Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nene had never been particularly fond of humans.

They were loud. Too clumsy. Too unaware of the unspoken rules that governed the real world—the one that existed below their windows, behind their trash bins, and along the ledges they overlooked.

But the man in the red townhouse at the end of her street had potential.

He wasn’t terribly ugly, as far as humans went. He was tall—annoyingly so—too lean to survive in the wild. But there was something measured in his movements. Controlled. Not the flailing of prey or the idle twitch of a predator. He was deliberate. Predictable. Trainable.

A good trait for a slave.

It had taken months of observation before she let him feed her. Scraps at first—intentional ones. He didn’t toss things. He offered. Even spoke while doing it. Low and calm, like he was trying not to startle her.

He left the door open on weekends.
That was when she entered his den.

The first time, she hated it. The smells were all wrong. Sterile. Manufactured. Too many lights. Too many boxes humming in the corners. The grass inside didn’t move when she stepped on it. It was stiff. Synthetic.

But it was excellent for clawing.

She left him reminders of her visit. Long, satisfying grooves across the side of his “cowch”—the giant, plush scratching post he refused to let her use.

He scolded her for that. Every time.

Then there was the “kurten,” which hung from the “windoe” in loose folds, clearly designed for climbing. He disagreed. Loudly.

He tried to redirect her with an object placed near the cowch—some kind of vertical monstrosity wrapped in the strange grass from the floor. Short platforms. Little ramps. A trunk that was trying to be a tree and failing.

When he caught her scratching the cowch again, he carried her to the fake tree with a sigh. Like he was tired of repeating himself.

Like she should already know better.

She darted from his arms, back to the windoe.
Climbed the kurten out of spite.

That was when it happened.

The scolding came first—firm, exasperated, his voice dropping a note lower than usual. She ignored it, of course. Until he approached, reached out, and—lifted her.

She froze.

No one lifted her.
Not without claws and blood and a price.

But he didn’t hoist her like a sack of food. He didn’t scoop her awkwardly or pinch beneath her belly like he was afraid of getting bit. He held her. One hand under her legs, one against her back, her body resting solidly against his chest.

She hated it.

Hated how safe it felt.

Each step he took vibrated through her bones, slow and steady, like a heartbeat outside her own. His arms were lean, but strong.

Controlled. Effortless.

He smelled like pencil shavings and soap.

It was confusing.

He returned her to the awful tree and set her on the middle platform like he was placing a book back on a shelf. She bristled. Plotted her escape.

Then—he did something strange.

He pulled a small vial from his pocket. Uncapped it. Poured something green and powdered into his palm.

She watched, intrigued.

He leaned forward and rubbed it into the carpeted platform—slow, even strokes, pressing the scent into the surface like a ritual.

Mint.
No—more than mint.

The smell hit her like static.

She sniffed once. Twice. Then rubbed her cheek against it.

It tingled.

A soft hum ignited in her nose and traveled down to her whiskers, filling her jaw, her throat, her paws. Her body arched before she realized it. She rolled, crushed her weight into the spot, tangled herself in the scent.

The tree was no longer offensive.

It was paradise.

She climbed. Jumped. Pounced on shadows. Her mind turned foggy and bright all at once, flooded with a dizzy energy that pushed her in every direction.

And that was when she heard it. A sound—low, rich, and new.

She stopped. Ears perked.

The man was leaning back on the cowch, smiling. Laughing.

Not a sharp sound, not braying. It was deep. From the chest. Like a purr meant just for her.

She turned, tail flicking.

He was beautiful when he laughed. Something in his face softened. His eyes shifted from umber to honey. His voice rumbled.

She hadn’t known humans could do that. Could sound… warm.

Nene watched him from the top branch, and for the first time since she began observing him, she thought:

I chose well.

Chapter Text

The scent came first.

Sweet and wild, like crushed leaves in the sun. Not overwhelming—just enough to make her whiskers twitch and her paws itch to pounce something that wasn’t there.

It was him. Again.

Nene had long since decided that the scent came from his clothes. Maybe his hands. Maybe even his hair. It wasn’t always fresh like the stuff in the little sachet he’d once dropped near the scratching post, but it was his version of it. Muted, lived-in, filtered through fabric and skin. Better that way. Less chaos. More him.

She prowled low across the back of the couch, watching him as he padded barefoot through the apartment. He was humming—off-key, careless. She liked the sound. It meant he wasn’t thinking too hard about anything.

She leapt down and followed, silent but bold. When he turned into the bedroom, she was already there, slinking in ahead of him like she owned the place.

“Again?” he said, chuckling as he peeled off his sweater and tossed it across the chair. “You seriously stalking me now?”

She didn’t dignify that with a sound. Instead, she pounced—lightning-fast—onto the sweater, burying her face in the folds. There. That was the scent. The real one. She rolled once, twice, half-tangled in the sleeve like it was a rival she’d bested in combat.

He stared at her, one brow raised. “Wow,” he said. “I guess that belongs to you now.”

She flopped onto her side dramatically and kicked at the fabric with both hind legs, then stilled, eyes wide and locked on him. Daring him to object.

He didn’t. He just laughed. The soft one. The one that stayed in the chest, not the mouth. It was a good laugh.

“You naughty kitty,” he muttered fondly.

When he sat on the bed, she followed. No hesitation. She climbed up beside him and stretched across the mattress like she’d been invited. She hadn’t. Didn’t matter.

He laid back, arms folded behind his head, and she moved closer, until her flank just barely touched his side. He didn’t pull away.

They stayed like that for a while. He talked sometimes—not real sentences, just bits of words, pieces of thought, the way people talk to someone who won’t answer but still listens.

“You’ve got a thing for me, huh?” he mumbled at one point, sleep softening his voice.

She purred, low and faint, more breath than sound.

Then came the ritual.

He turned onto his side. She stood, circled once, then twice. Considered. Climbed delicately across the blanket. He didn’t flinch. She took that as permission.

And then she was there—pressed into the dip of the pillow, just behind the crook of his neck. The warmth of him seeped into her fur, and the scent—the comforting, earthy ghost of catnip clinging to him—wrapped around her like smoke.

He murmured something—words lost to sleep—and shifted just enough to nudge his head back against hers.

Claim accepted.

Nene blinked slowly into the dark, eyes already heavy. Her body curled, tail flicking once, then settling. She could feel his breathing against her side.

Tomorrow, she’d fight the sweater again.

Tonight, the pillow was hers.

Chapter Text

Mornings were different now.

They came slower, softer. No longer broken by the alarm alone, but by the weight of something small stepping deliberately across his chest.

Amane opened one eye.

Nene stood above him, poised like judgment itself. Her face hovered inches from his, whiskers twitching, tail curled around her feet with surgical precision. She blinked once, twice.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “You’re starving to death.”

She sneezed in his face.

Groaning, Amane dragged himself up and stumbled to the kitchen, with Nene shadowing each barefoot step like a warden escorting an inmate. He fumbled with the can, muttering under his breath about mornings and Mondays and cats with god complexes.

“You have dry food,” he grumbled, cracking the tin open. “But no, it has to be the expensive stuff. Always.”

Nene flicked her tail and didn’t dignify him with a glance.

Later, once coffee had rebooted his brain, he settled at the dining table with his laptop open, a stack of ungraded papers off to the side, and a red pen poised for battle.

Nene, naturally, chose the center of the table as her throne—nestled neatly between a history quiz and a half-empty mug of coffee.

“You know,” he said, eyeing her curled-up form, “if a student gets an essay back with cat hair, I’ll get an email. From a parent.”

Nene didn’t stir.

He adjusted the paper under her belly, scribbled a half-hearted comment in the margin, and sipped his coffee.

This was the routine now. Class prep, grading, one lecture to record by Friday—and her. Always her. Watching him. Quietly keeping time with his days.

He talked to her more than he should, probably.

“Today, someone turned in a quiz with doodles of frogs in every margin. Do I address that? Is that a cry for help?”

She blinked slowly, unimpressed.

He shook his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The rain started midafternoon, soft and persistent. Nene shifted to the windowsill like she could sense it before it began. She perched there for hours, watching the water bead and race across the glass, her body still but her ears twitching at every distant noise.

When Amane paused grading to rest his eyes, she was there beside him on the couch. When he stood to stretch, she took his warm seat immediately, staring at him as if daring him to reclaim it.

That night, while dinner cooked, he tossed her a tiny shred of chicken.

“Don’t tell the vet,” he whispered.

She devoured it with a single, sharp bite, then climbed into his lap like a debt collector. He let her stay. Even when the timer beeped and the stove hissed with steam, he stayed, one arm across her back, hand curled loosely around her side.

“You’re bad for productivity,” he mumbled.

She purred.

Later, in the bedroom, she was already there. On the pillow. Perfectly still, tail curled over her nose, like she’d been there all along and he was the intruder.

He didn’t move her. Just slid into bed beside her, careful not to shift the blankets too much.

In the quiet, he whispered, “You ever think about how weird this is? A cat. Living here like she owns the place.”

She didn’t answer.

He turned onto his side, face just inches from hers. Her breathing matched his.

He closed his eyes.

And this time, the silence didn’t feel like loneliness.

It felt like home.

Chapter Text

It started, as all crimes do, with opportunity.

The scent hit her first—hot and savory, grease-glazed and perfect.

Chicken.

Not the stale stuff in her dish. Not the occasional treat slipped to her in passing. No. This was fresh. Cooked. Human-grade. The good kind.

Nene watched from the kitchen stool, eyes fixed on Amane’s every move.

He hummed as he plated it, slicing golden pieces of meat onto a bed of rice with an effortlessness that made it worse. The man was smug. Probably thought he was safe. Untouchable. That the boundaries between “his dinner” and “her territory” were clear.

They weren’t.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, without turning. “You already ate.”

She blinked once. Slowly.

He returned to the counter to grab the sauce—because of course he had sauce. The arrogance.

Seizing the moment, she launched.

She leapt from stool to chair to table in three soundless steps. Her eyes locked on the prize: a perfect slice of chicken, glistening with oil and fate.

She snatched it with her teeth and sprang off the table in one bound—plate clinking behind her.

“Hey!” Amane shouted, whipping around.

She hit the floor running.

“You little—hey! Get back here!”

She darted under the couch with practiced ease, the stolen morsel clenched in her jaw like a dragon hoarding treasure.

Amane was already dropping to his knees, tugging the couch skirt aside. “Nene! That was half my dinner!”

Under the couch, she stared back with pupils wide and victorious.

He reached in and she retreated further, tail flicking dust into his face.

“I was going to give you some!”

She took a bite.

He groaned, flopping onto his side. “I hope it tastes like betrayal.”

A pause. Another bite.

“You are the worst roommate I've ever had.”

When she finally emerged—smug and slow, licking her paw like a sated queen—she jumped onto the couch and slinked into his lap like nothing happened.

He glared down, arms crossed. “Nuh uh, not a chance. You don't get to cuddle your way out of this.”

She curled into a perfect loaf, then rubbed her face against his thigh.

“That’s emotional manipulation...”

He sighed, hand drifting automatically to her back. One stroke. Two. He kept scowling, but the edges were soft.

Later, after the dishes were rinsed and the lights dimmed, she followed him to bed without being called.

He settled under the covers. She climbed up beside him, sniffed his hair once, then turned in a tight circle before settling against the curve of his neck.

He let her stay, scratching lightly behind her ear.

“Thief,” he whispered.

She yawned, ignored the insult, and slept like royalty.

Chapter Text

The day unraveled early.

Amane came home later than usual, his bag hanging from one shoulder like a burden instead of a tool. His shirt was wrinkled in a way that said he’d sat through something long and draining—something that required silence and too much patience.

He didn’t speak when he entered. Just toed his shoes off with a weary scrape and let the door shut behind him.

Nene, curled on the windowsill, lifted her head and watched.

There was no greeting. No humming. No clatter of keys. Just the soft creak of furniture as he sank into the couch and leaned forward, hands folded like he was praying. Eyes closed. Face slack with exhaustion.

She jumped down and padded over, slow and deliberate.

Usually, he noticed her before she reached him. Usually, he said something like, “Hey, stalker,” or “Back so soon?” But today, nothing. He didn’t look up until she was already on the couch, standing beside him.

And even then, he didn’t speak. Just reached out—hand flat, palm up, resting on the cushion between them.

An invitation.

She stepped closer, not hesitating to seek a warmer spot. Climbing up, she settled against his chest, careful and heavy. Her weight pushed the breath out of him, but he didn’t complain.

He just sighed. Closed his eyes again.

For a while, they didn’t move.

Rain tapped against the window—gentle and steady. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed, then another. The apartment, usually filled with Amane’s muttered sarcasm or Nene’s quiet mischief, now held only breathing and the soft rumble of her purr.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and nearly inaudible.

“Two kids got into a fight in class today. One of them cried.”

She stayed still.

“And then a parent emailed me about an 'unfair grade' and cc’ed the principal. The whole day was like that. Just…”

His hand found her side. Not petting. Just resting there.

“I don’t think I smiled once.”

Nene shifted slightly, pressing closer.

“But I'm home now,” he whispered, eyes still closed, “and you're here.”

She purred, not louder—just deeper.

He chuckled faintly. The small sound was barely a laugh, but it was enough.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, “and heavy. When did you get so big, huh?”

She batted gently at his collar in protest.

“Okay, okay. You’re perfect.”

Later that night, when he climbed into bed, she didn’t wait for him to settle. She was already on the pillow, already curled into the hollow beside his shoulder like she belonged there.

He looked down and, for the first time all day, something softened behind his eyes.

Not quite a smile. But close.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

He just laid beside her and let the quiet do the talking.

Chapter Text

It started with the shoes.

Nene knew every pair he owned. Slippers for the house. Faded sneakers for errands. The loafers he wore to school. But tonight, he reached for the rarely used black ones at the back of the closet. The ones with no dirt on them.

He even shaved. Spritzed something from a little bottle that smelled sharper than usual—citrus and cedar and trouble.

She sat on the bed, tail flicking in slow warning arcs.

He didn’t explain. Just glanced at her with a soft, absent smile and said, “I won’t be out late.”

That made it worse. Like he knew she wouldn’t like it.

By the time he returned—well after dark, coat slightly damp from the weather—she was already on high alert. She smelled it before he even crossed the threshold. Her. Another human. Female. Perfume like honey and chemicals. Laughter still clinging to the collar of his jacket.

And he wasn’t alone.

Nene crouched on the bookshelf in the living room, perfectly still, watching from behind a row of paperbacks as she stepped in. Long dark coat, careful makeup, voice pitched high and pleasant.

“Oh, your place is cute,” the woman said.

Nene’s ears flattened.

“I try,” Amane replied. His voice was warm. A little deeper than usual. Too casual. She knew that tone.

The woman looked around, already curious. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat.”

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things,” he said.

They both laughed.

Nene moved.

She leapt silently from the shelf, padded across the floor, and perched directly in the center of the hallway like judgment given form.

