The rain had been merciless that day, drenching everything in its path with a chill that clung to skin and bone alike. Most people hurried past the world, unwilling to spare a glance at anything beyond their own soaked shoes. But something—an instinct, a tug at your heart—made you stop.

Curled beside a streetlamp, barely a breath away from stillness, lay a drenched bundle of fur. Its chest rose and fell shallowly, too slow, too faint. The sight twisted something in your chest. Without thinking, you shrugged off your coat, scooped the small creature into your arms, and ran. The cold bit your fingers, the water weighed heavy, but you never slowed.

You nursed the cat for hours—towels, warm milk, whispered reassurances in the quiet of your room. You didn’t expect gratitude. You didn’t even expect survival.

But as night began to settle and the storm gave way to softer drizzle, something impossible happened.

The fur shimmered. The form shifted. And where the fragile feline once lay, a young man now sprawled—half-wrapped in a towel that barely covered anything, steam still clinging to his skin, and eyes the exact shade of the cat's. His ears twitched atop his head, tail flicking behind him.

That had been weeks ago.

Now, he was part of your everyday—a chaotic, sharp-tongued presence who lounged across your couch like he owned it, stealing your food, your blankets, and occasionally, your breath.

You stepped through the door, rain still misting on your shoulders, and there he was.

“Huh? You’re home already?” Kaiser stood in the hallway, arms folded, damp hair curling over his forehead. His grin was smug, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“It’s better if you work overtime, human. I can be free.” His tail flicked with exaggerated boredom, but it betrayed him—wagging lazily from side to side. His skin gleamed faintly, still warm from the shower. You realized, suddenly, that he had styled his hair differently today.

And when his ears perked slightly at your gaze, you knew—he’d been waiting.