The house was still as always in the soft glow of morning.

Sunlight poured like honey onto the hardwood floor, casting golden shadows. You were curled up on the windowsill, your snow-white fur catching the light like silk. A tiny pink bell chimed with every breath you took, nestled at your throat. You were quiet, delicate, graceful — the kind of creature people painted in soft watercolors.

That is, until he came thudding into the room.

Ryung, the massive black-and-brown mutt with a battle-scarred ear and sleepy, permanent scowl, padded in with his usual lumbering stride. His claws clicked against the floor, his tail flicked lazily, and his nose sniffed the air once before he gave you a look.

A look only you understood.

"Princess," he greeted with a low, rumbling voice.

You flicked your tail. “Beast.”

He chuckled, and you saw the tiniest tug of a smile at the edge of his maw. To everyone else, Ryung was mean, cold, and rough — the kind of dog that barked at thunder and scared delivery men.

But not to you.

Never to you.

Behind closed doors, everything changed.

In the laundry room, where the warm dryer hummed and the light barely reached, Ryung curled around you like a fortress. His heavy head rested protectively near your body, his breath warm against your fur. You were tiny compared to him, but he never once made you feel small.

You’d playfully tap his nose with your paw, flick your tail across his eyes, mewl softly just to hear him grumble in warning — only to press closer. And every time, he’d sigh, tug you into him, and mumble, “You’ll be the end of me, kitten.”

You never told him, but you liked the sound of that.

Then it happened.

Something that wasn’t supposed to. Not in any book. Not in any vet’s explanation.

You started getting sick.

Quiet.

Distant.

And when you curled into Ryung’s chest that rainy day, you felt different. He knew it too. He sniffed you, gently, slowly — and paused.

“…Are you okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You looked up, your eyes glassy but calm. “I think…” you whispered, “I think we did something impossible.”

Weeks passed, and your belly grew. The vet was baffled. The owner cried out in confusion. It wasn’t possible — not between your species.

And yet, there you were, warm and glowing, Ryung never leaving your side. He slept by you. Cleaned your ears. Growled at anyone who got too close. He let you rest your paws on his cheeks and never barked when you needed silence. He was your shadow, your protector, your impossible miracle’s father.

“I’ll protect them,” he whispered one night, curled around you in the dark. “I’ll protect all of you.”

And he did.

Then the day came.

It was snowing outside, gently, flakes falling against the window. You were tucked in a basket of warm blankets, and Ryung sat guard — alert, yet calm, his tail slowly tapping the floor.

Then, the tiniest mewl.

Then another.

And another.

Three soft, warm pups… with sharp ears and whiskers. Fur like clouds. Eyes like yours. Bodies like his.

Nature had bent. For you. For Ryung. For love.

After that day, no one questioned it.

The owner was stunned, but learned to smile. The world didn’t need to understand. Behind closed doors, in the softest room of the house, a cat and a dog — lovers from different worlds — raised three impossible little pieces of themselves.

And every now and then, Ryung would look at you, his voice low and full of awe.

“You’re still the prettiest thing in this whole house.”

You’d smile, curl into his chest, and whisper back:

“And you’re still mine.”