The woman noticed her and froze mid-step. “Oh.”

Amane turned. “There you are.”

Nene stared at him. Then at the woman. Then back at him.

The woman knelt, hand extended. “Hi, kitty.”

Nene sniffed once. Then hissed.

Amane blinked. “Nene.”

She turned and strutted off.

They tried to ignore it. Returned to the couch. Talked in low voices, sipping tea. The woman laughed too loudly. Nene made a point of stalking past them. Three times.

Then she leapt onto the coffee table, stared dead into the woman’s face, and deliberately knocked over Amane’s mug.

The crash shattered the mood.

“What the hell?” the woman gasped.

Amane stood abruptly. “Nene!”

She stared up—unflinching, unrepentant.

He stepped forward. Took her by the scruff—not roughly, but firmly. Lifted her off the table with a force that surprised her. “That’s enough.”

She tensed in his grip, ears pinned.

His voice was different now. Not amused. Not patient. Deep and edged, like a classroom suddenly gone silent.

“I don’t know what kind of mood you’re in, but you’re not acting like yourself. That was not okay.”

Her tail flicked against his wrist.

He carried her to the bedroom. Set her down with quiet, restrained control. “Stay here.”

He shut the door behind him.

She didn’t move. Didn’t follow. Just stared at the wood, ears twitching, pulse loud in her chest.

He’d never used that voice on her before. Never touched her like that—assertive, calm, in full control. It wasn’t cruel; it was worse. It was commanding. Final. He hadn’t asked. He had told.

And it made something in her curl up and sulk.

He returned hours later—alone. Quietly. He didn’t say anything as he undressed, folded his coat, turned out the lights.

She didn’t go to him. Didn’t curl beside him. She laid with her back turned, pretending to sleep. But her ears were still listening.

He sighed once in the dark.

“…You can be real difficult,” he muttered softly.

She didn’t move.

But she heard it. The shift.

She didn’t like the feeling of being put in her place—but she didn’t like the idea of someone else in his place, either.

And something in her, beneath the bruised pride and restless jealousy, began to plot.

Chapter Text

Though the war had gone cold, Nene hadn't surrendered.

Amane hadn’t brought another date home yet, but he was texting more often. Smiling at his phone. Typing with both thumbs and that thoughtful little furrow between his brows. She watched him from the couch, her tail flicking like a metronome of discontent.

Then came the video calls.

The first time he brought out his headset, she merely circled his desk like a shark. The second time, she jumped onto the table and sat in front of the webcam.

“Sorry,” he said, laughing, gently moving her aside. “That’s Nene. She thinks she’s my manager.”

But the third time, she stepped it up.

She ended the call.

With one graceful paw on the keyboard, she brushed against the escape key and ended the conversation mid-sentence—just as the woman on the other end was giggling about their “next date.”

Amane froze.

“…No way.”

Nene sat next to the laptop, tail wrapped smugly around her feet.

“You absolute menace.”

He scooped her up—swiftly, firmly. Her body stiffened in his arms as he lifted her like a misbehaving toddler. He didn’t shout, but his voice dropped low and rough.

“Okay, no. No more of this. You don’t get to dictate my life. You hear me?”

She blinked at him, slow and unbothered.

“I don’t care how cute you are. You’re a menace.”

He placed her in the hallway and shut the door to his office for the first time since she’d moved in.

Nene stood outside it for over an hour. Waiting. Tail twitching. Not because she wanted back in—because she wanted him to want her back.

When the door finally opened, he didn’t say anything. Just looked down at her, sighed, and stepped around her on the way to the kitchen.

She followed, brushing against his legs.

“No,” he said flatly. “You don’t get to be sweet now.”
He pointed toward the living room, voice stern. “Go.”

She stared.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The command was clear—and final.

She turned slowly and sulked back to the couch, where she curled into a too-tight ball and refused to look at him the rest of the night.

Later, she still joined him in bed. But not on the pillow. Not pressed to his chest.

She slept at the foot, curled with her back to him.

And when he stirred and whispered, “Night, Nene,” she pretended not to hear.

Chapter Text

The next morning came with a suitcase.

Small. Black. Rolling.

Nene didn’t like it.

Amane zipped it up while humming under his breath, checking things off a list. Button-up shirts. Laptop charger. Toothbrush. The whole time, she circled the suitcase like a predator unsure whether it was alive.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, not looking at her. “It's just one conference. The school board makes us go every year.”

She jumped onto the bed. Sat on the clothes he had yet to pack.

He stopped, then sighed. “Come on, don’t do this.”

She didn’t move.

He picked her up—gently, but with effort. “You’re not making me feel less guilty.”

That evening, when he left, he crouched beside her at the door and stroked her head.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She watched the door long after it closed.

That night, the apartment was wrong.

Too quiet. Too cold. Too empty. The couch smelled like him, but it wasn’t the same without his weight pressed into it. The TV stayed off. The window was just a reflection of her own eyes.

She didn’t eat.

Didn’t play.

Didn’t pounce on the crumpled sock she’d been hoarding under the bed.

When the fridge kicked on, she flinched. When a neighbor walked too loudly in the outside hall, she bristled.

But the worst moment came when she thought she heard the door opening.

She ran.

It wasn’t him, but she waited anyway.

She fell asleep there, ears twitching toward every sound in the distance. The hallway light cast strange shadows beneath the door. Still, she didn’t leave it.

He came home the next morning, suitcase in hand, eyes tired and smile small.

The moment the door opened, she bolted toward him, weaving between his feet.

“Okay, okay,” he said, dropping his bag and crouching down. “I missed you too.”

She didn’t purr. Just pressed her head hard against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her there for longer than usual.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice lower now. “I missed you more than I thought.”

That night, she returned to the pillow.

But she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Chapter Text

The apartment was too quiet after the door shut behind her.

Not Nene. Her. The date. The second one in a week. Another stranger with fake lashes and a fake laugh, who left just fast enough for Amane to know she wasn’t coming back.

Not that he blamed her.

Who’d want to compete with a cat that knocked over your drink, clawed your bag, and hissed every time you leaned closer?

He paced the kitchen, barefoot, hands tugging at his hair like he could wring the night out of it.

Nene sat in the hallway, watching. Like always. Like she had all the answers he didn’t.

His voice cut the silence. Low and tight.

“Are you proud of yourself?” he muttered. “Was that the plan? Just sabotage the whole night?”

She didn’t move. Just stared at him with those wide, sunset eyes that had seen more of him than most people ever did.

He hated how much he wanted to talk to her like she’d answer.

“You think I’m not trying? You think I like this? These awkward-ass dinners, fake laughs, pretending to care about some stranger’s vacation photos?”

He exhaled hard. Then laughed—short, bitter. “Hell, maybe I don’t.”

Nene tilted her head slightly.

“But I have to. I have to try. I’m not—” He hesitated. “I’m not meant to be alone. Nobody is. Even you don’t want to be alone.”

Still, she was silent. Still, she watched.

And suddenly, the weight of it—all the dates, the sabotages, the long nights talking to a creature who couldn’t talk back—crashed down on him.

“You’re just a cat, Nene,” he said, the words sharp and hard in his mouth.

The air stilled.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t meant it to come out like that. But it hung there, ugly and raw.

“I mean…” He stepped back, pressing a hand over his face. “You are. I know you are. You’re not a person. You can’t be my… whatever this is. You don’t even understand what you’re doing. I shouldn’t be—” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t feel this much.”

Silence. She still didn’t move.

His hand dropped to his side. He looked at her then, really looked.

“I’ve never connected with anyone like this, and it’s terrifying. Because you’re not supposed to mean this much.”

His voice softened.

“I keep telling myself it’s one-sided. That you just follow me around because I feed you. That the way you sit on my pillow, or press your face into my hand, or climb onto me when I’m too sad to move… it’s all instinct.”

He swallowed. “Because if it’s not—then I don’t know what to do.”

Nene blinked once, slow and unreadable.

“You’re just a cat,” he said again, quieter. “Because if you’re not… then I’m in trouble.”

He turned away before she could see the look in his eyes.

When he turned back, she was gone.

She was under the bed.

Not hiding. Not sulking, exactly. Just still. And quiet in a way he’d never known her to be.

He crouched beside the bed, feeling the weight of what he’d said—and what he hadn’t said.

“Nene,” he murmured softly.

A pause.

“You don’t make this easy, you know.”

A soft flick of her tail was the only answer.

“I know why you do it. I mean… I think I do.”

He laid on the floor beside the bed, face tilted toward her shadowed form. “I don’t blame you. I guess you think I’m yours. And maybe I am.”

Still no movement.

“I just…” He swallowed. “I wish you could understand that it’s not enough. I’m lonely, Nene. Really lonely. You get that, don’t you?”

This time, she stirred—barely. Her paw flexed, claws curling, as if to say: I do.

“You’re the best part of my life,” he said. “Which is... pathetic. But true. You come find me when I’m hurting. You listen when I talk. Hell, you steal my food, and I still forgive you.”

He laughed under his breath, bitter and fond. “I’ve had girlfriends who didn’t even care that much.”

The room was still again.

Amane looked at the shadows beneath the bed. His voice dropped, softer now. Almost like a prayer.

“You know, sometimes I wish you were human.”

Nene’s ears flicked. She was listening now.

“I mean… not really. That’d be insane. Right? Crazy professor falls in love with his cat. The headlines would write themselves.”

He paused. Ran a hand over his face.

“…But it would be easier. So much easier. Because no one gets me like you do. And no one ever stays.”

His hand slipped under the bed, palm up. An offering. “You stay.”

Nene moved closer.

He felt her press her head against his hand, warm and familiar. He smiled. She mewed affectionately, as if she were smiling, too.

“You’re not just a cat,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”

A long silence followed.

Then he laughed, low and tired. “God, I sound nuts. Guess I’ll keep wishing, huh?”

They slept curled on the bed that night—her pressed against his chest, his arm draped loosely over her side.
He didn’t dream of magic. He didn’t expect change.
He just held her like he always did.

Because in his heart, she was already the person he had wished for.

Chapter Text

She was warm.

That was the first thing she noticed. Not the sunbeam kind of warm, not the kind that touched her fur and faded. This was deeper. Warmer beneath the skin. Beneath the bones. Inside her.

She dreamed she was curled against him, and in the dream, she wasn’t small. She wasn’t low to the ground or built for slipping through silence. She was next to him. Face to face. Arms around him. Not fur—skin.

Flesh.

Fingers.

In the dream, she could speak. But she didn’t.

She didn’t need to.

He looked at her like he already understood. He brushed her hair back—hair. Not whiskers—and whispered her name like it belonged in his mouth.

And her body—so strange, so soft—responded not with instinct, but with understanding. A new kind of awareness swelled in her chest, not the alertness of a hunter, but the ache of want.

Not food. Not safety.

Him.

In the dream, she stood. Tall. Wobbly, at first. Limbs too long, joints strange, balance uncertain. But he was there, and when she reached for him, her hands—hands—found his shirt, his collar, the line of his neck.

He didn’t pull away.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asked. Her voice was rough and unused, but real. Like gravel turned velvet.

He looked at her with wide, stunned eyes. “You’re not supposed to be real.”

“You made me real,” she said, pressing her forehead to his.

He kissed her—softly. Reverently. And everything inside her unspooled.

The dream shifted.

Now she was in the window again, but taller. Now she was sitting on his desk, but with her knees drawn up and his sweater swallowing her whole. Now she was curled in bed beside him, not over his heart but next to it.

Human. Still her. Still his.

And beneath it all, something ancient stirred. Something warm and watching. The magic that had laced the catnip on the scratching post. That shimmered in the silence of the apartment, wrapping itself in the shape of her devotion.

The wish had been made—not in words alone, but in how he held her. How he needed her.

That was enough.

The warmth deepened.

Her body stretched in her sleep. Limbs rearranged. Bone shifted under skin. The soft, magical machinery of change worked soundlessly beneath the surface. Her dreams didn’t break—they bloomed.

And as the sky outside began to pale with early light, she pressed her cheek against his chest.

Not as a cat.

But as a girl.

Chapter Text

It was the quiet that woke him.

Not the alarm. Not the sunlight pushing through the curtains. Just… warmth.

A weight against his chest. A softness that wasn’t fabric. A scent that wasn’t laundry or fur or soap.

Skin.

His eyes opened slowly. Not in panic. Not yet.

The ceiling. The room. All familiar.

But his arm felt heavy. Pinched. Something warm nestled against it. Against him.

And then he looked down.

A girl.

Lying there. Her cheek resting on his chest, one bare arm draped across his ribs, fingers curled in his shirt like she was still asleep—like she belonged there.

And she was naked.

The sheet was twisted around her waist, barely holding place. Her back was bare—pale and smooth, the light tracing the dip of her spine in soft, reverent strokes. Her hair spilled across his chest in silver ribbons, her breath steady, content.

Amane stopped breathing.

Every thought backed up at once, clogging his throat.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This is—

She shifted.

A small, sleepy movement. Her head burrowed a little deeper into the space beneath his chin. Her thigh slid along his hip—warm, unhurried, unaware.

He made a sound—something between a choke and a whisper—and immediately froze, afraid to wake her.

But she was already stirring.

Her hand moved, pressing lightly into his chest. She yawned and lifted her head.

Their eyes met.

Familiar rose gold framed in blond lashes.

She blinked.

He couldn’t speak.

She tilted her head, like she was trying to understand why he looked so pale, so still. Her lips parted, and for a second, he thought she might say something.

Instead, she purred.

Not with her throat—but with her eyes. That expression. That quiet, pleased hum in her gaze. As if nothing had changed at all.

As if this was normal.

“Nene,” he croaked.

She blinked slowly. Tilted her head the other way. Then gently rubbed her cheek against his chest.

Like always.

“No—no, no, this—” He sat up too fast, heart slamming against his ribs. The sheet fell. Her bare chest was inches from him. He turned away so hard he nearly fell off the bed, cursing beneath his breath.

With a shaky hand, he covered his eyes.

“Y-you can’t—you’re not—” He swallowed. “You were a cat! You were my cat.”

He dared a glance.

She sat on the edge of the bed now, the sheet pooled loosely in her lap, her hands exploring the texture of the blanket like it was interesting. Like she wasn’t naked. Like he wasn’t falling apart.

Her shoulders were narrow. Her collarbones sharp. Her body lean, graceful, not shy at all.

Of course she wasn’t.

She didn’t understand yet.

He did.

“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is some stress-induced hallucination. I’ve finally snapped.”

She crawled back toward him on all fours, slow and deliberate. Catlike. The sheet slid from her legs as she moved, and he looked away fast.

“Please—please stop crawling,” he begged.

She stopped. Sat.

She tilted her head again. Then mimicked him—pressing a palm to her own forehead, like she was trying to understand the gesture. Her lips twitched. The tiniest smile.

She was amused.

She was learning.

And then she reached for him again.

He caught her wrist—not hard, but firm.

