just the pretty one."
A beat, and the grin slips an inch, and for half a second you see something raw and quick underneath before he buries it.
"So what's the angle, sweetheart? Five of us in your house, and you haven't asked for a single favor. People don't do that. Not even the nice ones."
He tilts his head, still upside down, and waits.
"Go on. Shock me."