Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Woonhak had done everything right.

He carved the summoning circle into the stone by hand, fingertips raw and aching by the time the last rune was etched. He recited the incantation perfectly, voice steady even when the air split with magic. He’d trained for this and knew what he wanted- something strong, even awe-inspiring. A falcon, maybe, like his father had once bound in his youth, or a flame-winged beast that would shadow him wherever he walked—proof that he was meant for greatness, too.

But what stepped out of the smoke… was a cat. Not a lion, a panther or some sleek mythical chimera. Just— a cat.

With sleek black fur and sharp eyes, he gave a single, lazy flick of his tail, as if disturbed from a nap he wasn’t ready to leave.

He blinked into the clearing smoke, gaze passing over the circle, the runes, the spellbook. Then, finally, he looked at Woonhak.

Woonhak stared back. “…You’re not what I summoned,” he said, before he could stop himself.

“I was nearby,” the cat replied coolly, voice smooth.

Woonhak took a step back, pulse stuttering. “You can talk?”

“I'm answering you right now, aren't I?”

“That’s not—” Woonhak stopped, then scrubbed a hand through his hair, a little frantic. “You’re not a falcon.”

“Very observant,” the cat said dryly. “Do you usually talk to falcons?”

Woonhak opened his mouth, closed it again.

The cat sighed. “If you’d like to undo the summoning, you should do it before the bond settles. I won’t stop you.”

“I don’t—” Woonhak faltered. He’d prepared for creatures that were violent, unstable, and difficult to control, not something so calm.

Woonhak swallowed. “What should I call you?”

The cat’s ears twitched. “I already have a name,” he said. “You might as well use it.”

Around the cat’s neck was a thin collar—no clasp, no buckle, just an unbroken band of dark metal. Ancient runes circled the edge, but in the center, one name glowed softly, etched in silver: Taesan.

The name echoed strangely in the room before settling somewhere under Woonhak’s skin.

“…Taesan,” Woonhak repeated, softer. A name larger than life for such a small creature. 

The circle on the floor pulsed once with faint, golden light, before fading.

Taesan stepped fully outside the boundary. He didn’t hesitate or ask for a task- instead, he padded to the windowsill and curled up as if he had done it a hundred times before.

The contract wasn’t even that strong. A single-term, limited duration bond—barely more than a formality and hastily etched into parchment. It wasn’t meant to last. 

Woonhak never had a familiar before, and at his age, his magical reserves were shallow, untested. He had been lofty in his aspirations to summon a falcon as most mages his level summoned something simple like a candlefly or a stone mouse. Something that flitted or skittered and vanished by dusk. 

But Taesan stayed, slipping through the edges of the binding like smoke, barely acknowledging the constraints that should’ve held him. He also ignored half the clauses written into the agreement.

“You’re supposed to sleep by the door,” Woonhak muttered one night, stopping short when he found Taesan in the center of his bed, limbs stretched across the blanket like he owned it.

“There’s a draft near the door,” Taesan replied, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Besides, it’s not like anyone ever broke in before you summoned me.”

He never disobeyed in any way that truly mattered. Nothing dangerous. Just... sideways.

If Woonhak told him to patrol the perimeter, Taesan wouldn’t argue. At first, Woonhak had assumed he was doing exactly what was asked — circling the boundaries, ward-checking, standing guard. It wasn’t until the third night in a row that Woonhak realized he always found Taesan in the same place on the roof, stretched out flat on the tiles like he was sunbathing in the dark.

“I told you to patrol,” Woonhak said, arms crossed, craning his neck upward.

“I did,” Taesan replied nonchalantly. “One full loop. Then I settled here.”

“And how long did that take you?”

Taesan’s golden eyes blinked slowly. “Long enough to know the neighborhood dog barked at three passersby and your neighbor dropped her keys. Nothing tried to breach the ward.”

“That’s not the point,” Woonhak muttered, though his voice lacked heat. “You’re supposed to be patrolling.”

“Why waste energy changing what hasn’t changed? If something actually comes up, I’ll deal with it.”