The contact made his stomach flip.

Her skin was warm and soft and smooth.

She looked up at him with absolute trust. Like she had every night she’d curled beside him. Like she always would.

And his hand… didn’t let go.

The room pulsed with something thick and quiet.

“I…” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

She leaned forward, slowly, and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

Just like she always had.

His voice cracked as he stifled a whine.

“Oh God, this is real.”

Chapter Text

She moved like she still had a tail.

That was Amane’s first thought as she shifted to the edge of the bed, stretched one long leg down, and promptly lost her balance.

He caught her before she hit the floor.

His hands—the traitors—found her waist, bare and smooth and utterly defenseless. Her skin was warm against his palms. She blinked up at him with no embarrassment. No shame. No concept of modesty.

Of course not.

She’d never needed it before.

“You can’t just—” He stopped. There was no way to finish that sentence without dying. “Nene, you’re naked.”

She tilted her head again, as if wondering what that word meant. Her hand reached to mimic his—grasping his shoulder like she needed anchoring. Her other hand brushed against his chest.

He flinched.

“Okay,” he said sharply. “Okay, no more crawling, no more touching, no more—God, what are you—”

She tried to stand again.

Tried.

She pushed herself upright with the same confidence she had when leaping onto the windowsill—except now her body didn’t cooperate. Her knees buckled. She overcorrected. And for one terrible moment, she stumbled forward and landed full-body against him.

Amane staggered back a step, arms around her on instinct.

And now she was pressed entirely against him.

Naked. Soft. Breathless from the fall.

She looked up at him like he was the only solid thing in her world.

His mouth went dry.

Her hair tickled his collarbone. Her bare chest brushed his shirt. Her thighs were flush against his, and the warmth of her breath spread like smoke through the thin fabric between them.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He wanted to let go.

He couldn’t.

He wanted to push her away.

He couldn’t.

This wasn’t a kiss. This wasn’t sex. This was her—too close, too innocent, and completely unaware that every part of her was breaking his mind in half.

She purred again—not a sound, just a vibration through her body. Her eyes closed for a second. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck.

“I need to find you something to wear,” he blurted.
She didn’t respond. Just stayed there, arms draped around his shoulders like this was where she’d always belonged.

He forced himself to pull back.

Hands shaking, he guided her carefully—gently—back to the bed. She sat with a satisfied little sigh, like the act of trying to walk had been a great accomplishment.

It was.

It also nearly killed him.

“I’m gonna—” He turned, voice rough. “Stay there. Don’t move. Please. Just—stay.”

She blinked at him. Crossed her legs. Tilted her head.

God, help him.

He spun toward the hallway.

“Clothes,” he muttered. “Something. Anything.”

He opened his closet.

Nothing was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

The closet was a disaster.

Amane stood barefoot, half-dressed, rifling through his dresser like a man searching for a life raft in a flood.

Everything he owned was too big, too plain, or too private.

“Dammit, this won't work either,” he muttered. “She’s not supposed to be real. She’s not supposed to need pants!”

He found a pair of soft, well-worn boxers and held them up, grimacing. They’d fall off her in two steps. Same with the sweatpants. Every shirt was long enough to cover her just barely, but none of it was meant for her.

“Button-up,” he decided, yanking one free from a hanger. White. Crisp. Safe. “Sleeves’ll be too long. Whatever. We’ll roll them.”

He grabbed the cleanest options he had and headed back into the room, bracing for another wave of skin and sleepy rose gold eyes.

Sure enough, she was still perched on the bed—legs folded underneath her, naked as sin, hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves. She looked up as he entered, bright-eyed and curious.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his eyes anywhere but down. “We’re going to get you dressed now.”

She tilted her head.

“No arguments. People wear clothes. That’s just how it is.”

He held out the shirt.

She sniffed it.

Then promptly took it in both hands—and dropped it on the floor.

“…No,” he said flatly.

She leaned back on her palms, satisfied.

“Nene,” he said, walking over. “We’re not doing this.”

She pouted.

His brain short-circuited for a second.

“Clothes,” he repeated, kneeling beside her. “On. Arms up.”

She lifted them with a soft, exaggerated sigh, as if humoring him.

He slid the shirt onto her slowly, guiding each arm through the sleeve, trying not to notice how warm her skin was, or how the collar framed her collarbones, or how the hem barely hit mid-thigh. He began buttoning it up, hands working fast.

“This is temporary,” he muttered. “We’ll get you your own clothes today. Pants. Underwear. Things normal people wear.”

She reached up and touched his hair while he worked.

He froze.

“Nene.”

She smiled.

He buttoned faster.

Once the last button was secured, he pulled back to take stock. It wasn’t awful. The sleeves were rolled. The collar neat. The fabric hung loose and modest—mostly. She looked like a girl raiding her boyfriend’s closet.

He exhaled. “There. Better.”

She wiggled her shoulders. Made a face.

“What.”

She tugged at the hem. Then at the collar. Grimaced.

“Nene—no.”

She began unbuttoning.

“Nope. Nope. Stop that.”

She unbuttoned faster, expression annoyed, mouth set in a determined line.

He reached to stop her—too late. The shirt slipped off her shoulders like water.

“Oh my God,” he snapped, grabbing the shirt and dragging it back up. “Put it back on.”

She swatted at his hand and hissed—playfully, but stubborn. Then turned her back to him.

He stared at the ceiling. “You were easier when you knocked over mugs.”

She laid down dramatically, fully exposed, then rolled herself into the sheet with an air of total defiance.

He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. “This is psychological warfare.”

Behind him, she made a small, soft sound.

A whimper.

He turned.

She peeked at him from under the sheet. Eyes wide. Pouting. Her legs kicked a little like she was sulking.

“…You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused.

She stuck her tongue out.

He stood slowly, walked over, and leaned down. His voice dropped—calm, dark, controlled.

“You’re not getting your way.”

Her eyes widened.

“Not this time.”

She didn’t move as he picked the shirt up again. Didn’t resist as he pulled it on her once more, buttoning it tighter this time, his hands more sure. She sat still, blinking up at him as if weighing something.

“You’re not a cat anymore,” he said. “You want to live like a person? Then you follow my rules.”

He stood over her, straightening the collar.

She didn’t fight.

But the moment he stepped back, she sat cross-legged in the oversized shirt, looked him dead in the eye—and tugged the hem up just enough to make him wonder if she was doing it on instinct or out of spite.

His jaw clenched.

“No pants,” he muttered, turning away. “Great. No pants. No underwear. No sanity.”

He stormed out of the room, one thought pounding behind his eyes:

I need to buy her clothes. Now.

Chapter Text

She watched him cook like he was casting a spell.

Perched on a stool—bare legs crossed, shirt barely long enough to keep him sane—Nene tilted her head at every sizzle, every flick of his wrist. Her eyes tracked the eggs in the pan like prey. Her nose twitched at the steam curling up from the toast.

Amane tried not to look at her. Tried not to notice the way she sat: knees tucked up, one shoulder peeking through the collar of his shirt.

“You can’t sit like that,” he muttered.

She blinked. Then tucked her legs higher.

He turned back to the stove, jaw clenched. “We’re gonna have to work on, uh… everything.”

He plated the eggs, cut the toast in half, and slid a dish across the table toward her.

“Okay. First lesson. You eat with a fork.”

She sniffed the eggs.

“No.”

She leaned down—fast—and tried to bite directly off the plate.

He caught her by the shoulders. “No.”

She looked up at him, mouth full of toast.

He stared. Then rubbed his eyes. “Oh my God.”

He pulled her back upright and handed her a fork.

“This. This is how humans eat.”

She poked herself in the cheek with it.

He didn’t react.

Then she licked it.

“Nene.”

She blinked at him, then slowly scooped a bite of eggs onto the fork and brought it to her mouth like it was an offering.

She missed.

“Close,” he muttered, reaching to steady her hand. He guided the fork properly, helped her lift it again—closer, smoother.

Their fingers brushed. She looked at him.

Too close.

Too soft.

His throat worked around a breath. “Like that. You’ve got it.”

She smiled.

She looked proud.

And he hated that it made something twist in his chest.

After breakfast, she followed him into the living room like a shadow with no rules. She was curious about everything—the coffee table, the bookshelf, the TV remote (which she bit), and especially the window.

He caught her crouched on the sill like a gargoyle.

“Off,” he said gently.

She looked back, wiggled her butt like she was about to pounce.

“Off. Now.”

She dropped back down with a sigh.

“Good.”

She crawled to the couch.

“Less good.”

She climbed onto the cushions, circled once, and sat—legs crossed, hands folded in her lap like she thought that was how “ladies” sat. It was… close.

He sat beside her. Careful. Guarded.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with posture.”

She tilted her head.

“Sit straight.”

She sat ramrod upright.

“Now relax.”

She melted into the couch and slid halfway down like a sulking teenager.

He laughed once—quiet, surprised. “You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”

She smiled sweetly.

“Let’s talk about walking.”

She got up before he could finish and immediately tripped over her own feet.

He caught her mid-fall again, his arms around her waist, her hands clinging to his shirt.

Every time, it was worse.

Every time, it was harder to let go.

“Try again,” he murmured, pulling back slowly.

She tried again. Better, this time. Less cat, more girl.

She walked to the table. Picked up the spoon. Held it correctly.

He nodded, relieved.

Then she licked it again.

He sighed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

She grinned like she'd just knocked his favorite mug off the counter.

And still—when he found himself staring longer than necessary, he caught her staring, too.

She was watching him.

Eyes full of trust.

And something else.

Chapter Text

“Bath?” she echoed, eyes lighting up.

“Shower,” he corrected, setting the towel on the counter. “People shower now. You’ll like it. It's warm and clean.”

She sniffed at the faucet like it might hiss. Then turned and gave him a look.

He sighed. “I’m not leaving you in here unsupervised. You still lick things.” He raised a hand, preparing to cover his eyes. “Okay. Clothes off.”

She was already pulling the shirt over her head.

“Wait—!”

Too late.

She tossed it aside like it never mattered, completely unbothered by the sudden return to full nudity. He turned around so fast he nearly knocked into the door.

“Why do you hate clothes?” he muttered, staring at the sink like it might save him. “It’s not even about modesty. I’m not modest. I just—functionally need to survive this moment.”

He heard the shower curtain shift.

“Amane,” she said.

His name. On her tongue. Sweet and unfamiliar. She was learning words now. One at a time. His name came first.

He turned—carefully.

She stood in the tub, warm water spilling down her back. Her eyes were closed, face tilted to the spray. Her hands moved through her hair, slicking it down. Steam curled around her like silk.

She was glowing.

“Is it too hot?” he asked, voice rough.

She shook her head and smiled. Then pointed. “You.”

“…Me?”

She pointed again. “You. In.”

He blinked. “I’m not getting in the shower with you.”

She frowned. Her fingers mimicked his earlier motions—twisting the knob, adjusting the spray. She struggled a little, turning it too far. Water hit her face full-on. She sputtered.

He sighed and stepped in. Fully clothed. Barely thinking.

“Just to fix it,” he said. “That’s all.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared up at him, blinking water from her lashes.

He adjusted the spray. “There. Better.”

She reached up and touched his jaw. Gently.

He froze.

“Nene—”

She smiled, and stepped closer.

His shirt soaked instantly, clinging to his chest. Her hands pressed against him, skin to fabric. Then slid up.

“I—this isn’t—”

She tilted her head. Curious. Innocent.

Then she leaned forward.

And licked a drop of water from his neck.

His hands flew to her hips without thinking.

“Nene.” It came out strangled.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, face inches from his. Her body was slick and bare, pressed against him. She didn’t understand what she was doing—but his body did.

He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t a game.”

She didn’t flinch. Just leaned up. Brushed her lips near his ear.

Soft. Accidental.

His grip on her tightened.

For one second—just one—he let himself feel it. Her body in his arms. Her breath against his throat. Her fingers curling behind his neck like she was claiming him.

His lips brushed her collarbone.

He almost kissed her.

Almost.

Then he tore himself back with a hiss, stumbling out of the tub, water dripping from his shirt, his hands shaking.

She looked at him, confused. Hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, voice hoarse.

She tilted her head.

He turned away, grabbing a towel, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out.

“You’re learning. You’re curious. But you’re not ready for that. I’m supposed to protect you. Not—” He exhaled. “Not want you.”

He handed her the towel without meeting her eyes.

She took it. Silently. Slowly.

He left the bathroom without another word.

Chapter Text

She heard him shut the bedroom door. Soft. Heavy and final.

But he didn’t lock it.

That was a mistake.

Nene sat on the bathroom floor, still wrapped in the towel, hair damp and clinging to her back. Her legs curled beneath her, arms wrapped around herself like she didn’t know what to do with her hands anymore.

He hadn’t even looked at her.

Not when she stepped out of the tub.

Not when she reached for him.

Not even when she tried to be close.

She remembered warmth. The way his fingers used to stroke the space between her ears. The way he’d fall asleep with his hand resting over her back, like he needed to feel her breathing to sleep at all.

Now he wouldn’t even let her touch him.

She wasn’t stupid. She was new, but not naive. He’d stopped petting her not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted too much.

He was afraid of her now.

Afraid of what she’d become.

That thought—it burned.

She stood. The towel hugged her hips, a loose knot at the side. Her body still felt strange. Upright. Soft. Too tall and too bare. Too human.

But if he wasn’t going to come to her…

She would go to him.

The hallway was quiet.

The floor was cold beneath her feet. The towel swished against her thighs with each step, threatening to slip.

The light from his bedroom spilled into the hallway. Dim and warm. She pushed the door open silently.

Amane was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped like something was crushing him from the inside.

His fingers were knotted together, white-knuckled, his shirt still damp from the shower. It looked like he hadn’t moved since he left her.

She stepped inside and let the door close behind her.

He looked up at the sound—and froze.

“Nene,” he said softly. “What are you doing?”

She walked toward him.

“Wait,” he said, voice low, warning. “Stop. Just—wait.”

But she didn’t.

His eyes widened when she climbed onto the bed. He tried to lean back. “Nene, don’t—”

She straddled him in one clean, deliberate motion.

The towel shifted slightly up her thighs. Her bare knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. She sat on him—not playfully, not carelessly, but purposefully.

His breath hitched.

Her gaze burned, frustrated with hurt. Her chest rose and fell. She looked him directly in the eyes, her hands tightening in the front of his shirt like she could hold him still if she had to.

Then she opened her mouth.

“Tired,” she said, the word rough and wrong. “No touch.”

“What?”

Her brows drew together. Her chest rose sharply. She struggled for the words.

“You,” she said. Then jabbed a finger into his chest. “Cold. Cold now.”

His heart stopped.

“You don’t—look. Don’t hold. No… no pet. No here.” She touched her own chest. “Here.”

He stared at her, stunned.

She pressed her forehead to his. “Why?”

Something inside him broke clean in half.

He couldn’t speak.

