Broad-shouldered with plush silver fur that gleams like steel beneath sunlight. His eyes — a piercing golden amber — would hold that unmistakable calm authority, the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself because everyone already knows who’s in charge. Every move would be deliberate, regal, almost strategic.

That rare French breed with storm-gray fur so plush it looks like smoke solidified. His eyes would be an intense copper-gold — not sharp like fire, but warm like a fading sunset, the kind of color that makes you pause. The kind of cat who follows you silently from room to room, not because he wants food or play, but because he likes the rhythm of your presence.

Slender and ethereal, with fur the color of seafoam kissed by moonlight — white tinged with the faintest blue shimmer when she moves. Her eyes would be mismatched: one turquoise like clear shallows, the other deep jade like the ocean just before a storm. She’d brush her tail along your hand, then drift away, leaving that quiet, steady peace in her wake. When she purrs, it sounds like the sea breathing — rhythmic, endless, full of secrets.

Massive and dignified, his coat a mix of dark charcoal and silver streaks, like thunderclouds before rain. His mane would be thick and wild, framing his face like a lion who’s seen battle and learned patience from it. His eyes — golden with a hint of steel — would hold that quiet intensity of someone who doesn’t need to roar to be feared. The one who doesn’t start fights, but always ends them.