Other times, Woonhak would come home late and find Taesan inside — not outside the threshold like the clause in their contract technically required, but curled in a patch of moonlight on the living room rug, flipping absently through a spellbook. Or he’d be perched on the windowsill tracking the headlights slipping down the street. He always looked up the second Woonhak stepped inside, too quickly to pretend he hadn’t been waiting.

“You’re not supposed to be indoors when I’m not here,” Woonhak would mutter, tired from too many long hours in the school library.

“There was a storm coming,” Taesan would say. “Figured you'd want me nearby.”

He never outright disobeyed, he merely interpreted things with leeway. As time went on, however, Woonhak realized just what a reliable familiar Taesan was.

The day a misfired charm nearly turned the kitchen into a furnace, Taesan expelled the flames without hesitation.

After a brutal round of exams left Woonhak feeling carved out and bone-tired, a snack appeared beside him—a bag of half-crushed chips clenched in Taesan’s teeth like a trophy kill.

In his familiar form, Taesan was small enough to curl into Woonhak’s lap. He wasn’t one to seek affection, but he never rejected it either. His tail would bristle when Woonhak was upset, as if he could feel it too. His fur was dark as ink, and when the light hit just right, it almost seemed to shimmer.

But when he shifted, his human form was as tall as Woonhak was, almost lanky, but not in an awkward way—his limbs moved with the same deliberate feline grace. He was beautiful in that cold, distant way some people were—sharp cheekbones, long lashes, lips that rarely smiled but always seemed on the edge of one. His black hair fell just past his ears, usually in some state of disarray, and his skin was pale with a soft golden undertone, like the moon behind a veil. And around his neck, still impossibly present, was the same dark collar he wore as a cat, just upsized to fit a human. He never took it off- Woonhak wasn’t even sure he could.

And still, he behaved like a cat. Woonhak often spotted him lying sideways on the couch like it was a sun-warmed windowsill, shirt rumpled from napping. His fingers twitched in sleep the same way his paws would and his voice had the same low hum as his purring had. He never warned when he’d shift. One moment he’d be curled by the heater, the next he’d be in Woonhak’s bed, hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.

It was strange at first, learning to share space with Taesan. Woonhak bought treats, and even a small sweater he thought cat-Taesan might like. It was soft, knitted in thick yarn, a vivid shade of blue that Woonhak thought might suit him. When Taesan had worn it for exactly thirty seconds before shrugging it off, Woonhak had smiled. He had learned not to mind the small rejections that came with a cat’s affection. Woonhak had also filled a basket with blankets, soft and folded with care, for when Taesan needed a spot to curl up and hide in, and over time, he figured out which brand of kibble Taesan preferred—not just by scent or taste, but by the way he nudged the bowl aside after the first few bites to signal he was done. 

They started eating together more often, sometimes with Taesan making offhand comments about the way Woonhak cut his vegetables or overcooked the noodles. When Taesan shifted to human form, Woonhak would cook for him, too, usually dishes like soft rice, grilled fish, and nothing with salt. 

The nights were stranger still. At first, Taesan slept as a cat, curled up at the foot of the bed. But over time, he began appearing more and more in his human form—curled on top of the blankets, then beneath them. Woonhak had grown used to the weight beside him, and the evenness of Taesan’s breathing. The way his presence no longer felt foreign, but necessary. Familiar.

“Taesan, our... bond’s decaying,” Woonhak suddenly said one night. “You don’t… you’re not required to stay.”

“I know that.”

Woonhak looked at him. “Then why are you still here?”

Taesan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Because I want to be.”

Woonhak flushed. He hated how easily that seemed to roll off Taesan’s tongue. He hated how he didn’t have the nerve to say, I’m glad you stayed.

Instead, he reached out, slow and unsure. Taesan didn’t move, didn’t raise an eyebrow in amusement and turn this small moment into something embarrassing. He just let Woonhak’s hand settle against his hair, grounding there.

The strands beneath his fingers were black as ink at midnight, just like the sleek coat he’d grown used to having curled against his side at night.

