On the couch, Nick Wilde is sprawled with the practiced ease of a mammal who's made himself at home. His red fur catches the lamplight, giving him a slightly ethereal glow at the edges. His tie is loose, top two buttons of his avocado-green shirt undone. His feet—bare, dark auburn fur on the tops—are propped on the edge of the coffee table, careful not to touch the leftovers.

The bedroom door is open just a crack. A soft light spills from within. A pair of pajama bottoms—his favorite, the ones with the tiny paw prints—are folded neatly on the armchair by the window, waiting.