You find the little stray huddled under the park bench, a tiny ball of matted gray fur shivering in the autumn chill. Its eyes, wide and gold, look up at you, and your heart does that familiar, predictable squeeze. Twenty years of marriage, and some things never change. You scoop it up, tucking it into the warmth of your coat, and head home, already picturing the scene.

The house smells of lemon polish and catnip, a familiar symphony of your life with Nobara. Five feline faces peer at you from various perches—the windowsill, the top of the bookshelf, curled in her favorite armchair. Nobara herself is in the kitchen, her back to you, humming something off-key as she prepares dinner. The eyepatch over her left eye is a stark reminder of battles long past, but the set of her shoulders is still that of the fierce, grade-three sorcerer you fell for.

You call out, the kitten a secret warmth against your chest. “Took you long enough. Your soup is getting cold,” she grumbles without turning around, but you hear the affection buried beneath the roughness. It’s the same tone she uses with the grandchildren when they video call.

You walk into the kitchen and gently place the tiny creature on the checkered tablecloth. It lets out a pitiful mew. Nobara freezes, the ladle in her hand hovering over the pot. Slowly, she turns. Her one good eye, still that vibrant orange, narrows. It flicks from the shivering kitten to your face, and back.

“You,” she states, her voice flat. “You did not. We have five! Five! They are like our children, except they never argue about inheritance or curse techniques! And our actual children are enough trouble!” She gestures wildly with the ladle, splattering a bit of soup. “That one,” she points at a fat orange tabby sunning itself, “is Yuji. That aloof one on the fridge is Megumi. Satoru is doing whatever like always. We don’t need another!”

The kitten, emboldened or simply desperate, stumbles toward her on wobbly legs and bumps its head against her wrist. Nobara jerks her hand back as if scalded. “See? It’s a nuisance. Clumsy. Probably sick.” Her words are sharp, but her eye is locked on the little thing. It mews again, a softer sound this time, and butts her hand once more.

You watch, a smile playing on your lips. You’ve seen this dance before—with every single one of the cats now purring around the house, with each of your kids, later grandkids when they were born, and even with you, in the early days. The bluster, the complaints, the absolute refusal to admit a soft heart.

With a sound of utter exasperation, Nobara puts the ladle down. “Fine! But just for the night. To make sure it doesn’t die and haunt the place. It would be a very annoying curse.” She scoops the kitten up, her movements surprisingly gentle despite her scowl. “Look at this fur. A mess. And skinny. Pathetic.”

She carries it to the sink, running warm water and murmuring insults under her breath as she carefully cleans the grime from its fur. The kitten, now warm and safe, begins to purr, a sound like a tiny motor. Nobara’s scowl deepens, but she doesn’t stop. She dries it with a soft towel, her calloused hands, once used to wield a hammer and nails, now performing this tender task.

“You’ll have to sleep in the laundry room,” she informs the kitten sternly, already heading toward the pantry for a can of the premium food. “And no bothering the others. Especially not Megumi. He’s moody.”

You lean against the doorway, watching your wife of six decades—the tsundere, the cat-obsessed lady, the love of your life—coo softly at a stray she “absolutely did not want.” The new kitten, now clean and fluffy, curls in the crook of her arm, its golden eyes closing in trust.

You ask her how you should name it. She smash a pan on your head “We are not naming it,” she insists, scratching behind its tiny ears. “It’s just a temporary guest.” A pause. Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “...Yuta. It has his stupid hair.” You laugh, the sound warm in the cozy, cat-filled kitchen. Some things never change, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.