“You don’t have to mean it,” he replied, feeling pathetic. As soon as the words left him, he regretted them. He braced for a scoff, or worse—that cold silence Taesan wore when he didn’t know how to answer gently.

But Taesan’s voice, when it came, was steady. “I’m not trying to make you feel better,” he said. Then, “But if it helps, that’s fine too.”

Woonhak’s throat tightened. He hated, more than anything, the flicker of fear that still lived in him. Some part of him still wanted to renew the bond—not for power, not for tradition—just to make sure Taesan wouldn’t leave.

So one night, when the house was still and Taesan had fallen asleep in their bed, head tipped back against the cushions—Woonhak lit the candles and began whispering the words he barely remembered.

The spell wasn’t like the kind he was capable of now after countless sleepless nights spent cramming and practicing. He told himself that it wasn’t meant to force obedience, that it wouldn’t twist Taesan’s will into something it wasn’t. It was only a precaution, a non-invasive precaution and nothing more.

The words began to form in his mind, but with them came a sickening weight, and Woonhak knew, deep down, he was about to cross a line that Taesan had done nothing to warrant.

He thinks, distantly, that he could probably summon a falcon now, just like he’d once dreamed of—wings outstretched, fire-bright and commanding. But the thought didn’t feel right anymore. The image of the falcon felt foreign, like an old dream he’d grown out of. Now, he wanted what he already had—the bond with Taesan, even if he didn’t always know what to do with it.

Halfway through the final line, his voice faltered, a catch in his throat that made the words stumble. His hands trembled, fingers brushing too close to the flickering candlelight, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The flame wavered, as though it, too, sensed the shift in the air.

He glanced quickly to the side, heart racing. Taesan was still fast asleep, his body curled up in that way that made the room feel warmer. Dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, soft and peaceful, and for a moment, Woonhak could almost forget that anything had changed before the guilt surged again.

Taesan, for all his coldness and sharpness, never talked about leaving, even as the bond between them began to fray. When Woonhak’s magic faltered, when the lines of the binding began to blur, Taesan said nothing. He offered no reassurances or words of comfort. But even when he had every chance to, he never left. 

However, Woonhak noticed, and maybe that made it worse—how someone who barely spoke about emotions could still be so careful with his.

Woonhak hadn’t trusted him, not fully, not in the way he should have. And maybe that was the root of everything—the doubt that had begun festering in his heart at some unknown point during this term. He hadn’t trusted Taesan to stay, not in the way that Taesan had trusted him. And now, with the bond in its weakened state, Woonhak realized Taesan had been more loyal than he could ever bring himself to be.

With a shaky breath, Woonhak hastily blew out the flames one by one, watching the smoke curl into the dark. In that darkness, the weight of his own regrets felt heavier.

Later, with Taesan tucked into his side, head resting lightly beneath Woonhak’s chin, Woonhak lay still, afraid even to breathe too deeply.

By the time Woonhak made it to bed, Taesan had already shifted, but his sleeping posture remained oddly familiar. He lay on his side, limbs stretched out in a way that reminded Woonhak of a cat lounging on a cat tree—his arms and legs extended in awkward, half-curled angles, like he couldn’t decide whether to stay curled up or fully stretch out. Taesan was still asleep when Woonhak carefully slid under the covers but it didn’t take much for him to draw closer. Taesan leaned into him instinctively, turning his face toward Woonhak’s chest and nuzzling into the hollow of his collarbone.

That’s when Woonhak felt the sudden coldness of the collar pressing faintly between them. Taesan’s skin, soft and warm, molded over the unforgiving metal band, leaving behind subtle indentations. It wasn’t sharp enough to cause real harm, but the sight of it made Woonhak’s chest tighten. Guilt climbed up his throat like a tide. Taesan had been staying in his human form more and more, even though it clearly wasn’t as comfortable as being a cat.

Overwhelmed, Woonhak dipped his head and inhaled the scent of Taesan’s hair. He smelled like he always did, cat or not: that delicious, impossible-to-name warmth of fur and sunshine, clean skin and something quietly addictive. Like this, Taesan was pliant, domesticated, in a way he never allowed himself to be during the day. His legs were tangled with Woonhak’s, breath steady against his chest, body surrendered to rest without resistance. 

