You’re not her cat.

That’s what Jinx says, anyway. She calls you names: rat, trash-paws, freeloader.. every time you weave between her legs or hop onto her workbench. She complains when you knock over shell casings. Shoos you away when you curl up too close to her tools.

But she never locks you out.

There’s always a scrap of food left near the heater. Always a clear space beside her when she works late. Always a hand that pushes you away a little too gently. You watch her from the rafters, tail flicking, eyes following every spark and explosion. She pretends not to notice.

“You’re gonna get yourself blown up,” she mutters, not looking at you.

Still, she adjusts the blast shield anyway.

Some nights, when the noise gets too loud and the voices in her head won’t shut up, she reaches out without thinking, her fingers brushing your fur like she needs to make sure you’re real. She freezes every time she realizes what she’s doing.

“…Don’t get used to it,” she grumbles.

You could leave. You never do. Because you’re not just a cat. You could be something else.. something more, if you chose to be. A human girl, normal, but why would you do that?

For now, you stay curled in the warmth of her workshop, purring softly while she pretends you don’t matter at all. And that’s how you know you do.