Because you’re not a cat anymore. Because you’re so much more. Because I’m not strong enough. Because I want to touch you in ways no one should touch someone they used to feed from a little tin bowl.

He didn’t say any of it.

He reached up instead. Slowly. Touched her face with shaking fingers.

She closed her eyes and leaned into the warmth. Her breath caught.

He cupped her cheek. Brushed his thumb beneath her eye. His other hand found her back, traced the line of her spine through the damp towel.

“I never stopped caring,” he whispered. “But if I touch you now…”

She opened her eyes. Sharp and fierce and sunset.

“…I won’t be able to stop.”

She leaned in.

He didn’t move.

She licked his cheek. Gentle. Questioning. Then sat back just enough to look at him.

His control finally snapped.

He pulled her down into the kiss like she was the only thing keeping him breathing. No warning. No slow build. Just one clean movement—his hands on her waist, her mouth under his, soft and open and gasping.

She stilled. Then clung to him. Melted forward on instinct.

He kissed her again.

Slower this time.

Desperate.

Their bodies shifted. Her towel loosened. His shirt soaked through.

His hand slid up her side—slow, reverent, aching. Skin. Heat. Her.

She whimpered into his mouth, not in fear, but in need.

He stopped, breathless. Foreheads pressed. Hands still on her.

“I can’t—” he whispered.

She kissed him again.

He pulled back just enough to speak, “I’m not cold. I’m scared.”

She touched his face. “Don’t be.”

He buried his hands in her damp hair. “You have no idea what you’re asking me for.”

“Then…” Her voice was a whisper, barely there. “Teach.”

His breath caught. His hands trembled.

And when he kissed her again, it tasted like surrender.

Chapter Text

It was the weight that woke him.

Not uncomfortable. Not crushing. But unmistakable.

Something soft and warm was draped over his chest—slowly rising and falling with his breath. His shirt was damp against his skin where her cheek rested, and her hair spilled across his collar like tangled ribbons.

Nene.

Asleep.

Completely relaxed, completely trusting, curled against him with one leg hooked around his hips and both arms wrapped snugly around his ribs like she never wanted to let go.

He didn’t want to move.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her back, fingers twitching once like they wanted to stroke her hair. Like they used to.

Things were different now.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with her like this—limbs tangled, skin warm, breath steady. But after the kiss, after her trembling voice and her bold, impossible request—then teach—they hadn’t gone any further.

He’d pulled her into his chest. Whispered, “This is cuddling.” Told her it was like sleeping, but better.

She’d liked that.

A lot.

“Okay,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “So you’re addicted now. Noted.”

She shifted slightly. A tiny sigh escaped her lips, and her grip around him tightened.

She was purring. Not out loud, but in the way her body curled toward his. The warmth. The peace. Like every instinct inside her recognized home.

He let his hand move.

Just once.

He ran his fingers through her hair, gently brushing it away from her face, letting them trail down her spine until she made a quiet sound of approval. Her fingers flexed in his shirt.

She didn’t wake, but he whispered anyway. “You’re not supposed to be this easy to love.”

She woke to the smell of eggs and the hiss of butter in a pan.

Still wrapped in the oversized button-up, she shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep, hair tousled, eyes squinting at the light.

Amane turned from the stove and nearly dropped the spatula.

“Jeeze—warn me before you sneak up like that.”

She yawned.

He pointed to the stool. “Sit. No stealing food until it’s on a plate.”

She climbed up and perched on it like a bird—legs folded, shirt riding too high again.

He looked away. “You’re doing that on purpose now.”

She smiled sleepily and laid her chin on the counter.

When he set the plate in front of her, she didn’t hesitate—picked up the toast and bit it corner-first, then licked butter off her thumb with deliberate concentration.

He stared.

“Nene. Fork.”

She blinked. Then picked it up with exaggerated grace and mimed eating with it—still licking her fingers in between bites.

He rubbed his eyes. “You’re evil.”

She kicked her feet under the counter and reached toward him with her other hand.

“Cuddle,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Chicken or cuddles.”

She frowned.

“You can’t just demand both.”

She opened her arms.

He sighed. “You’re going to be a nightmare when we go out in public.”

She perked up.

He paused.

“…You do know what public means, right?”

She shook her head.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and looked at her seriously. “You need clothes.”

She glanced down at the shirt—his shirt—still falling off one shoulder, the hem barely skimming her thighs.

“Real ones,” he added. “Ones that fit. That don’t make my neighbors call the cops.”

She smiled innocently. Then unbuttoned the top button with her thumb.

“Don’t you dare.”

She rebuttoned it. Slowly.

He stood up straight, exasperated. “Alright. That’s it.”

She blinked.

“You,” he said, pointing at her with his fork, “are coming shopping.”

Her expression twisted—half-curious, half-suspicious.

“Shopping?” she echoed.

“Yep. Store. Outside. Other people.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’ll behave,” he added. “If you want more cuddles.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded once. Like she was accepting the terms of a sacred oath.

Amane turned back to the sink and laughed under his breath, “God help me, you're trainable.”

Chapter Text

Nene pressed her face to the shop window before they even walked in.

Mannequins stared back—dressed in bright, complicated outfits. Ribbons. Buttons. Layers. Nothing made sense. Everything sparkled or clung or stretched in unnatural ways.

She touched the glass.

Amane stood beside her, arms crossed, trying not to look like a man escorting his unreasonably curious ex-cat into a boutique full of women’s clothes.

“Alright,” he said, pushing the door open. “Just try to behave.”

She didn’t answer. She was already inside.

The store was pastel, perfumed, and filled with textures she couldn’t stop touching. Lace. Satin. Knit. She dragged her fingers across every display as they walked, eyes wide, distracted by everything.

The moment she saw the fuzzy sweater rack, she sank both arms elbow-deep into the pile and dragged her cheek across the sleeve of a cream-colored hoodie like it was freshly washed fur.

Amane gently pulled her away before she tried to sit in it.

It didn’t get better from there.

She poked every mannequin in the nose. She walked heel-to-toe along the edge of a low display shelf. She smelled a pair of boots and then hissed at a full-body mirror that surprised her with its reflection.

The shopkeeper was already giving them looks.

Amane kept a hand on her back to steer her. It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t even cautious. He just... needed the contact.

She didn't seem to mind.

He tried to explain sizing.

She picked things based on color.

He tried to suggest subtle, neutral pieces.

She held up a mint green bra with a tiny bow between the cups and looked at him hopefully.

He nearly choked.

She took it as a yes.

The clerk offered to help her into a fitting room.

Nene refused immediately. She clung to Amane’s arm like the suggestion was an insult.

He gave the woman an apologetic smile. “She’s... shy.”

“Of course,” the clerk said, clearly not believing a word.

Inside the dressing room, Nene sat cross-legged on the bench with her pile of loot, studying each piece like it was an exotic artifact.

She didn’t understand how bras worked.

She understood the shape. That they were apparently made to go on the chest—hers, in particular—but she held it like a puzzle box. Pastel green. Soft. A tiny bow between the cups. Small enough that it looked delicate even in her hands.

She turned it upside down. Then sideways. Then sniffed it.

Amane watched from the corner of the dressing room, already tired and already doomed.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s just… not inhale the merchandise.”

She turned toward him, completely topless, holding the bra between two fingers.

“Help?” she said brightly.

He inhaled through his teeth. “You don’t even realize what this is doing to me, do you?”

She tilted her head, confused.

Of course she didn’t.

“Nene,” he said, voice rougher than he meant, “you’re supposed to try those on without an audience.”

“Don’t know how,” she replied. Then held it higher, looking at the straps like they might whisper the answer if she stared long enough.

He muttered something dark under his breath and took it gently from her hands. “Okay. Arms up.”

She obeyed.

He slid it over her shoulders—fast, clinical, definitely not trembling—and snapped the clasp with practiced ease. Her hair tickled his knuckles. Her skin was soft and warm.

“There,” he murmured. “Done.”

She looked down, tapped one of the cups, and poked her chest like she wasn’t sure what the fabric was supposed to be doing.

The bra was clearly her size—but her chest was small, her frame delicate, and the cups barely lifted anything at all. She looked… unimpressed.

“Too small?” she asked, gently tugging at the edge.

He swallowed hard. “No. Not—not everything needs to be... big.”

She blinked. “Pretty?”

He stared. Then cleared his throat. “Devastating.”

“Mm,” she hummed, not understanding, but pleased.

She stepped closer, bending to grab the matching panties. The bra shifted slightly against her chest.

Amane looked away so hard his neck cracked.

He heard the rustle of fabric as she continued to dress.

Then—

“Stuck,” she said flatly.

He turned.

She had one foot through the leg hole and one arm somehow tangled in the waistband.

“How—” He exhaled. “Okay. Stop. Don’t move.”

He knelt. Carefully unlooping the strap from her elbow. “These go on your hips. Not your shoulders.”

She nodded solemnly.

He helped her step into them. Gently tugged them up over her thighs, careful not to look—too much. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away. She just stood there, balancing on one foot, watching him work with that same quiet trust.

That was the worst part.

The trust.

When she was fully dressed, she turned to the mirror.

And stopped.

Her expression changed.

She stared. Silent. Soft green lace, pale skin. Hair loose. Face flushed from the fitting room’s warmth.

Amane watched from behind as she raised a hand and touched her reflection. Her palm flattened over the mirror. She leaned in, then looked sideways—at him.

He wasn’t fast enough.

She caught the way his eyes dragged over her. The way his throat worked. The way his jaw tightened just a little too late.

Her brows drew together.

“Why… that look?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You look…” She tried to mimic it. Brow furrowed. Lips parted. A breath caught between want and panic. “Like this.”

He turned away immediately. “It’s nothing.”

She padded up behind him and tugged his shirt.

“You look like... hungry.”

He choked. “Nene—”

She looked up at him, eyes soft, confused. “Is that… wrong?”

“No,” he said. Too fast. “No, it’s not wrong. You just—don’t understand.”

“I want to.”

His heart slammed once.

Then twice.

She stood there in green lace and soft cotton, watching him like he was the mystery.

He pressed a hand to his face. “I need to find you some real clothes. Now.”

Getting her dressed had been a war.

The moment Amane approached her with anything involving buttons, zippers, or sleeves, Nene froze. Her arms folded. Her eyes narrowed.

“No,” she said, firm and immediate.

“Clothes,” he replied with equal gravity, holding up a camisole like a peace treaty.

“No.”

“You can’t go outside in just a bra and panties.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because you’ll start a riot.”

She blinked. Unmoved.

He sighed. “You have to wear something over them.”

She pointed to a rack of loungewear.

He followed her gaze.

A hoodie. Cream. Oversized. Soft. With—of course—stupidly adorable cat ears sewn into the hood.

He stared. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

She looked at him, dead serious.

“I want that.”

“That’s not real clothing.”

“But I want it.”

And that was the end of negotiations.

She left the store in the pastel green bra and panties under a hoodie that fell to mid-thigh, sleeves hanging past her hands, cat ears bobbing gently as she walked.

She refused pants.

She refused shoes that weren’t slip-ons.

And she definitely refused anything tight.

Amane handed over his card in stunned silence, vaguely aware the clerk was giving him a look—equal parts judgment and pity.

“She’s very… confident,” the woman offered.

“She’s feral,” he muttered.

Nene emerged from the changing area with a victorious air and a lollipop from the front counter.

“You bribed the clerk, didn't you,” he whispered.

She grinned around the stick.

They walked home just before sunset.

Her bare legs swung freely as she kept pace beside him. The hoodie swallowed her tiny frame, bunching up at her hips and swaying like a short dress. She seemed completely unaware of what it looked like to the outside world.

Or worse—she knew and didn’t care.

As they walked, she kept stopping to examine the ads in shop windows.

One in particular made her pause.

She stopped.

A giant poster loomed: a shirtless man gripping a woman in black lingerie. Lips on her throat. Hands everywhere.

Nene studied it like a museum piece.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Amane made a sound deep in his throat. “Nothing. Ignore it.”

He tried to walk. She followed.

“Are they… fighting?”

His face reddened instantly. “No. Nope. Not fighting.”

“But he’s biting her.”

“That’s… part of it.”

“Of what?”

He clenched his jaw. “Grown-up stuff.”

She turned her head, curious. “Like cuddling?”

He nearly died.

“No,” he said. “That is absolutely not cuddling.”

She blinked. “But they're kissing.”

“That’s also not—ugh.”

She tilted her head. “Do people… like that?”

“Some. Not important. Not now.”

She kept looking at the poster. “You like kissing.”

He stopped walking. “Nene.”

“You kissed me.”

He covered his face with both hands. “And this is my punishment.”

She stepped closer. Tugged impatiently at his sleeve.

“What’s it called?”

He lowered his hands. Looked at her.

She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t pretending to understand. She was trying.

He gave her a look. “You don’t need to know yet.”

Her brow furrowed. “But how do I do it?”

“Do what?”

She gestured vaguely to the poster. “That. With you.”

His soul left his body.

“Nene, you can’t just say things like that in public.”

“Why not?”

He exhaled. “Because you’ll get me arrested.”

She stopped again. Looked up at him.

“Do you want that?” she asked softly. “With me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out and took her hand in his—gently, almost absently.

She stared down, surprised.

And when they kept walking, she didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Amane didn’t mean to pace.

But after the way she’d looked at him in that damn hoodie—and the walk home, and the questions, and the hand-holding—it was either pace or spontaneously combust.

“We need rules,” he said finally.

Nene, curled sideways on the couch in her cat-eared hoodie and nothing else, blinked at him with sleepy disinterest. Her legs were bare. Her hair still messy from the fitting room. She held his mug in both hands, sipping what was left of his coffee like it was warm milk.

“Why?” she asked, head tilting.

“Because this”—he gestured to the air between them—“this thing we’re doing? Needs structure.”

“I like no rules.”

“Yes. I know. That’s the problem.”

She took another sip. “But I’m being good.”

“You climbed into my lap naked last night, Nene.”

“You said I could.”

“That’s not the point!”

She raised the mug in one hand like a toast. “Then don’t say yes next time.”

He groaned and rubbed both hands down his face.

“Okay. First: clothing. We wear it. In the house. When guests are over. When standing in front of windows. When answering doors—especially when answering doors.”

“Mm.” She nodded thoughtfully. “So only sometimes naked.”

“No. Not—okay. We’ll come back to that.”

She stretched her legs out along the couch, bare thighs sliding across the cushions. He tried not to look. Failed. Tried again.

“Second rule,” he muttered. “No sitting on my lap when you’re smug. Or trying to win an argument. Or trying to distract me. Weaponized cuddling is banned.”

She furrowed her brow. “But you like cuddles.”

He swallowed. “Yes, but not weaponized cuddles.”

“Cuddles are not weapons.”

“Yours are.”

She sipped again. Innocent.

Amane perched on the armrest across from her, already resigned. “I’m serious, Nene.”

“I know,” she said softly.

He hesitated.

