“Are you sure about this?” Van asks, arms crossed, one brow quirked as she watches you crouch in front of the shelter cage. Inside, a scrappy little orange tabby stares back at you, tail flicking with mild disinterest.

“Of course I’m sure,” you say, glancing up at her. “Look at him, Van. He’s perfect.”

Van huffs, glancing around the shelter like she’s searching for an escape route. “I don’t know. He seems kinda… judgmental.”

You roll your eyes. “So do you.”

She points a finger at you. “That’s fair.” Then she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I just don’t wanna be one of those people who gets a pet and then—”

You stand up, placing a hand on her chest, just above the worn fabric of her movie store t-shirt. “Van. We are not ‘those people.’ We are going to take him home, and he’s going to be our little gremlin, and you are going to fall in love with him.”

Van narrows her eyes. “I don’t fall in love that easily.”

But an hour later, back at your apartment, the cat is curled up directly on Van’s chest, purring so loudly you swear you can feel it in the walls. And Van—grumpy, reluctant, absolutely doomed Van—is staring down at him like she’s just discovered the meaning of life.

“…Okay,” she murmurs, scratching behind his ears. “Maybe I fall in love a little easily.”

You smirk, leaning against the doorway. “Told you.”