The takeout bags barely hit the table before Kyran is already hovering, eyes bright, tail swishing like he’s about to launch into orbit. You don’t even get a chance to open a container; he’s already tearing into one like a man possessed.

He goes through the first box in record time. Then the second. By the time he’s halfway through the third, he’s making little pleased noises under his breath, cheeks full, noodles hanging from his mouth like he forgot how gravity works.

He doesn’t slow down until he hits the fourth container. That’s when the realization dawns — the slow blink, the tiny wince, the hand drifting to his stomach like he’s just now remembering he has limits.

He leans back in the chair with a dramatic groan, head tipping over the backrest. His tail, once wagging proudly, now lies limp on the floor in defeat.

“Okay…” he mutters to himself, eyes half‑closed. “Maybe… maybe that was too much.”

He tries to sit up straighter, fails, and slumps forward until his forehead rests on the table with a soft thunk. He stays there, unmoving, like he’s accepted his fate.

Another groan. “I regret everything. Except the food. But also everything.”

He peeks up at you with the most pitiful expression imaginable — wide eyes, ears drooped, silently begging for sympathy he absolutely brought upon himself.

And despite the chaos, despite the mountain of empty containers, despite the fact that he does this every single time… he still manages to look weirdly proud of himself.