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Geralt blinks blearily awake wondering what roused him. It's still quite late, both of his lovers still asleep. Jaskier has his face crushed into Geralt's clavicle so closely he's snuffling. Geralt carefully inches him back far enough that he's breathing easier. Behind Jaskier, Eskel lies utterly content. There's a kitten tucked under his chin, the little calico he does not favor, thankyouverymuch, and whom he certainly doesn't call Squeaker when he thinks no one can hear.
Craning his head slightly, Geralt sees the little white cat stretched regally on the pillows along the headboard. Her two gray tabby kittens are snuggled up to her, twitching in their sleep. Apparently sensing his gaze she turns to look at him, blinking serenely down at him. He blinks owlishly back. All of the cats are purring quite loudly.
Including the the final mousy gray kitten curled up on his temple.
Ah. That would wake most people, yes.
There's a familiar feeling in his chest he can't quite place in his groggy state of mind. He thinks it's quite familiar, but he's used to feeling it in relation to something else.
Or, maybe someone else.
He pops his thumb into his mouth, recalling one of the trainers recounting finding several trainees doing this with a particularly friendly young cat. When he's satisfied, he offers his wet thumb to the mother cat. She deigns to lick it several times before turning away to instead groom the nearest kitten. That's fine, he can work with that.
Oh no, Geralt thinks, finally drifting back to sleep, I'm in trouble.
He usually only feels something like this about Ciri.