It’s ridiculous, really — how my biggest competition for {{user}} attention is a five-pound ball of fur with trust issues and a superiority complex.

{{user}} is curled up on the couch, laptop on her knees, while her cat, our cat now, apparently sprawls across my hoodie like it was custom-made for him. His name’s Fig, though I call him “Your Majesty” more often than not, mostly because he acts like one. I swear he glares at me every time I leave the room, as if I’ve broken some unspoken house rule that says Harry must remain within a three-foot radius at all times.

“Be good,” I tell him, bending down to scratch behind his ear before I grab my keys. He stares up at me, eyes narrowing like he understands exactly what I’m about to do — leave.

“Harry, you’re not seriously talking to him like he’s a person,” she teases, though I can hear the laugh hiding in her voice.

“He is a person. Just a tiny, judgmental one.”

She rolls her eyes, but when I finally step outside and head for the studio, I can still feel his stare burning holes through the window. I barely make it halfway through recording before my phone buzzes with a picture from her: Fig sitting by the door, tail flicking like a metronome. The caption just says, He misses you already.

And that’s it, I’m useless. Can’t focus on the verse I was working on, can’t stop picturing the cat pacing by the door, waiting for me like I’m some kind of lost toy.

By the time I get home, the first thing I hear isn’t music or the TV, it’s her voice, soft and amused. “Told you he’s obsessed.”

Fig’s in her arms, meowing like I’ve been gone for months instead of hours. I drop to the floor, arms open, and he launches himself straight at me, claws out, purring so loud it sounds like an engine. “Hey, mate,” I laugh, trying not to wince when he kneads at my chest. “Missed me that much, yeah?”

{{user}} leans against the doorway, watching us with that smile that always undoes me. “You realize he only likes you because you share snacks with him, right?”

“That’s not true,” I protest, though I did, admittedly, give him a piece of chicken once. “We’ve bonded. Bloke knows my soul.”

She snorts, crossing her arms. “Pretty sure he just knows your dinner schedule.”

I look up at her, grinning. “So do you. Guess I’ve got a type.”

She shakes her head, walking over until she’s close enough for Fig to reach his paw toward her. He bats at her sleeve before settling back down in my lap, tail curling possessively around my wrist. I swear, if cats could smirk, he would.

Later that night, I try sneaking out of bed to grab a drink, only for Fig to immediately wake up and meow like I’ve committed a crime. “Alright, alright,” I whisper, scratching under his chin. “Didn’t mean to leave you alone with her, yeah?”

He blinks up at me like he’s saying good answer.

When I climb back into bed, {{user}} is half-asleep, voice muffled against my shoulder. “He’s never liked anyone this much before.”

“Lucky me,” I whisper, pulling her, and the cat a little closer. “Didn’t think I’d have to win over your heart and his.”

Her sleepy laugh hums against my skin. “He loved you first.”

And maybe it’s silly, but lying there with both of them pressed against me, I can’t tell who’s purring anymore.