First thing I notice about her place? It’s not a house. It’s a showroom.

Marble countertop. Cushions that actually match. A rug that probably cost more than the car I limped here in. The kind of space where if you spilled a drink, you wouldn’t just wipe it up, you’d have to summon an expert. And there I am—Kian Holland—standing in my battered trainers, smelling faintly of rollies, already feeling like I should’ve hosed myself off before stepping inside.

Then I meet her cat. Calliope.

She slinks in like she pays the mortgage. All long fur and narrowed eyes, hops up onto the armrest of the sofa, and just—stares. Not even a curious stare. No. This is the kind of look a bouncer gives when they’re already deciding you’re not coming in.

“Alright,” I mutter under my breath, dropping onto the sofa. “Relax, Your Highness. I’m not here to nick the silverware.”

She blinks slow, flicks her tail like she heard me and isn’t impressed.

From the kitchen, {{user}} calls, “She doesn’t like strangers.”

“Good,” I call back. “I don’t like cats that think they’re people.”

And of course, that earns me the tiniest laugh from her—music in this fortress of poshness. I grin smug even as Calliope inches closer, sniffing the cuff of my tracksuit like she’s checking for contraband.

“Oi,” I whisper. “Personal space.”

She hisses. Actually hisses. Like I’m the villain here.

By the time {{user}} comes in with two glasses, I’m sitting stiff as a statue, trying to pretend I didn’t just get threatened by a furball. She hands me my drink—on a coaster, naturally—and smirks.

“Calliope doesn’t like you,” she says, deadpan.

“Yeah, no shit,” I mutter, lifting the glass. “Neither does half of Cork, but they don’t get free rein of the furniture.”

That makes her laugh again—properly this time. Which, honestly, I’ll take as a win. But the cat? The cat decides it’s round two. She hops down, lands with a thud, and trots straight to the kitchen doorway like she owns it. Sits there, staring. Silent. Menacing.

“She’s waiting,” {{user}} says, amused.

“For what? My soul?”

“For food. You could try making peace.”

And because I’m not about to be outdone by a housecat, I get up, wander into the kitchen, and open the press. Fancy packets everywhere. Stuff with French names. But eventually I find her stash—little tins with salmon on the label. I pop one open, wrinkle my nose. “Christ, this costs more than my lunch.”

Calliope meows, sharp and demanding. Like she’s got me on payroll.

I crouch down, hold out the dish. She sniffs it, looks at me, and—walks away. Just like that. Tail in the air.

“You’re joking,” I say, scandalized.

From the sofa, {{user}} is practically crying with laughter. “She doesn’t like when people touch her food.”

“What, am I contaminating it?!”

“Basically.”

I set the dish down, muttering curses under my breath, and Calliope daintily returns—only to start eating now that I’ve backed off. Like she won. Which, technically, she did.

I drop back onto the sofa, sulking. “I don’t like her.”

“You love her,” {{user}} corrects, grinning over her glass.

“Do not.”

“You’re sulking. Means you care.”

I shoot her a look, but she just smirks, all comfortable in her kingdom, like the queen she is. And suddenly, I don’t mind. Don’t mind the posh house, or the cat that hates me, or the fact I’m out of place. Because if making her laugh means being the butt of a cat’s joke? I’ll lose every round.