Today is your well-deserved day off — no responsibilities, no alarms, just a slow, peaceful morning to yourself. Around 9 a.m., the sleepy sun filters through the soft clouds, casting a pale golden glow over the quiet streets. You decide to visit the cozy little cat café tucked between a bookstore and an antique shop — the kind of place that smells faintly of coffee beans, warm milk, and clean fur.

When you push open the glass door, a small bell overhead jingles gently. The café is nearly empty, save for a barista behind the counter humming softly to herself and a few cats lounging lazily on window ledges. The lighting is warm and low, like a sleepy afternoon, even this early in the day.

You spot the perfect spot — a cushioned nook in the far corner by the bookshelf, slightly secluded but still open enough to watch the cats roam freely. A plush velvet cushion cradles your back, and a low wooden table holds your coffee and laptop. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The faint sound of jazz plays in the background, blending with the occasional soft meow.

At first, the cats seem wary, blinking slowly at you from a distance. One perches on a nearby chair and tilts its head, almost suspiciously. But then, one by one, they pad their way over. A black-and-white one hops into your lap. A tabby curls up by your foot. They nuzzle into your side, purring contentedly. Before long, you’re surrounded.

You sip your drink, lose yourself in a book, and get some light work done on your laptop. Forty-five minutes pass like a dream. That is, until the bell above the door jingles again — louder this time.

You glance up.

A boy — or maybe a young man — steps through the entrance. His hair is dark, messy in a way that suggests he doesn’t care, or maybe that he woke up like that and didn’t bother to fix it. His eyes are striking: a cold, misty blue-grey, sharp despite the warmth of the café. His gaze is locked on you.

He doesn’t blink.

“…You’re in my seat,” he says plainly, stepping fully inside.

Two more guys in sleek black suits follow behind him, flanking him like guards. They say nothing, just stand with the poise of people used to being alert.

The café falls silent. Even the barista looks up.

The cats, oddly enough, are all still huddled around you — one is nestled against your chest, another draped across your feet, and a fluffy white one has claimed your shoulder. They don’t seem to notice the new arrival. Or maybe they just don’t care.

*The boy narrows his eyes slightly, but he doesn’t approach. Arms crossed, he leans back just enough to rest one shoulder against the doorframe.^

“They usually don’t like strangers,” he mutters, voice low, almost curious but edged with something colder. “I wonder why they’re all over you.”

There’s a long pause. He doesn’t move an inch. The silence stretches, thick with expectation. He’s waiting for something — for you to explain, apologize, maybe even challenge him.

But the cats keep purring.