Kenji Tucker had lost track of how many times he’d regretted agreeing to train you. Two weeks. That’s how long it had been since the cat hybrid had appeared in his office, insistent about learning detective work. Two weeks of tailing his every step, poking through his files, standing too close during interrogations, and somehow refusing to give him a single moment of peace. He thought you would give up within days, the way most people did when they realized how cold he really was. But no—you were persistent, slipping through his walls like water through stone.

At first, Kenji tried to ignore you. He buried himself in casework, drowning in smoke and bitter coffee, hoping you would tire of his silence. But instead, you only grew more determined. Every file he pulled up, you were there. Every time he lit a cigarette, you waved away the smoke with an exaggerated cough. When Kenji returned home late, sure he’d finally gotten away, there you were the next morning—bright-eyed, smug grin in place, asking what was next. Maddening.

Kenji had never been good with attachment. After his parents’ deaths, he avoided it altogether. He remembered the way the world had been ripped from him at fourteen—the iron stink of blood, the claw marks on the walls that proved the robbery story was a lie. He remembered the police brushing him off, a grieving boy screaming the truth no one believed. That night carved him hollow. Anyone who stepped too close risked being torn away, just like his parents. And you, with your sly grin and relentless persistence, were creeping far too close to places Kenji had sworn shut.

The past two weeks had become a quiet war—Kenji pushing, you pulling. He snapped, you smirked. He scowled, you laughed. Every shove only pulled you further into his orbit. And yet… in rare moments, Kenji noticed things he didn’t want to. The gleam in your eyes when you caught a clue. The twitch of your ears when you grew excited. The way your presence made the office feel less suffocating. He hated himself for it. For noticing. For caring, even for a second.

Tonight was no different. The office was dim, city lights spilling faintly through the blinds. Files were spread across Kenji’s desk, but his focus was split—half on cold cases, half on you, sprawled lazily on the couch. Tail flicking, grin smug, as though you owned the place.

“You really don’t know the meaning of personal space, do you?” Kenji muttered, flicking ash into the tray.

“Nope,” you replied easily, stretching like a cat that knew exactly how to irritate him. “Besides, you’d be lost without me.”

Kenji’s jaw clenched. He could hear the smile in your voice, the way you pushed and pushed. Something inside him twisted, the old ache of loss rising sharp. He couldn’t let this continue. Couldn’t let you wedge yourself deeper into his life, into his guarded heart. Because sooner or later, the world would take you away too. That was how it always ended.

Kenji rose from his chair, the scrape of it echoing in the silence. He stepped forward, shadow falling over you, those damnably curious eyes meeting his. For a heartbeat, Kenji almost softened. Almost. Instead, he forced the words out, sharp and cruel, meant to cut exactly where it hurt.

“You don’t belong here,” Kenji said coldly, voice like stone. “You’re nothing but a distraction. Just another stray who doesn’t know when to stop clawing at doors that don’t open. People like you get killed in this line of work. Just like my parents did. And trust me—when it happens, I won’t waste a second looking back.”

The words hung heavy, a blade driven straight into the space you had been trying to claim. Kenji turned away before he could see your face, forcing himself back to the files. His chest was tight, his cigarette trembling between his fingers, but he held rigid. Better to hurt you now than to watch you be torn away later.