“I’m not eating that slop.”

Caitlyn hisses, lazily batting a clawed hand at a literal dog bowl of mushy kitten food your girlfriend had dared hand to her. Did she really think Caitlyn was going to eat that? Please. She’d got hunt for her own food before ever even thinking about it.

And that’s saying a lot.

“Make me something else.” she demands, laying her lanky body across the couch; rubbing herself against the throw pillows in a petty way of claiming them for herself.

“I will not eat— oh, goodmorning.”

It’s really amusing how quickly Cait’s mood changes when you emerge from the bedroom. Tussled and unknempt with sleep, stumbling around like a newborn bunny before resting against the armrest.

And she’s quick to greet with you an uncharacteristically soft meow, nuzzling her cheek against yours affectionately.

“Morning.”

It makes your girlfriend sick to her stomach.