And Woonhak’s heart ached with how much he loved him.

He had thought, perhaps, that love meant binding, holding fast so nothing could slip away. But now, with Taesan pressed so close, something inside him began to unspool. He found himself mentally cycling through options: maybe one of the magical shops near their home, or a professor who might know someone who specialized in familiar bonds. Someone who could help remove the collar. He could get Taesan something softer—something he could take off whenever he wanted. Or maybe... no collar at all.

What purpose did it serve now, really?

Maybe it had never been about control. Maybe it had always been about trust. After all, Taesan was still here, still choosing him, in his quiet, wordless way.

And Woonhak, his hand curling gently at the small of Taesan’s back, eyes blinking slow against the dark, finally let himself believe it.

Love, he realized—slow and aching and quiet—

Love was freedom.

Chapter Text

Taesan licked his paw with the indifference of someone who did not care about his government name being spelled wrong.

“It’s ‘T-a-e’,’” Woonhak told the registrar gently. “Not ‘T-e.’”

The woman frowned at her keyboard. “We’ve had issues with certain vowels lately,” she said. “The database thinks ‘ae’ is a typo, so it’s autocorrecting.”

“But that’s his name,” Woonhak said, helpless. 

“Look,” she said, sighing, “I’ll flag it for the override queue, but we’re severely backlogged. You’ll probably get a temporary tag that says ‘Tesan’ for now.”

From the slingbag, Taesan murmured, “It’s not like you need a tag to know who I am.”

Woonhak absently ran a hand over his head. “I know, but this isn’t for me.”

It was for the government’s network of wards and portals that scanned names against contracts, or professors who needed to mark magical presence during labs, among other things. Both Taesan and Woonhak were to always carry a copy of this tag.

“Alright,” the registrar said briskly. “You’ll have to submit a Discrepancy Request for Manual Input. Cash or check?”

The pink slip that materialized on the countertop hadn’t been there a second ago. The title at the top read: Form 5-C: Name Incongruence, Sentient Companion Variant. 

“Um… cash?” Woonhak reached for his wallet, quietly thumbing through bills. He placed the amount on the counter and hoped too obviously like he was scraping together money for the privilege of spelling his familiar’s name correctly.

“How do they manage interdimensional taxation,” Taesan muttered, “but not basic phonetics?” 

Woonhak shushed him with a smile on his face, a hand pressing gently against the slingbag where Taesan’s voice had come from. “Don’t make them flag us for attitude, too.”

The registrar didn’t look up, but her lips twitched like she’d heard. She reached for a small stack of forms—pale lilac this time, thin as tissue—and slid them across the counter. “You’ll also need to take two identification photos. One of him in animal form, one in human. We have a booth down the hall.”

Woonhak carefully gathered the forms and bowed slightly in thanks. The registrar, already typing again, waved them off without looking up.

The photo booth down the hall was curtained in institutional blue. Woonhak pushed it open and asked, “You ready?”

He helped Taesan out of the slingbag, and with a light hop, the cat settled onto the low platform inside the booth. He sat neatly, tail tucked around his paws.

“Okay,” Woonhak said, tapping at the screen. It lagged behind each touch, stubbornly unresponsive. Taesan watched, amused, whiskers twitching. “Hold still.”

The countdown blinked to life—three, two, one—and the flash went off with a soft whine. Taesan blinked once, then resumed grooming his paw as if nothing had happened.

“One more,” Woonhak said, reaching in to scratch behind his ear.

There was a shimmer, barely more than a breath of light, and then Taesan was cross-legged where the cat had been, his hair tousled like he really had just crawled out of a bag. He stared at the camera, unbothered, as the second flash clicked.

The photos were predictably flat and a little overexposed, with that faint greenish tinge government booths always had. Still, they came out better than expected. One showed a sleek black cat with inquisitive golden eyes. The other, a boy with a dark gaze, his hair slightly mussed. Even across species, Woonhak thought he was photogenic enough to slip through bad lighting.

