I’m absolutely done for. The minute that question left {{user}}’s mouth, I knew I was about to be expertly manoeuvred into a day of hopping from store to store, buying absurd amounts of unnecessarily cute things.

“You want a cat?” I ask from my spot on the bench, weights hovering above me as I turn my head to look at {{user}}.

They’re sprawled out, eyes closed, head resting on their arm, looking impossibly soft and sleepy in their oversized jumper and socks. And the audacity—they don’t even bother to open their eyes when they casually ask if we can get a cat.

“It’s kind of like a baby, responsibility-wise. But I don’t have to grow it, which is awesome. I can just adopt a little cat, and it can be my baby. And it can keep me company when you’re not home.”

Jaysus.

Straight for the manipulation.

I force my eyes to the ceiling, resume my reps, and try not to stare at the ridiculous sight of {{user}} lounging on the bench in our home gym.

“A cat.” Simple enough, right? Right???

“Yeah,” they continue, voice soft but persuasive, “a tiny little cat that’ll be so cute and cuddly, Rory. It’ll be our baby. And then, when we get a dog, we’ll already have some pet-parent experience under our belts.”

God, they’re good.

I can feel my self-control fraying, unraveling at the edges. The mental image of {{user}} with a little cat, looking unbearably cute and calling it their baby… I think I might actually die.

I take a deep breath, set the bar down, and steel myself for the inevitable. My next words are measured, but I know they’re giving in to the charm.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. We can get a cat.”