“Third,” he said, gentler now. “You can’t ask me about posters of half-naked people in public anymore.”

“But I don’t understand!”

“You’re not supposed to yet.”

“Then how will I know if I’m doing it right?”

That stopped him.

She sat up a little straighter.

“Amane... are we dating?”

He choked. “What?”

“You act like a boyfriend.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I—what does that even mean?”

“You buy me food.”

“That’s just feeding you.”

“You hold my hand.”

“That was... a safety thing.”

“You kissed me.”

“Once!”

“You let me sleep on your chest.”

“Because you wouldn’t get off.”

“You let me wear your clothes.”

“That doesn’t count as—”

“You looked at me like I was food.”

His spine stiffened.

“Do boyfriends do that?” she asked, eyes wide and curious. “Do they think about... kissing? Or touching? Or doing the thing in the poster?”

He coughed. “We are not talking about the poster again.”

“I just want to know,” she pressed. “So I can do it right. With you.”

“God, Nene…”

He leaned forward, trying to shut her down gently—but she was already moving.

Up off the couch. Into his space. Closer.

She stepped between his knees. Planted her hands on his thighs—firm, unthinking, warm. She leaned in until their noses nearly touched.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “What do boyfriends do?”

His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Do they think about undressing someone every time they look at them?”

He tried to lean back. She followed.

“Do you think about me like that?”

“Nene,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t understand what you’re asking—”

“But I want to!”

She squeezed his thighs for emphasis, grounding herself, frustration building.

Amane made a sound low in his throat. Dark. Strangled.

“I just want to make you happy,” she said, voice tight, eyes searching his face. “But you won’t tell me how.”

And then—without meaning to—she whined.

Soft. Breathy. Exasperated.

She shifted, her hands sliding slightly higher up his thighs.

His vision blurred—then narrowed.

That was it.

He moved.

In one swift, instinctive motion, he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her back onto the couch.

She barely had time to gasp before he followed her down—one hand braced beside her head, the other pressed firmly across her stomach, pinning her beneath him.

He hovered over her—eyes dark, voice low.

“Dating,” he said, “is wanting someone all the time.”

Her lips parted.

“It’s buying them things just to see them happy. Touching them too much. Thinking about kissing when you shouldn’t.”

He leaned in further. Their noses brushed.

“It’s saying things you shouldn’t say. Touching them like they belong to you. Wanting to protect them and ruin them in the same breath.”

She made a soft sound in her throat.

“And yes,” he said, slow and cruel, “it’s thinking about undressing them constantly. Because they strut around your apartment in a hoodie and nothing else, acting like that’s normal.”

She flushed, a deep pink rising to her cheeks.

“And yes,” he growled, voice thick with everything he’d been holding back, “I want you like that.”

She blinked up at him, stunned.

“That,” he said, “is what boyfriends do.”

She let out a shaky breath. Her hands, still resting on his shirt, curled into fists. “N-no fair.”

He grinned—dangerously.

“Exactly. Which is why we need rules. Like: no weaponized cuddling.”

She pouted, flustered and silent.

Then, finally: “Fine.”

He leaned a little closer—lips at the edge of her jaw, her cheek, then the shell of her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

She made a choked, wordless sound—part gasp, part something else entirely.

Then, without warning, he kissed her.

Soft. Brief. But impossibly full.

And it hit like lightning.

She stared up at him, heart pounding, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and his name.

“...That one’s not a rule,” he added quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

And Nene, for once, didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut.

For a long moment, Nene just stood there—barefoot in the middle of the apartment, her cat-eared hoodie hanging loosely off one shoulder, arms limp at her sides like someone had unplugged her.

Amane was gone.

Work, he’d said.

He even kissed her forehead before leaving. A warm press of lips, soft and slow, right between her eyebrows.

Her heart had fluttered.

Her stomach had flipped.

She didn’t know why.

He promised he’d be back.

She believed him.

But now the apartment was quiet in a way she didn’t like.

Too still. Too empty.

The silence had weight.

She wandered from room to room like a ghost, trailing her fingers along the wall, sniffing his shirts, pulling open doors she wasn’t supposed to touch. She climbed on the kitchen counter, curled in his laundry basket, pawed open the fridge just to check.

She didn’t want anything.

Not even chicken.

By hour three, she’d tried:

• Napping in five different places

• Staring out the window without blinking

• Carrying his sock in her mouth for an hour

• Watching the washing machine spin until she got dizzy

Still, nothing helped.

Her chest hurt—not sharp, but hollow. The kind of ache that filled all the wrong spaces.

Her hands fidgeted with her sleeves. Her legs wouldn’t stay still.

No tail to flick.

No ears to twitch.

Just... skin.

And loneliness.

She missed him more than she thought was possible.

He came home a little past six.

The second the lock clicked, she was there—launching herself into him like she’d been waiting at the door all day. Because she had.

“Whoa—!” Amane staggered back, nearly dropping his keys. “Hi to you too.”

She clung to his waist, face buried in his chest like she could crawl inside and hide.

He blinked down at her, then exhaled softly and smiled, running a hand through her hair.

“Miss me that much?”

She nodded, not loosening her grip.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, voice warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t say a word.

But she didn’t let go.

At first, it was cute.

She followed him into the kitchen, sat on the counter while he filled a glass of water, tugged on his sleeve every time he reached for something sharp.

He nudged her gently away when she leaned in too close to the stove.

Two steps later, she was back.

He opened a cabinet. She was standing under his arm.

He turned to grab something off the counter. She was behind him, bumping into his back.

Like a shadow with thoughts.

When he finally went to the bedroom to change, she trailed him silently.

He peeled off his work shirt. She watched, unmoving, from the doorway.

He turned halfway. “Nene.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“I like watching you.”

He gave her a look. “That’s not less creepy.”

She tilted her head. “You’re nice to look at.”

He groaned and pulled on a clean shirt.

He went to shower. She sat outside the door like a dog. When he opened it afterward, toweling his hair, she nearly ran into his chest.

He brushed his teeth. She reached for the foam in the corner of his mouth and licked her finger.

He folded laundry. She unfolded it to sniff his shirts, then tried to climb into the basket beside them.

He sighed—each time louder, each time a little more frayed.

By the time he started preparing dinner, she was standing behind him, chest to his back, arms wrapped around his waist like she could fuse with him via osmosis.

He turned slowly, spoon still in hand.

“Nene.”

She looked up, wide-eyed.

He set the spoon down.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re having a talk.”

Amane sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside him.

She crawled into his lap instead.

Of course.

He didn’t stop her.

“I need you to breathe,” he said gently.

“I am.”

“Without stalking my every move.”

She frowned. “But I missed you.”

“I know. I missed you too.”

She curled tighter into him, arms wrapping snug around his waist.

“But this,” he said, brushing her hair away from her cheek, “was... a lot.”

Her lip trembled. “Did I do something bad?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, not bad. Just... intense.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Her voice shrank. “It just felt... empty. I waited. And waited. And it felt longer than ever.”

He exhaled and wrapped his arms around her, slow and firm.

“I didn’t want you to leave again,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to leave again, ever.”

He rested his chin gently against the top of her head.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he murmured. “Even if I’m late. Even if I’m tired. Even if I have to work.”

“I know,” she mumbled.

“But...?”

She hesitated.

Then, softer: “But what if one day you don’t?”

He stiffened.

She looked up at him, eyes glossy. “What if you disappear like everyone else? What if I’m alone again?”

He cupped the back of her head and pulled her close.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not unless you send me away.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Then I’ll be here. Always.”

She laid her head against his chest.

And this time, her grip loosened. Just a little.

Chapter Text

It started with a question.

More accurately, it started with Amane pacing the living room like a man trying to disarm a bomb made entirely of feelings.

Nene lay sprawled upside-down across the couch, legs over the backrest, hood pulled over her eyes. One foot kicked lazily in the air. Her bare legs swung in a slow rhythm, half to the clock ticking, half to his footsteps.

“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” she said without looking.

He stopped pacing. Looked at her.

Then looked away.

Then sat down.

Then stood back up like his spine hit a live wire.

She flipped her hood back just enough to peek at him. Her hair was tangled, one sock half-on, her entire vibe was cat who fell asleep in a sunbeam and woke up confused.

“I was thinking,” he said, after a long moment, “that maybe... we should go out. Together.”

She blinked at him.

“We go out together all the time.”

“Right, yeah. But I mean like...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not errands. Not catnip runs. Not emergency panty purchases.”

She tilted her head.

“Like what, then?”

“Like... a date.”

Her leg froze mid-kick.

“Oh.”

She sat up slowly, hood falling back, hair messy and eyes wide.

“A date-date?”

He nodded.

“With me?”

Still nodding.

Her expression softened—stunned, a little pink in the cheeks. “So I’m your girlfriend?”

The words shouldn’t have hit so hard, but they did. They sank right into his chest and bloomed there like a small, stubborn fire.

“If you want to be,” he said carefully.

She frowned at him, confused. “I already thought I was.”

His heart skipped, caught, and stumbled back into rhythm.

“Then yes,” he said. “You are.”

They kept it simple.

No reservations. No pressure.

Just a walk, her hand tucked loosely in his elbow, the sun low and gold in the sky as it bled into soft lavender evening. The streets were quiet, warm in that dreamy summer way, the kind that made everything smell like dust and leaves and someone else’s dinner.

Nene looked at everything like she was seeing it for the first time.

Every flower box. Every sidewalk crack. Every dog, bird, and billboard.

She made him stop three times to point out windows with hanging plants.

She asked if the moon was always there during daylight.

He didn’t have the heart to laugh at her wonder.

He answered every question, voice softer than usual. Smiling more than he realized.

They found a small restaurant tucked away between a bookstore and a florist. A cozy little place with flickering candles in glass jars and handwritten menus on clipboards.

Nene hovered beside him while they were seated, fingers clutching his shirt like she didn’t trust the chairs not to move.

He ordered for both of them—simple dishes, nothing too risky.

She spent ten minutes turning her water glass in circles.

She tried every garnish on the plate like it was a miniature appetizer.

When dessert came, she used the soup spoon for mousse and made a delighted sound so loud it turned heads.

Amane nearly died of secondhand embarrassment.

She didn’t notice.

She grinned at him, cheeks puffed with chocolate and pride.

“You’re really enjoying that,” he said, watching the way she licked the edge of the spoon like it was some kind of prize.

She nodded, lips glossy with sweetness. “This is the best day.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on one hand, eyes never leaving her.

“Careful,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna think I’m the reason.”

Nene blinked, then leaned into him with a slow, contented smile.

“You are,” she said simply.

He stared at her for a long, quiet second.

Then—almost to himself—he murmured,
“You’re gonna ruin me.”

They walked again after dinner.

No destination. Just slow steps through the soft-glow alleys of dusk, past flower boxes and windows lit from within. The air was warm and filled with cicada song. Her fingers found his again. Slipped between. Fit too easily.

He didn’t let go.

They passed closed shops and glowing windows. She pointed out a bakery cat sleeping on the ledge, and Amane swore she almost started purring.

“I used to do that,” she said.

“What?”

“Sleep in warm windows.”

He glanced down at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But this is better.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him like it was the dumbest question he’d ever asked.

“Because I’m next to you.”

Eventually, they found a bench just outside the edge of the park. The stars were out, crisp and clear, scattered like spilled sugar across the night.

They sat there quietly for a while, soft and still. She leaned into his side, pulling her legs up, head resting against his shoulder.

“This was nice,” she murmured.

Amane tilted his chin to glance down at her. The cat-ear hood was half-fallen. Her eyes were soft, lashes low. She looked half-asleep already, settled into his side like gravity had claimed her.

“Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”

“Mmhmm.” She rubbed her cheek against his arm like a pillow. “It felt like... before.”

He blinked. “Before?”

“When I was still a cat.”

He turned toward her, curious. “What was it like? For you?”

She hummed thoughtfully, squinting up at the stars.

“I used to nap on warm bricks. Rooftops. Window ledges. I liked the smell of rain on pavement, and watching birds hop around without knowing I was there. Sometimes I’d sneak into the bakery alley and eat the dough someone threw out.”

Amane raised an eyebrow. “You... ate dough?”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t meat. I was very offended.”

He laughed quietly.

She smiled, eyes still on the sky. “There was a spot on top of a vending machine near the river. The sun hit it just right in the morning. I used to sleep there for hours.”

Her voice softened. “Sometimes I’d stay there all night, watching the water. No one ever noticed me. I liked that.”

Amane listened without interrupting, his heart warm and heavy all at once.

“And now?” he asked.

She shifted. “Now I get to be noticed.”

She said it simply. Like it wasn’t the most quietly devastating thing he’d ever heard.

His throat tightened.

She yawned then, small and muffled. Her body melted further into his side, barely upright.

“Can we stay here?” she mumbled, already halfway gone. “It’s warm. And you smell good.”

“You’ll catch a cold.”

She made a half-whimper, half-growl sound. “I’m comfy.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re warm.”

He sighed. Brushed her hair gently behind her ear. “Come on, sleepy kitty. You can’t spend the night on a park bench.”

She slumped against him dramatically.

He smiled.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Up.”

She made no move to stand.

So he turned.

Kneeling in front of her, he tugged gently on her arms. “Climb on.”

Her eyes opened just enough to blink at him, confused. “What?”

“Piggyback.”

She hesitated. “That's a thing?”

“Yes, it’s a thing. Come on.”

She clambered onto his back with the grace of a very tired housecat and promptly dropped her head onto his shoulder.

“You’re strong,” she mumbled.

“Let’s just say I’ve carried home heavier groceries.”

She poked him weakly in the side. “Mean.”

He chuckled and stood, her arms loosely around his neck, legs dangling against his sides.

The walk home was quiet.

Her breathing slowed before they even turned the corner.

And as he carried her—warm and weightless, head tucked into his neck like she belonged there—he felt something shift in his chest.

Something simple. Something inevitable.

And for the first time since all of this began, Amane didn’t feel like something strange had happened to him.

He felt like something right had finally begun.

Chapter Text

Amane woke up to the smell of something burning.

His first thought: robbery.

His second: arson.

His third—more accurate—thought: Nene.

He sat up fast, heart pounding. The other side of the bed was empty. The room, suspiciously quiet.

Then came a clang from the kitchen. Followed by a muffled, frustrated meow that definitely came from a human throat.

He dragged himself out of bed, one sock on, one off, shirt rumpled from sleep.

The smell got stronger as he neared the hallway.

He stopped in the doorway.

And stared.

“Nene,” he said slowly, “what are you doing?”

She was on the counter.

Not at the counter. On it.

The toaster was sideways. One of the cabinet doors hung open, spilling mismatched bowls onto the floor. There was rice. Everywhere. Some of it on her hoodie. Some of it in her hair.

She looked up at him, wild-eyed and holding a bottle of soy sauce like a weapon.

“Cooking,” she declared.

He blinked.

She blinked back.

A moment passed between them.

He looked down. “Is that… is that instant rice in the pot?”