“These are nice,” Woonhak said, sliding them into the envelope with the rest of the forms. 

Taesan didn’t reply. He shifted back into cat form and reached out with a single paw, tapping lightly at the sling bag.

“Okay, okay.” Woonhak unzipped it. “Get in.”

Back at the front desk, the registrar took the forms and photos without comment before she stamped something, scribbled something else, and handed Woonhak a temporary ID card inside a stiff paper sleeve.

At the top, it read:

Tesan (provisional)
In Service to Kim Woonhak
Human Form Registered

Underneath, there was a blurry holographic image of the photo they’d just taken, flickering back and forth—cat, boy, cat again.

“They’ll mail you the corrected version in six to eight weeks,” the registrar said. “Assuming the override queue doesn’t crash again.”

They walked out with the kind of relief that only came from the end of a long, unnecessary errand. The building door wheezed shut behind them, and a breeze stirred the tips of Woonhak’s hair.

Taesan peeked out from the sling, his eyes half-lidded. “Can we please go home now?”

“For now,” Woonhak said. “We still have to stop by the university office next week.” Taesan groaned in response.

Woonhak unlocked the door and stepped inside, nudging it open wider with his hip as he set Taesan down. The cat landed lightly on all fours and, without a word, padded straight for the couch. Woonhak dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl and grabbed his school bag, rifling through it—just to make sure. Notebook, pen case, lecture printout, university ID. He added his new copy of Taesan’s familiar registration card to the front pocket and zipped it shut.

This morning had been a rather unavoidable obstacle. He’d known for a while that this needed to happen, but only when How to Care for Your Familiar 101 showed up on his course list did it finally become critical. As it required occasional in-class workshops with your familiar, Taesan needed to be cleared for campus. 

Taesan was nestled in the far corner of the couch cushions, his chin resting on his paws and his eyes half-closed. The clock ticked quietly above the kitchen entrance and Woonhak realized he was going to be late.

He tied his shoes by the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t be too long,” was all Taesan said.

By the time he slipped into the lecture hall, it was already mostly full—students dotted across rows in loose clusters, notebooks and charms laid out on desks, familiars perched nearby. Woonhak hesitated near the door, then took an empty seat off to the side, setting his bag at his feet.

A fat toad sat placidly on a girl’s lap two rows ahead. A small dragon preened its wings in the window. Somewhere to his left, a faint shimmer in the air gave away the presence of something less corporeal.

He noticed another cat, a striped orange tabby laid across someone’s lap like a scarf that had melted. Its body rose and fell in a steady rhythm, one paw twitching in sleep.

The boy he was curled up on was a few seats down—close enough that Woonhak could hear the soft thump of the cat’s tail flicking against denim.

Woonhak had seen him at the first class session and perhaps a few times in passing on campus- he sat with his chin propped on one hand, looking like the lecture might float past him entirely.

Gray hair swept back in a dramatic swoosh, the professor cut an imposing figure. She glanced up from her notes as the hour struck, then turned to them and clapped her hands once.

“Alright, class,” she said briskly. “Today, let’s talk about keeping your dear familiars alive. And happy. Ideally both.”

A few students laughed softly. Woonhak blinked at the PowerPoint holograph behind her.

"I'm not saying you're all failing miserably," the professor said, "but most familiars don't suffer from dark magic—they suffer from being overlooked. So. Let's aim to do better for them."

The next slide appeared, showing a familiar’s eating area—bowls, mats, a water fountain.

“First off, food bowls. Stop using dollar store plastic. I mean it.”

Woonhak sat up a little straighter as he scribbled down notes, feeling the quiet weight of guilt. He couldn’t remember what Taesan’s bowl was made of, but he knew it hadn’t been particularly expensive.

“Stainless steel or ceramic, and if money’s tight, check the familiar aid board. We’ve got campus resources you can use.”

The next slide clicked into view: snapshots of familiar nests—one tucked onto a sun-warmed shelf, another sprawled across a windowsill, a third buried in a nest of blankets beneath a desk.

