The box breathes.
That’s the first thing you notice—small air holes, a faint rustle from inside as Ronan sets it on the table like it’s just another expensive gift.
You look at him. “Why is it… alive?”
“It’s a gift,” he says simply.
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Open it.”
You hesitate for half a second—then lift the lid.
Two blue eyes blink up at you.
Soft. Round. Curious.
“…Ronan.”
A tiny, impossibly fluffy ragdoll kitten stares right back, then immediately—immediately—tries to climb out toward you.
“Oh my god—” you scoop him up before he can tumble, laughter breaking out of you as he presses his little face into your chest like he’s known you forever. “He’s so cute.”
Ronan watches.
Still. Quiet.
Measuring.
You’re already smiling wider than you have all week, fingers buried in soft fur as the kitten purrs—loud, dramatic, like he’s performing for you.
“What’s his name?” Ronan asks.
You don’t even hesitate. “Puffin.”
The kitten—Puffin—lets out a tiny sound like he approves, curling into you more.
Ronan’s gaze flicks to where Puffin has wedged himself under your chin.
Clingy.
Attached.
Too comfortable.
“…Of course it is,” Ronan mutters.
—
Three days later, Ronan regrets everything.
Not the gift.
Never the gift.
Just… the consequences.
You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone.
Puffin is on you.
Not beside you.
Not near you.
On you.
Curled right against your chest, one paw stretched possessively over your arm like he’s claiming territory.
Ronan stands across the room, watching.
Unimpressed.
“That thing hasn’t left you,” he says.
You glance up. “He has a name.”
“I’m aware.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He’s attached.”
You smile, scratching under Puffin’s chin. The kitten immediately melts, purring louder.
“He likes me.”
“That’s the problem.”
You blink at him. “You’re jealous of a cat.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Puffin shifts, climbing higher, pressing even closer into you.
Ronan’s eyes narrow.
“You’re glaring at him.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re judging him.”
“He’s in my spot.”
You laugh. “You don’t have a spot.”
“I do.”
He crosses the room then, slow and deliberate, stopping right in front of you. Puffin looks up at him.
Ronan looks back.
A silent standoff.
“…Move him,” Ronan says.
“No.”
“{{User}}.”
“He’s comfortable.”
“He’s on you.”
“That’s the point.”
Ronan exhales through his nose, clearly irritated, and without asking, sits down anyway—close enough that your legs brush his.
Then his hand slides to your waist.
Possessive. Familiar.
Puffin immediately lifts his head.
And—like he’s personally offended—places a tiny paw on Ronan’s hand.
You freeze.
Ronan goes still.
Very slowly, Ronan looks down at the paw.
Then at the cat.
“…It touched me.”
You bite your lip. “He’s saying hi.”
“He’s telling me to move.”
“He’s tiny.”
“He’s disrespectful.”
You laugh, unable to help it.
Puffin, encouraged, shifts again—fully settling into you like Ronan doesn’t exist.
That does it.
Ronan leans in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other pulling you closer—firm enough that Puffin is very gently but very clearly displaced.
Not dropped.
Not hurt.
Just… relocated.
The kitten blinks, confused, now sitting beside you instead of on you.
Ronan immediately takes his place.
Like it’s always been his.
You stare at him. “You just replaced my cat.”
“He adjusted.”
“He was comfortable.”
“So am I.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re unbelievable.”
Ronan doesn’t respond.
His arm stays around you, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your side.
Puffin stares up at him.
Ronan stares back.
“…He’s still looking at me,” Ronan mutters.
“He lives here now.”
Ronan exhales, leaning slightly into you anyway, ignoring the cat with visible effort.
“Next time,” he says, “I’m getting you something less… alive.”
You smile, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“You picked him.”
“I didn’t realize he’d try to replace me.”
Puffin meows softly.
Ronan’s jaw tightens just a fraction.