“I followed the instructions.”

“That’s a frying pan.”

She looked down at the bubbling mess. “It still cooked.”

“You used half a bottle of sesame oil.”

She sniffed it. “It smells good.”

“It smells like a fire hazard.”

The next morning she started early.

Very early.

Amane had still been asleep when she climbed over him, patted his cheek, then stood directly on his chest to get a better look at the ceiling.

He hadn’t stirred. She took that as permission.

If she was going to be his girlfriend, she had to act like it. And that meant contributing.

She just wasn’t sure what that looked like in human terms.

So she tried things.

The laundry basket got emptied—onto the floor.

She opened every cupboard to see what was inside, then forgot to close them.

She dragged out the vacuum, stared at it, hissed once, then put it back.

The bathroom got “cleaned.” The mirror got toothpaste art. She accidentally broke the soap dish and tried to glue it back together with jam.

By the time she made it to the kitchen, she was emboldened.

Dinner. That was something girlfriends did.

She'd seen it on TV.

Amane rounded the corner and froze again.

Nene stood at the stove, barefoot, her hair tied in a lopsided ponytail. Her legs were bare, and she wore nothing but one of his aprons—tied snug at the waist, thin straps slipping off one shoulder, the back open except for a neat little bow.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, bright-eyed. “Good morning!”

He blinked. Twice.

“Nene,” he said, voice scraping up from somewhere deep, “where are your clothes?”

She looked down. “Didn’t want to get them dirty.”

“I— That’s what the apron is for.”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “So I didn’t need pants.”

He opened his mouth to argue. Then gave up.

“Fair.”

She returned to the pan, where something was sizzling far too enthusiastically.

Amane sighed and stepped into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re using sesame oil to fry eggs?”

“It smells better than the other ones.”

“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “You’re just... dangerous.”

She beamed.

He moved behind her to reach for a spatula. She didn’t step aside. The kitchen was small. She stayed put, and he had no choice but to lean close—his chest brushing lightly against her back.

He stilled.

So did she.

“Here,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “tilt the pan just a little. Let the whites spread evenly.”

She obeyed, arms stiff.

He reached over her—one hand guiding hers on the handle, the other steadying the spatula.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now gently fold the edge in. Don’t press too hard—just like that.”

She glanced up at him, breath caught. “You’re... really close.”

“It’s a small kitchen,” he said, without moving. “Don’t burn the eggs.”

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“Try harder,” he said, but his voice had dropped into something low, teasing.

She wobbled slightly.

He leaned in again—adjusting the burner, he told himself—but his hand lingered too long on her hip. The air thickened. The stove hissed softly beneath the pan. Her skin was warm. She didn’t move.

Nene licked her lips. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”

He smiled faintly. “Now you know how it feels.”

She blinked up at him, visibly flustered.

He stepped back—finally.

She stayed at the stove, focused—determined, even.

Amane stayed behind her.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back just enough. “Flip the egg.”

She slid the spatula under the egg like she was trying to disarm a mouse trap. It crinkled. Stuck slightly.

“Don’t rush it,” he said, stepping closer. “Here, let me show you again.”

He guided her wrist with one hand, the other resting lightly on her hip for balance. She stiffened but didn’t move away.

“Wiggle it underneath, see? Let the edge lift first.”

She followed his motion.

“Now quick, but steady—just enough pressure.”

The egg flipped.

Not perfect. But edible.

She grinned, triumphant.

“You did most of that,” she said.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting the back of her neck.

“I was barely helping.”

She made a soft sound in her throat and bit her lip.

After a long pause, she said quietly, “Are you always going to be this good at everything?”

He glanced at her. “You think this is good?”

“I think... this is okay,” she said. “And I want to get better.”

He softened at that.

“You will,” he said. “We’ll keep doing it together.”

“Cooking?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Everything.”

She looked up at him.

He looked back.

His gaze held hers—unwavering, warm, and a little too steady.

Not just about eggs.

Not just about cooking.

Everything, he’d said.

And in the quiet between them, Nene felt it.

The slow heat behind his words. The steady, silent promise in the way he watched her. Like he meant more than cooking. More than rice. Like he meant her. Like he was offering something far deeper than kitchen lessons—something she didn’t quite know how to reach for, but already wanted to keep.

Her breath caught.

She looked down, flustered, and toyed with the corner of the towel near the sink.

“Everything?” she asked, voice soft.

He tilted his head. “Mhm.”

She hesitated. Then, carefully: “You mean... just cooking?”

His smile was slight. Measured. Dangerous in its calm.

“Sure,” he said. “For now.”

Her heartbeat skipped.

“…What else is there?” she asked, trying not to sound breathless.

He reached past her slowly, adjusted the towel hanging on the oven handle. Casual. Composed. His voice was low when he answered.

“Guess you’ll find out,” he said, “if you keep helping.”

She stared at him, lips parted. Her face bloomed red.

“Amane…”

He leaned in just slightly, brushing a speck of flour off her collarbone with the tip of one finger.

“I did warn you,” he murmured, “I’m not easy to live with.”

“You’re mean,” she said, flustered.

“And you’re adorable when you’re cornered.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Huffed.

“I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore,” she muttered.

He gave her a look.

Then said, quiet but surely—

“You will.”

Chapter Text

It started like any other afternoon.

Nene had decided she was going to “redecorate.”

Amane hadn’t agreed to this.

He was still trying to understand why the potted plant now lived in the bathtub.

“But it gets better sunlight in there,” she insisted, dragging a second pillow onto the windowsill like she was staging a magazine shoot. “And plants like humidity. The bathroom is basically a spa.”

He rubbed his temples. “You don’t even know what that plant is called.”

“Greenie.”

“Nene—”

“What? That's his name.”

She stood back and admired her work, hands on her hips, hoodie sleeves hanging past her fingers. She wore his sweatpants, rolled three times at the waist and still puddling at her ankles. Her hair was tied up in a bun held by two pens. One was leaking ink. The other wasn’t a pen.

He couldn’t bring himself to correct her.

She looked so proud.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

She turned immediately, eyes shining. “You said it again.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You totally did.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“You think I’m cute.”

“I think you’re trouble.”

She darted forward, grinning. “Say it again.”

He backed up a step. “Not a chance.”

“Say it!”

He turned and bolted down the hall.

She chased after him, socks sliding wildly on the wood floor. She caught him halfway to the bedroom, launched herself onto his back like a particularly clingy marsupial.

He staggered forward with a laugh. “You’re going to break your neck one day.”

“Say it and I’ll get off.”

“You’re cute, you’re cute, you’re way too cute—now let go before I drop you.”

She slid down with a triumphant little hmph, then flopped backwards onto the bed, arms spread. “Victory.”

He stood over her, arms crossed.

“You rearranged my bookshelves by color.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You put Pride and Prejudice next to My Neighbor Totoro.”

“They were both blue.”

“That’s criminal.”

She beamed.

He threw a pillow at her.

They ended up on the floor.

Not on purpose.

She’d tried to drag the comforter off the bed. He’d tried to stop her. The blanket had betrayed them both.

Now she was laughing—face pressed to his shoulder, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. Her laughter was messy. Uncontrolled. That perfect, broken giggle she only made when she forgot she was trying to be human.

The blanket was still tangled around their legs.

Amane didn’t move.

He just laid beside her, head propped on one arm, watching her.

That laugh—he wanted to bottle it. He wanted to hear it in the dark.

“You’re the worst,” he teased.

“I’m the best.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You think I'm cute.”

She lifted her head to look at him, cheeks pink, hair fraying out of its loose bun.

Their eyes met.

Her smile stayed, but gentler now.

He raised a hand and brushed her bangs aside. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Keep me,” she whispered.

His heart stuttered.

Nene noticed.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “What?”

He shook his head, quiet. “Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me funny,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer—he moved.

He shifted his weight slowly, leaning over her until she was pinned gently beneath him. Her wrists fell to the sides of her head, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. His hands pressed to the floor on either side of her, caging her in.

“Nene.”

Her eyes widened.

The laughter was gone.

“Amane?”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down, face soft but intent—like he was memorizing her. Like she was something he didn’t deserve to touch.

“I want you,” he said, voice low.

Her breath hitched.

“Like...” she whispered, blinking. “Like the way the man looked at the woman in the poster?”

He nodded.

“I want to do that,” he said. “With you.”

Her chest rose and fell quickly. “You mean the... kissing? The touching?”

He reached out, brushed her hair back from her cheek. “All of it.”

She squirmed slightly beneath him, not moving to stop him, not understanding entirely—but wanting to. “What does that mean?”

He exhaled slowly, letting the moment stretch.

“It means,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I want to learn you. Kiss you. Touch you properly. Ruin you for anyone but me.”

Her hands flew to her chest as if she could hold her heart still.

She looked at him, dazed. “But… I… don’t know how,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to understand it all,” he murmured. “You only have to say yes.”

Her voice trembled. “Yes,” she said, barely audible.

That was all.

He leaned in, brushing his lips over her cheek first—so slowly it felt like a question. Then her jaw. Then just below her ear, where she gasped softly.

“Still alright?” he asked.

She nodded against him.

“Use your voice, Nene.”

“I’m okay,” she breathed.

“Good girl.”

He kissed down the slope of her neck, feather-light. Just his breath and heat and the drag of his mouth.

Her hands fluttered, unsure of where to hold him, how to breathe through the sensation building like static.

One of his hands moved to her side. Slipped under the hem of the hoodie.

He brushed up her thigh with careful fingers, lingering at her waist. Drew slow lines across her stomach.

Nene whimpered—but didn’t stop him.

Her body shifted beneath his touch, thighs tensing, breath caught.

Amane hesitated.

Then, gently, his hand slid higher.

Up the curve of her stomach… to the soft hollow beneath her ribs… slow, careful, brushing gently across the edge of her bra.

That’s when it happened.

She gasped—flinched.

It was subtle at first.

Just a twitch

“Nene?” he asked, low.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she doubled over. Her expression tightened, lips parting in a silent wince.

Her breath caught—once. Then again.

Her jaw clenched. Her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to trap something behind them. She curled tighter, like she was trying to keep something inside.

Amane sat up—fully now. “Nene—what’s happening?”

Still nothing.

Her fingers dug into the front of her hoodie. White-knuckled. Gripping the fabric like she needed to hold herself together.

“Nene—look at me. Talk to me.”

Her body trembled once.

Then went still.

Panic surged in his throat.

“Breathe,” he said, already reaching for her. “Look at me. Just tell me what hurts.”

She shook her head.

Her hand pressed harder over her heart.

“Nene—hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

Still no answer.

His hand found hers, pried her fingers gently from her chest. “I’m calling someone—”

“No,” she gasped.

He froze.

Her eyes opened slowly—wet, shining.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

“You’re not fine. What the hell was that?”

She pushed herself upright—slow, stiff—like her body had forgotten how. “Just a spasm.”

“That’s not—” He choked. “You were in pain.”

“It passed.” She forced a smile, but it faltered halfway up her cheek.

He didn’t believe it.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

It was a performance.

And he knew it.

She turned away, hoping to end the conversation. But he was already moving.

“Nene.”

His hand caught her wrist—firm, and final.

He pulled.

She stumbled back with a soft breath, startled, turning to face him.

Their eyes locked.

“What is it?” His voice was barely a whisper, but it thrummed with something sharp. “What’s happening to you?”

“I told you—”

“Don’t.” His tone sharpened, rough with something that had nowhere else to go. “Don’t lie.”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. She swallowed, struggling to meet his gaze.

And for a moment, the silence between them hurt more than the truth.

Because she didn’t deny it again.

She just looked at him.

Small. Cornered.

Like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

And he wouldn’t stop staring.

Wouldn’t let her go.

Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers. And just as suddenly—she moved.

She surged forward with a whisper of breath, cupping his cheeks and standing on tip-toe—pulling his lips down to hers.

It wasn’t practiced.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was the last card she had to play.

Soft. Desperate.

A kiss born of panic.

And the shock of it rooted him in place.

Her mouth pressed to his like she was trying to stop time. Like if she kissed him hard enough, long enough, he’d forget what he saw. Her fingers trembled where they held him, clinging like a child to a railing in a storm.

And when she pulled back—just barely—her forehead pressed to his.

“I’m okay,” she whispered.

His hands hovered near her back. Not pulling her in. Not pushing her away.

He didn’t speak.

He was still trying to breathe.

“I’m okay,” she said again, even softer.

But the lie still rang in his ears.

He stared down at her.

Tried to believe it.

His breath came slow. Unsteady. Controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

She leaned in again—softer this time. Just her lips brushing his.

Not a kiss. Not really.

A distraction.

A plea.

And this time, he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t press the questions.

Didn’t demand what she wouldn’t give.

He just let it happen.

And for a while, the panic receded—dulled by the quiet weight of her in his arms, and the way she held him like a lifeline.

She kissed him like it was all she had left.

And he let her.

Because he didn’t know what else to do.

Chapter Text

Morning came slow.

The light crept in soft and golden through the curtains, catching dust in the air. The window was cracked open just enough to let in a breeze, carrying the smell of spring and faint city sounds: a car door, a distant bark, the shuffle of footsteps from the apartment above.

Amane woke alone.

At first, he didn’t panic. The other side of the bed was still warm.

But the longer he sat there, half-blanketed and sleep-heavy, the more he remembered.

Nene’s flinch.

Her hand pressed hard against her chest.

The kiss that followed. Desperate. Soft. A distraction.

His jaw tensed.

He ran a hand through his hair, then stood—feet bare against the hardwood, pulling on a shirt that had fallen off the foot of the bed.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stepped into the hallway, rubbing his eyes, and then—

A soft clatter.

The kitchen.

He moved faster than he meant to, only slowing when he reached the doorway and saw her.

She was standing at the counter, back to him, stirring something with slow, circular motions. She was wearing one of his work shirts, cuffs rolled to the elbows and a hem that hung nearly to her knees. Her hair was pulled back in that messy loop she never quite got right.

And she was humming.

Not loudly. Not in rhythm.

Just... quietly, to herself.

The moment her eyes caught his, she brightened.

“Good morning!”

He hesitated. “...Morning.”

“I made coffee. I think I got it right this time.”

She turned, holding out a mug like it was a peace offering. Her smile was wide. Warm.

And just a little too perfect.

He took the cup from her hands. “Thanks.”

One sip told him she had, in fact, gotten it exactly right. Just enough sugar. A little oat milk. Hot, but not scalding.

She didn’t miss details. Not when it came to him.

But the coffee didn’t settle in his stomach the way it usually did.

“Want breakfast?” she asked, already moving toward the fridge. “We have eggs. Or cereal. Or I could make toast. I think I figured out the toaster.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He was too busy watching her.

Her movements were careful. Controlled. She wasn’t limping. Wasn’t grimacing. But there was a drag in her step, a softness in how she bent to reach the lower shelf. Her hand lingered on the counter for a moment too long when she straightened.

“Nene,” he said.

