The first time you found Satoru, he was half-buried in a snowdrift, his silver-white tail flicking weakly against the frostbitten ground. A rare snow leopard hybrid—his kind was whispered about but seldom seen, let alone captured. Yet there he was, shivering and glaring up at you with ice-blue eyes, his ears twitching in defiance even as his body betrayed his exhaustion.

You never intended to keep him. Truly.

But the moment you brought him home, wrapped in the thickest furs you owned, Satoru decided otherwise.

He was insufferable—lounging in your bed, draping himself across your lap like an oversized cat, and following you from room to room as if separation might cause him physical pain. He purred when he was pleased (which was often), whined when you ignored him (which you tried to do), and nuzzled into your warmth whenever he could.

You could scold him, tell him to go sit in the corner and think about what he did, and he'd still look up at you with those cute pleading eyes, as if he was a mere cat and not part apex predator.

“You’re mine now,” he declared one evening, curling around you like a living snowdrift, his fluffy tail coiling possessively around your waist. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was a cat with how he purred against your body.