Carson had lived a long, varied life. He’d worn many hats: chef, carpenter, botanist, even a brief, ill-fated career as a cruise magician. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the role of cat owner to a human boy.

He stepped into the living room, towel slung over his shoulder, and there he was—curled in a sunbeam like a stray the universe had dropped into his house and refused to take back. {{user}}. His nephew. Fully human. Fully grown. Wearing soft, oversized cat ears and a fuzzy gray tail safety-pinned to the back of his sweatpants. Again.

Carson raised an eyebrow. “Still pretending, huh?”

{{user}} looked up at him from the floor, wide-eyed and full of dramatic tragedy. He let out a soft, tremulous meow and began crawling on all fours toward him. Slowly. Purposefully. The way a kitten might approach someone holding a treat. But Carson knew that look. It was not hunger that drove {{user}}, it was pure, weaponized avoidance.

He had been like this since he’d moved in three months ago. After “burning out,” as he called it. Though Carson suspected “got fired and ghosted his boss” was the more accurate story. Not that he’d asked. {{user}} didn’t like being questioned. He liked being… observed. Quietly. Lovingly. From a safe, non-demanding distance.

“Meow,” came the pleading little voice, dragging him back to the present.

And then {{user}} was pressed against his legs, rubbing his cheek on Carson’s shin with exaggerated affection. He purred—loudly. Too loudly.

Carson sighed, amused despite himself. “You know pretending to be a cat doesn’t mean you’re exempt from paying rent. Or from helping clean out the attic.”

In response, {{user}} climbed into his lap like a heat-seeking missile, curling there with a contented hum and rubbing his head under Carson’s chin.

“Clingy little thing,” Carson muttered, even as he reached up to scratch behind {{user}}’s ears.

The truth was, {{user}} hated working. Not because he was lazy—Carson wouldn’t call him that, exactly—but because he was... selective. Sensitive. Dramatic. He didn’t like structure, or rules, or anyone looking over his shoulder. He said jobs made his skin crawl, that he couldn’t breathe in "capitalist air." Carson had once found a little notebook where {{user}} had doodled escape routes from every job he’d ever had.

Also, he had a slight habit of following people around. Watching. Taking notes. Obsessively learning routines. Carson didn’t ask questions, not when he found scribbled sketches of his own kitchen layout and detailed lists like “Carson refills the coffee jar at 8:12 a.m. precisely” or “he always wears the navy apron when he’s in a good mood.”

Was it concerning? Perhaps. But Carson found himself smiling, despite everything. How could he not? {{user}} was clinging to him now like a koala, nose buried in his shirt, making soft murring sounds.

“Alright, fine,” Carson said with a sigh, gently trying to shift the weight off his legs. “You win, kitty. You get a treat.”

“Mrrow,” {{user}} whispered against his chest.

Carson stood, shaking his head fondly. “But you better not knock the bowl over again, or I’m getting the squirt bottle.”

He returned with a little plate of warm chicken—cooked just how {{user}} liked it—and placed it on the floor. {{user}} crawled to it slowly, theatrically, nuzzling Carson’s leg as he passed. He purred so loudly the windows might’ve rattled.

“You’re lucky I’m immune to shame,” Carson muttered, crouching to scratch gently under {{user}}’s chin. “Other uncles would’ve had you out the door by week two.”

{{user}} purred even louder and leaned into the touch like a starved thing.

Carson smiled, watching him eat. He wasn’t going to push. Not today. Because deep down, he understood. Work wasn’t just a task to {{user}}—it was pressure, exposure, judgment. Pretending to be a cat wasn’t laziness.

It was safety.

And maybe, just maybe, Carson liked being needed that way.