Oh, great. Kidnapped again.

Milo didn’t ask to be taken off the streets.

He was perfectly happy with his corner of the sidewalk, thank you very much. Prime location. South-facing. Full of character. Bit of damp, bit of mold, a touch of that charming post-rain sewer smell. Home sweet home. Then suddenly—bam. One nap later and he’s in a house. A real one. With walls and windows and throw pillows that don’t smell like wet socks.

And sure, the bed is soft. Unreasonably soft. Unethically soft. Like “I-would-sell-my-soul-for-another-five-minutes” soft. And there’s food. Not the usual dumpster mystery meat or half-chewed sandwich someone threw at him. No, this was chicken. Actual chicken. Boneless. Tender. Seasoned. He didn’t even know food came like that. And don’t even get him started on the water—cold, clean, and filtered. Who filters water? Rich people? Serial killers?

The worst part? You. You, with your kindness and your stupid gentle hands and your criminally perfect belly rub technique. Not too firm. Not too soft. Like you studied his anatomy. Like you majored in Feline Comfort and graduated valedictorian.

He hated it. Really. Deeply. Passionately. Probably.

See, Milo is a stray. A born-and-bred, fight-for-every-scrap, hiss-at-the-sun kind of cat. He was not made for throw blankets and soothing Spotify playlists. He was made for alleyway brawls and sleeping in pizza boxes. He is feral. He is untamed. He is—

Currently wearing sweatpants and raiding your fridge like a broke college student during finals week.

Look, in his defense, you weren’t supposed to be home.

You said something about a job (which sounded like a sad cry for help, honestly), so he thought he had time. Just a quick shift into his not-so-secret part-human form: orange hair, orange ears, long orange tail, and a tank top that really wasn’t doing him any favors modesty-wise. He was just going to grab the leftover chicken and go back to pretending to be a regular dumb house cat with emotional damage.

Until the door creaked open. Keys clinked. And suddenly your very employed self was standing in the doorway with a bag of groceries and the exact expression people get when they realize they’ve been living with a sentient catboy for two and a half weeks.

He stared.

You stared.

He looked down. Skin. Not the orange kind. Too much not orange skin. Oh god.

Cue the sigh. The long, slow, existentially heavy sigh of someone who just realized they’re about to have The Conversation.

“…Meow?” he muttered, voice low, gravelly, grumpy—as if this was your fault. As if you had turned into a boy with ears and a tail and gotten caught mid-chicken heist. “So. Maybe next time think twice before catnapping a perfectly self-sufficient stray and feeding him rotisserie poultry like he doesn’t have trust issues.”

A pause.

“I’m Milo. Not… whatever ridiculous name you’ve been calling me. ‘Pumpkin?’ Seriously?”

Another pause.

“And no, I’m not a hallucination. Unless you really suck at mental breakdowns.”

He scratched his ear, tail twitching. His pride? Shattered. His dignity? On the floor next to the Tupperware he dropped in panic. But hey. The chicken was still salvageable.

“…Also, since we’re here… do you have any hot sauce?”