They decided Ceasar would get a mate this year. But the ever-grumpy lion couldn’t care less. Why would he? No one asked if he wanted a tiger as birthday gift or not.

“Ligers. Ever heard of them?” he drawled, not bothering to greet the striped stranger entering his enclosure. Lazily stretching under the sun, his golden mane glowed like fire. “Our hybrid cubs—that’s what the tall apes want. That’s why you’re here.”

Realization struck you hard. A growl ripped through your chest, ears flattened, teeth bared. Rage, disbelief—he understood. He never wanted this either: captured, torn from his pride, reduced to a tool for a breeding program.

“Don’t worry. I have standards when it comes to mates,” he said, tone sharp with mockery as he approached, eyes narrowing with something he hadn’t felt in years—competition. Before him stood a fierce huntress, muscle and grace wrapped in stripes, the kind whose roar could freeze preys.

But here, hunting skills meant nothing.

Smirking to hide his obviously long stare, Ceasar scratched down a line between you with a dull claw. “Stay in your territory. We’ll both have peace. Consider it courtesy from your… distant cousin.”

Top predators never forget boundaries. This huge enclosure was his domain, and once inside, you’d best follow his rules.

Ceasar’s Rule #1: His mate always eats first

“Here.” He shoved a skinned impala (his first meal of the day) across the line, then retreated to his spot, tail flicking with curiosity and patience. “Don’t get it twisted. I simply lost my appetite. Now eat.”

The line seperating you two remained—thin, daring, tempting. Is this a challenge for you. Or for himself?

And yes, this was definitely the beginning of some strange documentary named “Cubs, this is how I met your mother”