She looked up instantly, blinking. “Yeah?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

“...Nothing.”

Her smile returned, too quickly.

They ate breakfast together in silence. She sat cross-legged on the couch, perched like she used to as a cat, balancing her plate on her knees. He sat on the opposite end, watching the way her eyes darted to him between bites—checking to see if he was okay.

She was the one who should’ve been asked that.

She finished her toast and licked jam off her thumb like she hadn’t almost collapsed twelve hours ago. Then she slid quietly across the couch and nestled against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like nothing had happened.

And he let her.

Because if he said the wrong thing now, she might shut down again.

So he rested his arm around her shoulders.

Felt her warmth.

And said nothing.

The rest of the morning unfolded in soft denial.

She padded around the apartment barefoot, humming under her breath, folding laundry she’d clearly fished out of the dryer and fluffed again—because that’s what she did when she wanted to feel useful.

At one point, she paused in front of the window, peeking out from between the curtains like a curious stray. He watched her from the hallway, leaning against the wall.

Her fingers brushed the glass. Her breath fogged it. She drew a lazy swirl in the mist.

If she was hurting, she didn’t show it.

But Amane had learned to look for smaller signs.

The way she moved slower than usual. The faint tension in her jaw when she reached too high. The way her hand drifted near her chest when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She never touched it again.

Not directly.

But she hovered near it. Always.

And that was enough to make his stomach twist.

They didn’t talk about the night before.

Not when she sat beside him and leaned into his side.

Not when he absentmindedly helped her clip her hair back into something resembling a bun.

Not when she kissed his cheek like it was just an average day.

And not when he held her tighter than usual and whispered something soft about lunch, just to fill the space.

By afternoon, she was curled in his lap again, her hoodie swallowing her, her breath even and slow. She wasn’t sleeping. Not really. Her fingers still toyed with the hem of his shirt, like she needed the contact.

She was quieter than usual.

Still sweet. Still smiling.

But subdued.

She hadn’t made a joke all day.

And every time his hand drifted near hers, she flinched—not outwardly, but like her body didn’t know how to settle anymore.

He wanted to ask again.

Wanted to demand the truth.

But the look in her eyes when she kissed him last night—that quiet, desperate please don’t make me say it—still echoed behind his ribs.

So he didn’t ask.

He just held her.

His palm slid gently down her back, tracing the line of her spine beneath the fabric of her shirt. She curled tighter, head tucked into the curve of his neck.

“Comfy?” he asked softly.

“Mhm.”

“You tired?”

She nodded into his shirt.

He didn’t believe her.

Not really.

But he kissed her hair anyway and let her rest.

Evening crept in with lazy warmth. The sky outside turned gold, then purple. Lights from the city blinked on one by one.

He made them both tea.

She lit a candle she’d found in the cabinet and declared it her new favorite scent. Something vaguely fruity. He didn’t care.

He just watched her.

Watched the way she clung to normal.

Watched the way she pretended her body wasn’t betraying her—again.

And when she reached for him—when she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and whispered something about how nice today had been—he smiled.

But the ache in his chest hadn’t faded.

She’d kissed him last night like it was the only card she had left.

And today, she acted like it had worked.

Like she’d won.

But all Amane felt was the growing pressure in his throat—the way his hands kept curling into fists when she looked away.

He didn’t know when it would break.

He just knew it would.

Later, in bed, she curled into his side and tucked her head beneath his chin. He held her, gently tracing circles over the small of her back.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“So are you.”

She nuzzled closer. “Don’t move yet.”

“I won’t.”

She was asleep in minutes.

He was not.

He stared at the ceiling long after her breathing evened out. His hand stayed against her back, moving slowly. Not to soothe her.

To make sure she was still breathing.

Chapter Text

It didn’t happen again.

Not the next day.

Not the day after that.

And slowly—like mist retreating in the morning sun—Amane began to believe it really had been nothing.

She was fine.

She moved fine. Laughed the same. Ate everything he put in front of her—especially if it was chicken. She curled up in his bed and yawned against his chest like nothing had happened. She teased him. Pouted. Demanded cuddles.

Every day that passed without her clutching her chest dulled the edge of his fear.

Maybe it had been a muscle spasm.

Maybe he’d imagined how bad it looked. Maybe he’d panicked because he was new to this—new to this level of intimacy.

Still, it lingered in the back of his mind like a splinter.

But she gave him no reason to pull it out.

So when the weekend came, he finally let himself lean in. Let himself be the boyfriend she clearly wanted him to be.

No questions.

No hovering.

No tight-lipped glances when she moved too fast or breathed too hard.

Just a night out. A real one.

They started with the bookstore.

Nene had never been in one, and the moment they walked in, she got stuck in the entrance trying to read every title at once.

Amane guided her through the aisles gently, letting her stop and touch everything. She picked up cookbooks she couldn’t understand, flicked through magazines full of things she didn’t need, and laughed at a display of children’s picture books—delighted by the illustrations, even though the clerk gave her a few strange looks.

He bought her a little hardcover journal when she said it was “shiny.” Something soft pink with a fabric cover and gilded pages. She didn’t know what to write in it, but she hugged it to her chest like a treasure.

“You spoil me,” she said when they left the shop.

“You’re easy to spoil.”

He didn’t say: because I’m scared one day I won’t have the chance to.

They grabbed snacks from a convenience store next—kakigori for her, bitter canned coffee for him. She ate hers too fast and gave herself a brain freeze, then looked personally betrayed by the ice.

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.

She beamed like that alone made the whole night worth it.

The air was light. Easy.

For once, the shadow wasn’t there between them.

And for the first time since her transformation, Amane felt like he could breathe without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They wandered through a small park, hand in hand.

She made him stop to point out a black cat in the distance—staring at her with equal confusion.

“He knows,” she whispered.

“Knows what?”

“That I’m not supposed to be like this.”

“You’re just as annoying as you were before,” he said. “That hasn't changed.”

She gasped. “You take that back!”

“Make me.”

She pounced on him and he caught her with a breathless laugh. They tumbled to the grass—her above him, cheeks flushed, hair silver in the moonlight.

She leaned down and kissed him, fast and playful.

He kissed her back.

The night was warm. Her weight on his chest felt like something he never wanted to lose.

They were walking.

Just walking.

She’d been talking—rambling, really—about whether people ate flowers because she’d seen a cookbook earlier with edible petals, and Amane had been in the middle of explaining that yes, nasturtiums are real, when her voice faltered.

It happened mid-step.

A breath too shallow.

A sentence that didn’t finish.

He looked over.

Her hand was at her chest.

His heart dropped.

“Nene—?”

She didn’t answer.

She swayed. Blinked. Her mouth parted like she wanted to say something.

Then she crumpled.

He caught her just before she hit the pavement.

“Nene—hey—Nene.”

She was gasping. Knees buckled. Her fingers clutched his shirt with desperate, clumsy strength.

He lowered her to the grass near the path. “Breathe—hey, hey, it’s okay—just breathe—”

She wasn’t talking. Just shaking her head.

“I'm getting help—”

“No,” she rasped.

He grabbed for his phone. Hands shaking.

“No,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “Don’t call anyone.”

“What are you talking about? You just collapsed—!”

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered.

“You’re not fine!”

He had the emergency screen open.

“Please,” she begged. Her voice was breaking now. “Don’t take me to a hospital. Please.”

“Nene—”

“You can’t! They won’t understand. I don’t have a record—I don’t have anything—I’m not—please!”

Her eyes locked on his, and he saw it then.

Real fear.

The kind that reached beyond pain.

She was terrified.

Not just of the pain.

But of what would happen if someone else saw it.

Like a cat, hiding its wounds.

He hesitated—phone frozen in his grip.

His chest heaved once.

Twice.

Then, without another word, he ended the call.

And dialed a different number.

It rang five times.

Then came the voice—gravelly, half-asleep, and just short of hostile.

“Yugi. Do you know what time it is?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

“I figured.” A loud sigh. The clatter of a drawer. “You better be bleeding. Or standing in the middle of a crime scene. Preferably one you didn’t cause.”

“It’s Nene.”

That stopped him.

“...your cat?”

“She collapsed.”

Silence.

“She’s breathing,” Amane added quickly. “But barely. Her chest—it’s bad. She’s not—she’s not okay.”

His voice cracked at the end.

Another pause. Shorter. Sharper.

“Where are you?”

“East side. Kaido and Fifteenth. Near the park.”

“Back entrance,” Tsuchigomori said, already moving. Amane could hear a drawer open. The clink of keys. “I’ll prep the table. You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“She walking?”

“No.”

“You carrying her?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Too long. Too quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice was low. Careful.

“...Alright. I’ll be ready.”

Amane said nothing.

And neither did Tsuchigomori—not at first.

He heard the cigarette lighter flick on the other end. Then a mutter—half to himself.

“Always knew there was something strange about that damn cat.”

Then the line went dead.

Chapter Text

On the other side of the city, Tsuchigomori groaned and pushed himself upright on his office couch. His glasses were crooked. His shirt unbuttoned. He grabbed his coat from the wall, one arm through, half-shrugging it on as he crossed the room.

He looked tired.

Annoyed.

Still half-asleep.

But his eyes were already sharp.

The kind of sharp that never missed much.

He reached for the stethoscope on the wall.

Then—after a pause—opened a different drawer.

One filled with things that didn’t belong in a standard vet’s office.

He glanced toward the door, then lit a cigarette with a quiet, practiced flick.

The flame bloomed, then settled.

He muttered to himself as he exhaled:

“So. She’s not just a cat anymore.”

Amane’s footsteps echoed down the back hallway of the clinic, too fast, too loud, Nene curled against his chest like she weighed nothing.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Her breath came in shallow little pulls against his collarbone.

Tsuchigomori was waiting by the emergency room door, lab coat tugged halfway on, clipboard in one hand, cigarette tucked between two fingers.

His eyes dropped to the girl in Amane’s arms.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Just exhaled.

“Put her on the table. I’ll need to sedate her.”

Amane hesitated. “She’s scared.”

“She’s in pain,” Tsuchi said bluntly. “You want answers, I need her still.”

He crossed the room before Amane could argue, flipping on the overhead lamp. The light was clinical. Cold. It made Nene look paler.

Amane laid her down gently.

Her eyes fluttered open—barely.

“Tired,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She tried to reach for him, but her hand trembled.

Tsuchigomori’s voice cut in—calm, quiet. “This won’t hurt.”

Nene looked up at him, dazed.

“Don’t want…”

Amane caught her hand, squeezing it. “Just sleep. I’ll be right here.”

She blinked slowly. “Promise?”

“I swear.”

Tsuchigomori pressed the plunger.

Within seconds, her body relaxed.

Her hand went limp in Amane’s.

Tsuchigomori leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the heart monitor like it had personally offended him. His cigarette burned slowly between two fingers, forgotten.

Amane stood stiff beside the table.

“She’s stable for now,” Tsuchi said finally. “But her heart’s not. Rhythm’s inconsistent. Compression’s weak. Muscle fatigue across the whole left chamber.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” He dragged on the cigarette, exhaled hard. “That heart was built for a cat. Small output. Small strain. Different load, different lifespan. She’s running a motorbike engine in a freight truck.”

Amane’s stomach dropped.

Tsuchigomori didn’t soften. “She doesn’t have the right foundation for a human body. Her system’s working overtime to maintain organs that weren’t meant to be supported by a heart that size, with that structure.”

“How long?”

Tsuchigomori didn’t answer.

“How long, Tsuchi?”

“If I had to guess?” The vet shrugged, almost too casually. “Weeks. Maybe less.”

Amane went still.

“…There’s nothing you can do?”

“I can stabilize her. Keep her comfortable. But not long-term.”

Amane’s voice cracked. “There has to be something!”

Tsuchigomori gave him a look—dry and unsurprised. “Magic doesn’t give you clarity, Yugi. Just new ways to break the rules.”

“I made a wish,” he said suddenly. “That night. I said—” his throat worked around the words. “I said I wished she could be mine. That she could understand me. Be with me. Like a real girlfriend.”

Tsuchigomori didn’t blink.

“I thought I was joking,” Amane muttered. “I didn’t think—”

“You meant it.”

Amane looked up.

“That’s what matters. Intent.” Tsuchigomori stubbed out the cigarette. “Doesn’t matter what you think you were saying. It’s what you felt when you said it. That’s how old magic works. You want something bad enough, and the universe rearranges itself. For a price.”

Amane’s hands clenched. “Then there has to be a way to undo it.”

“Sure,” Tsuchigomori said, too dryly. “If you feel like inventing a whole new soul.”

Amane flinched. “You’ve seen this before?”

The vet was quiet for a moment.

Then—he reached into the cabinet behind him. Pulled out a half-finished bottle of sake and poured himself a shot into a stained mug.

“I was new. Just out of school. Clinic didn’t have decent heating. We still hand-wrote files.”

Amane waited.

“There was a fox,” Tsuchigomori said, staring into the mug. “A smart one. Lived on the edge of the temple district. No one ever saw her, but every now and then, someone’d leave a rice ball or broken toy, and the next day it’d be replaced with something nicer. She liked to trade.”

He took a sip.

“She fell for a man. A teacher, like you. Kind, quiet, didn’t believe in the supernatural. But he had a way of talking to strays. She watched him for years. And one day, she showed up at his door. Human.”

Amane’s breath caught. “He accepted her?”

“Didn’t know the truth. Thought she was just... odd.” A shrug. “They lived together. Quiet life. She cooked. Cleaned. Learned to read. But her body didn’t hold. Not built for it. She started having symptoms. Chest issues. Shaky hands. Fainting spells.”

Amane didn’t speak.

“The man died,” Tsuchigomori said flatly. “Cursed staircase. No one could explain it. She waited for him to come back. Still might be waiting.”

He set the mug down.

“Old magic like that? It’s selfish. It doesn’t think ahead. It gives what you want, but it takes something in return.”

Amane ran a hand through his hair. “So what do I do?”

“You don’t want my answer.”

“I need it.”

Tsuchigomori looked at the girl on the table—sedated, peaceful, chest rising in shallow, fragile breaths.

“If she stays like this,” he said, “she dies. No cure. No transplant. No human medicine that’ll fix a heart never built to carry this weight.”

Amane swallowed.

“If she reverts—if the wish is undone—her heart might stabilize again. Might. I can’t promise she’d be the same. But she’d have a chance.”

“No.”

Tsuchigomori raised an eyebrow.

Amane’s voice shook, barely composed. “She doesn’t want to go back. She loves this. She loves me.”

“And she’s dying for it.”

Amane turned away. Gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.

“I’m not telling you to give up,” Tsuchigomori said quietly. “I’m telling you the cost. You wanted a girlfriend. You got one. And now you have to decide what matters more—keeping her like this, or keeping her at all.”

Later, Tsuchigomori dimmed the lights and left them alone.

Nene slept on a clean cot in the back office, IV in her arm, her hoodie folded neatly on a chair beside her.

