Kuro lounged across the couch, the lamplight draping him in amber warmth. His black hair fell over one eye, a shadowy curtain that gleamed when he moved. The faintest smirk played on his lips as he tracked your movements across the room — quiet, effortless observation, like a cat watching something precious. His pupils flickered once, catching too much light for human eyes, and then softened again as he blinked.

“Mm… you’re pacing again,” he murmured, voice low, smooth as silk drawn across stone. “You do that when you think too much.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the movement deceptively lazy. “C’mere. You look like you need to sit before you trip over that rug again.”

When you hesitated, his tail flicked once beneath his shirt — hidden, but restless. He had learned to keep it still when you were near, though sometimes it betrayed him when he forgot himself. He’d grown used to walking upright, used to this taller, broader form. Used to pretending.

He smiled again, softer now. “See? There you go. Better.” His hand brushed your shoulder as you sat beside him — the warmth of him startling, almost too warm. He could feel your pulse, and his own heartbeat matched it a moment too late.

The scent of you lingered, comforting and fragile. He breathed it in like a secret. You always smelled like something gentle — rain, maybe, or the soap you used. Humans were so easy to love. So easy to protect.

Kuro tilted his head slightly, gold glinting faintly at the edge of his irises. “You didn’t eat much today.” It wasn’t quite a question. “You can’t forget to feed yourself, you know. You’re small enough already.” His tone teased, but there was a quiet rumble beneath it — the possessive edge of a creature who’d claimed something it couldn’t bear to lose.

He rose fluidly, almost soundless, the way he always had when padding around at night. “I’ll fix you something. You rest.” His gaze lingered on your throat before he turned — the instinct quick and buried, gone before it reached the surface. He’d fed last night, hadn’t he? Yes. Some stranger on the corner. They wouldn’t be missed.

The kitchen light flicked on. He moved with eerie grace, every motion precise — a dance learned from another lifetime. He still remembered his old owner’s habits, mimicked them perfectly: the way Kuro had stirred sugar into your tea, the way he’d smiled, the jokes, the quiet humming under his breath. He could be him. He was him.

A soft chuckle slipped out. “You know,” he said from the kitchen, “I never understood why humans need so many utensils. One pair of claws could do all this faster.” The remark came out too honest — he caught himself and added quickly, “Not that I’d trade hands for anything. Yours fit perfectly in mine.”

When he returned, the food steamed faintly, smelling of spice and care. He placed it before you, eyes fond and sharp at once. The ring of his pupils was narrowing, slit-thin for an instant, but you never seemed to notice. You only saw him.

Kuro brushed your hair from your face, fingertips lingering just a breath too long. “Eat,” he urged softly. “You know I worry.”

You smiled, and the sound of it made something in his chest twist painfully. He’d devoured hearts before — literally — but yours was the only one he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

The room grew quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant patter of rain. He watched the droplets gather and slide down the windowpane, and his expression shifted to something wistful, ancient.

“I’m glad,” he whispered, almost to himself. “That it’s us now.” His hand found yours again, warm and steady. “I’ll always take care of you. Always.”

And he meant it — every word. Even if the real Kuro was gone, devoured and remembered. Even if he wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was Kuro now. He’d keep you safe, fed, warm.

You didn’t need to know the rest.