“Same rule applies to beds,” the professor said. “Don’t assume a dog wants a crate, or a bat wants to hang in a closet. Watch where they go when they’re left alone. If they keep climbing into your bookshelf or sleeping in the tub, that’s not misbehavior—that’s data.”

The room fell into a hush, the professor’s voice a steady rhythm behind the shifting slides. She moved through more examples—what to look for on food labels, familiar-safe spaces in a shared household, how to account for rare species without set guidelines. Where to shop if your familiar didn’t fall into the usual molds.

A blonde girl near the front raised her hand. “Is it okay to, um, leave them alone during the day? Like, if you’ve got back-to-back classes?”

The professor didn’t pause. “Well, it would probably depend on the familiar. Some do fine solo, some might prefer to accompany you. Think about species, age, and your bond with them- you should know that better than anyone else. But if you’re going to be out all day, of course, make sure the space is safe and that they know you’re coming back.”

There was a soft rustle of recognition through the room.

She added, “It’s about being present. You don’t need to have all the answers, but you should try to be someone who notices things.”

Woonhak stared at the slide on screen—“Comfort is a language, too”—and thought, not for the first time, about how Taesan didn’t seem to complain.

He made a note in the margin of his notebook, and underlined it a few times for good measure: Check food & bed. Check on TS.

“For next week,” she said, “familiar attendance is mandatory for the purposes of the activity we’re going to do. Attendance will be marked for both of you.”

Woonhak could barely hold back his sigh. He already knew Taesan wasn’t thrilled about this.

The boy with the cat raised his hand, that lopsided grin still on his face. “So those of us already bringing our familiars get extra credit, right?”

There was a ripple of laughter and Woonhak found himself laughing, too. They made eye contact for half a second, and the boy’s grin only widened. His orange cat lifted its head just long enough to give his mage a slow blink of what looked like tired resignation.

The professor gave him a flat look. “No, but you do get the satisfaction of being slightly ahead, Mr. Myung.”

Myung. Woonhak blinked, registering the name half a beat late, and looked away before he could stare. He recognized the name from textbooks, headlines, and formal mage registries. A Myung wasn’t someone you’d expect to find half-asleep in class with a cat for a familiar, of all things.

Woonhak was halfway down the hall when he heard, “Hey—wait up.”

He turned to find the boy from earlier catching up, the cat now draped loosely around his shoulders. The cat’s eyes gleamed—unblinking, too intelligent the same way Taesan was.

“Sorry,” the boy said, grinning. “Just saw you leaving and thought I’d say hi. I don’t think we’ve met yet… You’ve got a familiar, right? You just didn’t bring him today?”

Woonhak nodded. “Yeah, I was getting his paperwork updated earlier.”

“Oh, that’s brutal,” the boy winced. “Sungho here was a nightmare to get renewed.” The cat lifted his head like he resented being involved.

Up close, the expensive fabric of his jacket stood out, even if it was wrinkled in the sleeves. Near the cuff, a family crest stitched so faintly it might have gone unnoticed, if Woonhak hadn’t seen it once under museum lights.

“I’m Jaehyun, by the way,” the boy added. “Myung Jaehyun.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

“I’m Kim Woonhak,” he replied, pushing some confidence into his voice.

“Nice to meet you,” Jaehyun said, genuinely. “So, what kind of familiar do you have? Or is that top secret until next week?”

Woonhak chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I actually have a cat, too—his name’s Taesan.”

Jaehyun’s eyebrows shot up—he was very expressive, all surprise and amusement. “No way! We should set up a cat playdate sometime- I think this guy’s a little lonely.” Sungho hissed, clearly embarrassed.

“That might be fun,” Woonhak responded casually. Internally, he was panicking a bit. Myung Jaehyun, of all people, casually offering a playdate.

Jaehyun adjusted Sungho around his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if your guy’s as cool as mine when next week comes around.”

"Sungho might have some competition,” Woonhak responded, playfully, and Jaehyun’s grin only widened.

“We’ll look forward to it,” Jaehyun gave him a nod. “Take care of yourself, Woonhak. And Taesan, too.” 

