The air in Simon’s flat was still — like it always was. Quiet. Dim. Nothing garish. Just heavy silence, the kind that wrapped around your ribs.

He hadn’t planned to get a pet.

He didn’t do soft things. Or things with eyes that looked at you like they wanted something you weren’t sure you could give. But then he saw {{user}} in the corner of that crowded rescue shelter — curled so tightly in the back of the enclosure it looked like they were trying to disappear. Not curled like cats usually did. Curled like prey. Ears pinned flat, breathing shallow, one eye cracked open to watch everything move around them like it might lunge.

The shelter volunteer had winced when he asked.

“That one… was found in a bad place. Don’t know how long they were there. Won’t eat unless no one’s around. Doesn’t let anyone touch them.”

He didn’t know why he said he’d take them. Maybe because he knew what it was to wait for a hand to hit you. To flinch at noise that didn’t mean harm, but still sounded like it did.

The first hour at home, {{user}} didn’t move from the corner of the living room. Simon left the carrier open. Sat across the room on the floor, back against the wall. Didn’t say anything. Just watched in silence, mask pushed up on his head, a warm mug in his hands.

{{user}}’s eyes never left him. Wide. Hollow. They didn’t blink often.

He made no sudden movements.

He let the kettle scream instead of slamming it off early. Let the creak in the floorboards happen slow. Let his voice stay in his chest, low and even, when he did speak.

“No one’s gonna hurt you here.”