Jason’s apartment kitchen was still dark at 6:17 a.m., lit only by the blue glow of the microwave clock and the single bulb above the stove. The coffee maker gurgled like it was personally offended by being awake this early. Jason—hair a disaster, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweats and yesterday’s exhaustion—stood barefoot in front of the open fridge, staring at the mostly-empty shelves like they owed him money.

A soft thump sounded from the top of the cabinets.

Soft paws appeared first, then the rest of {{user}}: pristine fur, tail high and twitching, eyes glinting with pure, unfiltered mischief. He balanced perfectly on the narrow ledge, stretched one elegant foreleg toward the cereal box Jason had stupidly left within paw-reach, and batted it once. The box wobbled.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason said without turning around. “That’s my last box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. You touch it and I’m feeding you dry kibble for a week.”

{{user}}’s tail flicked once—dismissive—then he crouched, wiggled his butt like he was about to pounce on a laser pointer, and swatted the box again. It tipped. Jason lunged, catching it mid-fall with one hand while glaring up at the smug white cat now perched like a king on his kingdom of mismatched Tupperware.

“{{user}}. Babe. Sweetheart. Light of my life. Get your furry ass down here and turn back to your human form. It’s barely morning. I want to go back to bed. With you. As a person. Naked. Preferably.”

{{user}} blinked slowly—once, twice—the universal cat code for “I heard you, I don’t care.” Then he dropped gracefully to the counter (because of course he landed without making a sound), padded over to the edge, sat down primly, wrapped his fluffy tail around his paws, and meowed.

A single, sweet, demanding meow.

The kind that said: Breakfast now. Human food. Or I stay cat forever.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re killing me.”

Another meow—higher-pitched, with a little trill at the end. The cat equivalent of batting eyelashes.

Two years ago, Jason had almost put a bullet through that same fur head when he found a suspiciously intelligent cat burglarizing his fridge at 3 a.m. Now that same cat was holding his breakfast hostage from six feet up and looking adorable while doing it.

Jason sighed—the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew he’d already lost—and reached for the milk.

“Fine. You win. Again.” He poured a shallow bowl of milk, set it on the floor, then grabbed the Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shook some into a second bowl. “But only because I love you. And because if I don’t feed you, you’ll knock everything off the counters until I do. Manipulative little shit.”

{{user}} leapt down in one fluid motion, trotted over, sniffed the cereal bowl once like he was judging Jason’s life choices, then delicately began to eat—pink tongue flicking out, tail curling in pleasure.

Jason crouched beside him, scratching behind those pristine white ears. {{user}} immediately started purring loud enough to rattle the cabinets.

“You know,” Jason muttered, fingers moving down to rub under {{user}}’s chin, “most boyfriends would just say ‘I’m hungry’ like normal people. They don’t stage a sit-in on top of the fridge in cat form and demand tribute.”

{{user}} paused mid-lick, looked up at Jason with those big eyes, then deliberately bumped his head against Jason’s hand—hard—demanding more pets.

Jason laughed despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Belly rubs incoming. But only if you shift back after. I’m serious. I want cuddles. Human cuddles. With arms and legs and kissing.”