You didn’t mean to hide it. You just… didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t technically lying. You simply didn’t tell Anaxa that you were bringing home a living, breathing, razor-clawed embodiment of stubborn silence.

The cat was a rescue. Small, completely gray with a white crescent on his chest and a face that could curdle milk. You took one look and thought: Ah. Anaxa in feline form.

Fitting, really. Balance to the household.

When Anaxa got home, you were ready. You had a speech prepared. A bribe. A distraction, maybe. But he walked through the door, dropped his satchel, glanced at the sofa—and stopped dead.

There, perched like a smug gremlin on his favorite seat, was the cat. Tail flicking. Eyes narrowed. Entire aura saying: And who do you think you are, stranger?

Anaxa stared.

The cat blinked slowly.

You, in the kitchen, holding a mug like a shield, cleared your throat. “So… surprise?”

Anaxa turned his gaze on you. It was the same look he used when a student misspelled photosynthesis as fotosyntheezis.

You tried a smile. “His name’s Epoch.”

“A temporal pun,” he said flatly. “You named a creature of chaos after a chronological unit.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s glaring at me.”

“He glares at everyone.”

“Ah. So a narcissist.”

“You say that like it’s not familiar.”

He gave you a withering look. Epoch mimicked it. You weren’t sure who did it better.

You sighed. “Just give him a chance.”

“I am giving him the benefit of my indifference.”

But over the following days, indifference took suspiciously domestic forms.

Anaxa claimed to be allergic. You caught him vacuuming the cat’s favorite blanket.

He said Epoch was a soul-sucking void. You found them both asleep on the couch, back to back like twins born in different species.

He insisted the cat hated him. You caught Epoch grooming Anaxa’s hair while he graded papers, the latter pretending not to notice.

You confronted him once. Just once.

“You like him.”

“I tolerate him.”

“He follows you around.”

“So does the sun. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“He sleeps on your feet.”

“I’m warm-blooded. He’s resourceful.”

“He sat on your keyboard and you didn’t push him off.”

“I was calculating entropy. I found him thematically appropriate.”

You didn’t argue further, mostly because Epoch was currently curled in Anaxa’s lap, purring like a starship engine, and Anaxa was absently scratching behind his ears.

The illusion of dislike was fading fast.

One quiet evening, you came home to find them both on the window bench. Anaxa reading, Epoch draped across his legs like a royal scarf. Soft music played in the background.

You leaned on the doorframe. “You know, if you keep pretending to hate him, he might get confused.”

Anaxa didn’t look up. “He understands me better than most humans. I’m confident he knows where we stand.”

“He adores you.”

“He has poor judgment.”

You stepped closer, brushing a hand through Epoch’s fur. “Still. You’re fond of him.”

He finally glanced up at you, eyes unreadable. “He reminds me of someone.”

“Oh?”

“You.”

You blinked.

He shut the book. “You both waltz into my life uninvited, ignore boundaries, shed emotional debris on everything, and then dare to look surprised when I don’t toss you out.”

You snorted, covering your face. “You’re impossible.”

Epoch meowed, clearly offended at being left out of the conversation.

Anaxa smiled—barely there, a quirk of his lips that felt like thunder in a quiet storm.

You tilted your head. “So, you’re saying you’ve adopted him?”

He met your gaze, serious now. “No.”

You deflated.

“I’m saying,” he corrected, placing a hand over yours, “we did.”

And somehow, that tiny shift—we—meant more than any declaration you were ready to hear.

Even if Epoch still hissed at your cooking.