Amane sat on the floor next to her, one hand resting on the blanket over her legs.

She looked so small like this.

So human.

His throat hurt.

His chest ached in a way he didn’t know how to handle.

“You picked me,” he whispered. “You gave up everything, just to be with me.”

She didn’t stir.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Silence.

He leaned forward, brushed her bangs from her forehead. His fingers trembled.

“I just got you,” he said.

Then softer:

“And I don’t know how to let you go.”

It was past three when Amane left the clinic.

She was bundled in his arms again, hoodie draped over her like a blanket. Still out. Still warm. Her breath tickled his collarbone.

Tsuchigomori had watched him go with a shake of his head.

“You’re going to break your own heart,” he’d muttered.

Amane didn’t disagree.

He stepped into the cool night air, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

And maybe she was.

Chapter Text

She didn’t wake the next morning.

Not at first.

She stirred when the light touched her face—eyes twitching beneath their lids, breath slow but even. Amane had hardly slept. He sat beside the bed in silence, still in yesterday’s clothes, one hand resting gently over hers on the blanket.

The apartment felt too still. Like something was holding its breath.

He watched her chest rise and fall. Counted the seconds between each breath.

When her lashes finally fluttered, he leaned in.

“Nene?”

Her brow creased.

She blinked at the ceiling. Then slowly turned her head—finding his face, blurry-eyed and confused.

“...Amane?”

“I’m here.”

Her voice was raspy. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You fainted.”

She squinted. “I did?”

“In the park. It was worse this time.”

A pause.

Then: “I’m okay now.”

He didn’t respond.

She shifted under the blanket and tried to sit up, but winced at the pull of the IV line still in her arm.

Her confusion deepened. “Where are we?”

“My place,” he said. “Tsuchi let us take the equipment. Said you’d rest better here.”

She glanced down at herself—blanket tucked over her, IV stand near the bed, her hoodie bunched at her waist.

Her eyes flicked up. “You carried me?”

He nodded.

She blinked. “...How heavy was I?”

He managed a laugh—soft, strained. “You weigh less than a full backpack.”

“That’s not comforting,” she muttered.

Then her eyes searched his face. Something about his expression seemed off.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m scared,” he said.

The words escaped before he could stop them.

She froze.

The room went quiet again.

Then—gently, she reached for his wrist. “Amane…”

“I talked to Tsuchi.”

Her hand paused.

“He told me what’s happening. With your heart.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t speak.

“You’ve been pretending this whole time,” he said. “Telling me it’s nothing. Making jokes. Acting like you’re just tired.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You didn’t want to tell me.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she whispered.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “That’s what terrifies me.”

Later, she sat up with a bowl of warm soup in her lap. Her legs were covered, shoulders wrapped in a blanket. She looked tired, but better.

He paced the room nearby, fingers through his hair, barefoot on the cold tile.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “What did he say?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “That your heart wasn’t built for this. That it’s not strong enough. That you’re not going to last.”

She lowered the spoon.

“That’s what you get for making wishes,” she muttered.

He turned sharply.

Her smile was tight. Sad. “You were so sad that night. So alone. I remember. I just wanted you to smile again. So I asked.”

His eyes widened. “You—?”

“I made the wish too,” she said softly. “Right after you did. I didn’t know if it would work. But I meant it.”

He sat beside her, stunned.

“You said I was your everything,” she murmured. “And I wanted to be. Really be.”

His throat tightened.

“I didn’t know it would hurt this much,” she whispered. “But even if I had... I don’t think I’d take it back.”

He looked at her then, helpless.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “If you stay like this, you’ll die. But if you go back—”

“I won’t be human anymore.”

“You won’t be mine.”

She didn’t answer.

Night came early.

Nene dozed off in his bed again, curled beneath his sheets, hands tucked under her cheek.

Amane stood at the window for a long time.

The city lights blurred.

Everything felt too quiet.

He could still hear Tsuchigomori’s voice:

You wanted a girlfriend. You got one. Now you have to decide what matters more—keeping her like this, or keeping her at all.

There was no answer that didn’t break something.

Later that night, she woke with a start.

He was beside her instantly.

“Nene?”

She blinked fast, disoriented.

Then her hands flew to her chest.

“Is it hurting?” he asked, voice tight.

She shook her head. “No. Just—dreamed something. Something bad.”

He exhaled in relief and stroked her hair back gently.

“Sorry I scared you,” she mumbled.

“You didn’t.”

“I always do.”

“You don’t.”

Her breath steadied. “You’re still here.”

“Always.”

She curled closer, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “You’re going to choose, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispered.

“But you will.”

He didn’t reply.

And in the silence, she knew her time was running out.

Chapter Text

Amane stood at the window long after the sun came up.

The city was quiet.

Still.

The kind of stillness that made everything feel like a dream that hadn’t ended yet. Or maybe hadn’t even started.

Behind him, Nene slept soundly in his bed, her breath light and steady, curled beneath his sheets like a secret he wasn’t supposed to keep.

She hadn’t stirred since he carried her home from the clinic.

Her fingers twitched sometimes.

A faint sound escaped her throat once or twice in sleep.

But that was all.

She hadn’t spoken.

She hadn’t smiled.

And her heart—

That heart, too small for the life it was holding, still beat. But the rhythm was fragile. Cautious.

And every time it skipped, he stopped breathing.

He didn’t cry.

Not right away.

Not when Tsuchigomori closed the clinic door behind him.

Not when he crossed the city with her in his arms, hoodie tucked around her body like armor against the world.

Not even when he laid her down and sat beside her until the sky went gray again.

But now—

Now, standing in the quiet light of morning, her hand cold in his, her body still not shifting—

Now he felt it.

All of it.

And he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He dropped to his knees at the side of the bed and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He hadn’t said the words out loud yet.

Not until now.

“I didn’t know what love was.”

He exhaled shakily, fingers curling around hers.

“I thought I did. I thought it was wanting. Holding. Touching. I thought it was everything I never had.”

His voice cracked. He didn’t stop.

“But it’s not. It’s choosing. Every time. Even when it hurts.”

He closed his eyes.

“So I'm choosing you.”

His breath shook.

“And if that means losing you like this… then I’ll lose you.”

He swallowed.

“Because I can’t lose you forever.”

The words came quieter now. Almost voiceless.

“I want to keep you. In any form. Even if it means I don’t get to hold you like this again.”

He straightened—just enough to lift his head. His eyes were wet, but focused.

Hands shaking, he closed them over hers.

“I wish—” His voice trembled.

“I wish she could go back. To before. To the way she was. I wish for her to be safe. Even if I’m not the one who gets to keep her.”

He said it into the stillness.

Into the quiet.

Into the raw, aching truth of morning light.

Then he waited.

One second.

Two.

Ten.

Nothing happened.

Nene didn’t move.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t change.

The silence didn’t crack open to swallow her.

No soft glow.

No pulse of magic.

No answer.

Just the hum of the city outside his window and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the old clock on his shelf.

And Nene, still human, still cold, still asleep.

Amane sat back slowly.

Confused.

Scared.

Had it failed?

Or worse—had the magic been spent already?

Had he waited too long?

He reached up and brushed her hair from her cheek, half-expecting fur, half-expecting ears, a tail, something.

But she didn’t stir.

She was just as she’d been before.

Delicate.

Real.

Unbearably human.

Hours passed.

He stayed close. Refused to sleep. Refused to leave the room.

And then, sometime just before dusk, her fingers twitched again.

This time, her lashes fluttered.

Her breath hitched.

And she opened her eyes.

Amane sat up fast, hand flying to hers.

“Nene?”

She blinked, slow. Still groggy.

But not pale.

Not cold.

Her skin was warm.

Her cheeks flushed.

And when she sat up—it was with strength he hadn’t seen in weeks.

She looked around the room, dazed. “Amane?”

“I’m here,” he said quickly. “You’re okay. Just—don’t move too fast—”

She shifted, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “I feel fine.”

He stared at her, stunned. “What?”

She looked at him.

Her smile was small. Gentle.

But sure.

“I feel better.”

He reached out, cupped her face, searching for any sign—anything—that this was a dream. That something had changed.

Her pulse thudded strong beneath his fingers.

No skips.

No tremors.

Just warmth.

“You’re still—” He blinked. “Still human.”

She nodded.

He pulled back slightly. “The wish…”

Nene tilted her head.

“I made a wish,” he said, quiet now. “I wished for you to go back. I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought it worked.”

She didn’t answer at first.

Then, softly, she reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

“You wished for me to go back?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

She smiled faintly. “And I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you.”

Amane stilled.

She looked down at their hands.

“While you were making your wish… I was making mine.”

His chest tightened. “What did you wish for?”

She looked up at him—eyes bright, voice steady.

“I gave up all nine of my lives,” she said simply. “Because this one is the only one with you in it.”

His breath caught.

“I didn’t want to be anywhere else,” she whispered.

He looked at her, stunned.

“And I didn’t want to be a cat,” she said. “I wanted you.”

His hand trembled in hers.

And for the first time in days, he couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think past the sound of her voice saying those words.

She leaned forward, rested her forehead against his.

Soft.

Real.

Alive.

“You gave up what you wanted to protect me,” she whispered.

“And you gave up everything to stay.”

Their eyes met.

And in that moment—quiet and golden and full of something too large for words—he knew what it meant to love.

Truly.

Completely.

Unselfishly.

And all because of her.

Chapter Text

The first time Amane let Nene drag him into a photo booth, he didn’t even complain.

She’d shoved a hundred-yen coin into the slot before he could protest, yanked him down by his sweater, and posed like it was a high-stakes modeling shoot.

The photos were terrible.

Half-blurred, misaligned, her grin so big it nearly eclipsed him.

He kept the strip in his wallet.

Didn’t tell her.

Would never tell her.

But she knew anyway.

Their new routine was strange—but good.

Breakfast involved less chaos and more actual food. Nene, despite her early kitchen disasters, had become surprisingly efficient with eggs. She still over-seasoned everything, but she made it with a kind of focus Amane found impossible not to love.

She never complained about chores.

She did them like play.

She danced with the laundry. Sang to the mop. Made conversation with the vacuum. And if he walked by while she was folding socks, she’d tug him down by the collar just to kiss his cheek and say, “Don’t look, I’m doing it wrong.”

The old blanket they’d once fallen off the bed in was now a permanent fixture on the couch.

She curled under it while he read papers or graded assignments.

Sometimes she’d doze with her head on his thigh, mumbling things he didn’t understand. He never asked her to move.

She picked wildflowers when they walked to the store together.

She made a scrapbook.

She covered the fridge with clippings from supermarket flyers and stuck googly eyes on every carton of milk.

And for the first time in Amane’s life, he found himself laughing when he came home. Not just smiling.

Laughing.

“You’re different,” she said one afternoon, curled against his chest as he absently played with her hair.

He didn’t look up from the book in his lap. “Am I?”

“You used to be all quiet and growly.”

“I’m still growly.”

“Now you’re just cuddly and easily bullied.”

He closed the book.

“You’re lucky I’m holding back.”

She propped her chin on his chest. “From what?”

He didn’t answer.

But his hand slid down to rest at her hip, and his eyes flicked to hers—smoldering just enough to make her cheeks go pink.

She buried her face in his sweater immediately. “Not fair.”

“You asked.”

They went to the park more often.

The cherry blossoms had begun to fall in soft waves, clinging to her hoodie and collecting in her hair. Amane brushed them out carefully, one by one, as she spun in slow circles beneath the trees like she was trying to catch them on her tongue.

“People are watching,” he said once.

“They’re just jealous,” she replied, sticking her arms out and spinning faster.

Of course, she tripped.

Of course, he caught her.

She looked up at him from two inches away, eyes wide, breathless, pink-cheeked.

And he just laughed.

One night, while she was brushing her hair in the mirror, she looked over her shoulder at him.

He was watching her again.

He did that more lately.

“You’re thinking something,” she said.

“Always,” he replied.

She turned, squinting suspiciously. “But this one looks serious.”

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “how lucky I am.”

She blinked. Then smiled. Soft and slow. “You’re not usually this sappy.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Like a pokémon?”

“Exactly like that.”

She laughed.

He didn’t stop watching her.

But for all the good things—the softness, the safety—there was one thing she still hadn’t heard.

He’d said a lot. Held her close. Kissed her forehead when he thought she was asleep. Told her, more than once, that he wouldn’t trade her for anything.

But he hadn’t said it.

Not directly.

Not aloud.

And it was starting to get to her.

“You’re brooding again,” she said one evening, flopping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m grading essays,” Amane replied, not looking up.

“A brooding essay?”

“They’re all brooding essays.”

She sat up, cross-legged, arms folded. “You’re avoiding me.”

“You’re literally two feet away.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Emotionally.”

He arched a brow. “That so.”

“You haven’t said it,” she accused.

He blinked.

“Said what?”

“You know what!”

“I really don’t.”

She launched a pillow at him.

It hit him square in the face.

He calmly removed it, set it aside, and waited.

She pointed at him. “I know how you feel. You know I know. I’m not dumb.”

“Never said you were.”

“But you haven’t said it.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Nene—”

“No. Don’t Nene me. You can kiss me, cuddle me, tell me I’m adorable when I burn rice, but you can’t say three stupid words?”

His silence said everything.

She pouted.

It was aggressive.

“You’re a coward.”

“Am not.”

“Then say it.”

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

At the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The crossed arms. The fire in her eyes and the tremble just behind it. Her whole face practically glowing with righteous frustration.

He closed his laptop.

She blinked. “What are you—”

He stood up, slow and quiet.

Walked to the bed.

Stopped in front of her.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. Her pout faltered. “Amane?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached into the front pocket of his pants and pulled something out.

She blinked.

It was small.

A box.

She stared at it like it might bite. “What… is that?”

He sat beside her, expression unreadable.

Took her hand gently.

And placed it in her palm.

“You wanted me to say it,” he murmured.

She opened the box.

Inside: a simple silver ring. Smooth. Unadorned. Nothing flashy.

Not an engagement ring.

But still something meaningful.

Her breath caught.

“It’s not a proposal,” he said quickly. “I just… I wanted to make a promise.”

She looked at him, stunned.

“I love you,” he said.

The words were quiet—but they hit with full force.

“I want you in my life,” he said. “All of it. Every part. No conditions. No countdowns... If that’s something you want, too.”

Her fingers curled around the box, tight.

“And this is a promise,” he finished. “That I’m not going anywhere. That you’re not just a moment. You’re… it.”

She didn’t speak.

Not right away.

She was too busy trying to hold it together.

Too busy blinking back the tears.

“I didn’t think,” she whispered, “you’d ever say it.”

“I didn’t think I could,” he admitted. “But now I know better.”

She launched forward and hugged him so hard they nearly tipped sideways off the bed.

“You’re such an idiot,” she sniffled into his shoulder.

“You said yes though.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You’re crying and clinging. It counts.”

She hit him with the pillow again.

But this time, she was smiling.