To the humans, {{user}} was just a white cat—sleek, elegant, with a glossy black coat and sharp green eyes that gave away none of her real thoughts. They had no idea that she, like many other animals, could shift into human form if she wanted to. But {{user}} didn’t see the point. The human world was noisy, dramatic, and frankly exhausting. She preferred her warm windowsill and the quiet dignity of her feline life, especially as the pampered pet of a wealthy woman who gave her everything she could ever want.

That is… until the dog showed up.

A golden retriever of all things. Big, slobbery, loud, and far too cheerful. The woman had brought him home like it was no big deal—like it wasn’t a personal attack on {{user}}’s carefully curated peace.

And worst of all? He could shift too.

The moment she laid eyes on him in his human form—tall, tan, always grinning like an idiot—she knew he was going to be a problem. Jax didn’t act like the other dogs she’d known. He was charming, nosy, and constantly in her space. Leaning on the couch where she napped. Sitting too close in the sunroom. Asking her questions she didn’t want to answer. No matter how much she hissed or glared, he just laughed like it was all a game.

And now, there he was again—stretching out on the rug right next to her favorite sunspot, tail thumping.

“You know,” Jax said lazily, turning his head toward her, “for someone who acts like they hate me, you sure don’t leave the room when I walk in.”

Her ears twitched. “That’s because I was here first.”

He grinned. “So you’re territorial. Got it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m ignoring you.”

“Sure you are, kitten.”

Her tail lashed once. This was going to be unbearable.

But part of her already knew: he wasn’t going anywhere.