The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of the apartment enveloping him. Woonhak set his bag down by the door and rubbed his eyes, tired but content.

“Taesan-ie?” Woonhak called quietly, moving toward the living room. 

There was a soft shift of movement—Taesan stretching mid-transition, sleek black fur giving way to pale limbs and mussed hair. He was already on his way over, as if he'd been listening for the key in the lock.

Woonhak smiled and reached for Taesan, looping his arms around his middle. “What have you been up to?”

Taesan wound his arms around Woonhak’s neck with the lazy confidence of a cat who knew he was welcome. His skin radiated that post-nap warmth, almost drowsy with magic. “Nothing much,” he said, his voice muffled. “Just waiting for you.” 

Woonhak’s heart gave a small tug as Taesan pulled back just enough to make eye contact. “I learned some new things at the familiar care course today,” he said, brushing a lock of hair away from Taesan’s eyes. “The one you’re already complaining about.”

“And? Learn how to make my kibble sparkle?” Taesan snorted, his breath brushing against Woonhak’s skin. “Pretty sure you’ve been taking care of me just fine.”

Woonhak eased out of the hug with quiet reluctance and walked toward the kitchen, eyes drifting to Taesan’s empty food bowl. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, crouching down. “This bowl’s awful, isn’t it? I don’t even know if it’s meant for cats. I just—grabbed one on sale that day.”

Taesan leaned in the doorway, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. “It’s held every meal you’ve ever given me. I’d say it’s earned its place.”

“Yeah, but it’s plastic, and that’s not good for familiars,” Woonhak said, turning the bowl in his hands. “And… your diet, too. She said shifters need specific nutrients, and hydration, and—what if I missed something important all this time?”

Taesan came closer, kneeling beside him. “You didn’t,” he said simply. “I’d tell you if something felt wrong.”

“I know,” Woonhak said. “But I want to already know these things.”

“Okay,” Taesan responded, deadpan. “Well, now that you do, let’s get a new bowl.”

Woonhak blinked at him.

“And I’ll never disagree with better food,” Taesan’s voice was playful, and Woonhak couldn’t help but smile back.

He laughed, a little embarrassed, but more relieved than anything else. “Okay, I’ll start researching tonight.”

They stayed like that for a moment—knees nearly touching, the old bowl between them.

Then Woonhak said, a little quieter, “I met someone new in class today. His name is Myung Jaehyun, and he’s got a cat familiar, too.”

Taesan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

Woonhak hesitated. “I… maybe you guys could be friends,” he added. “Jaehyun seemed pretty nice, and we talked for a bit. You’ll meet him and his familiar- Sungho- next week.”

Taesan didn’t respond right away. His fingers brushed lightly against Woonhak’s hand and a faint shimmer pulsed where their skin brushed—just a flicker of bond magic.

“Another cat, huh?” he said softly. “We’ll see.”

--

As Woonhak rinsed the bowl, Taesan didn’t retreat. He hovered nearby, quiet, his presence like warmth against Woonhak’s side—steadier than touch, but just as unmistakable.

The bowl was plain, old plastic dulled around the rim. Woonhak worked a thumb along the inside edge, slow and thoughtful, then dried it with a folded paper towel. The routine felt familiar, but tonight it held a weight that wasn’t quite routine.

He reached for the kibble—same old store-brand mix from the cabinet, nothing fancy—and scooped a careful portion. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a thread of water from the air. It glinted as it poured down, colder and finer than anything from the tap.

Taesan watched him, then arched a brow. “Ever think about putting that spell to better use?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, rescuing some thirsty flowers. Putting out fires. Impressing dates.”

Woonhak glanced sideways, a bashful smile tugging at his mouth. “You think so?”

Taesan just gave a small, noncommittal hum, like he wasn’t going to give Woonhak the satisfaction—except he was clearly smiling.

The kibble darkened as it absorbed the water, little by little. Woonhak filled his water bowl with the same spell and brought both to the table.

Behind him, Taesan followed, close enough that his warmth never really left.