Van stretches across the beat-up futon, one sock half-off, hair tied up messily with a pencil, textbook forgotten on her chest. The apartment still smells like the candle you lit hours ago—something vanilla-ish and way too fancy for your budget—but she secretly likes it. What she doesn’t like? The small blur of chaos currently sprinting across the living room.

“Okay,” she yells toward the kitchen, “remind me again why we adopted Satan in fur?”

You peek around the corner with a bag of treats in hand. “Because you said—and I quote—‘it’ll be good for our emotional development.’”

Van groans as the tiny orange kitten launches itself off the couch and skids into the coffee table. “Yeah, well, I was emotionally wrong.”

You laugh, kneeling to scoop up the little menace, who immediately starts purring like a motorboat. “He likes you.”

“He tried to eat my psych notes this morning.”

“He’s clearly a fan of mental health.”

Van snorts but doesn’t push you away when you sit beside her, kitten now flopped across both your laps. “We need to name him. Something fitting. Like Mayhem. Or Regret.”

“Or Bowie,” you suggest, brushing your fingers through the kitten’s fur.

Van pauses. “Okay, that’s actually cute.”

She watches you for a second—sweatshirt way too big, face all soft from the low lamplight—and her chest does that annoying flutter thing again. You don’t notice, too busy baby-talking the cat, but Van does. She always does.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “This whole… living together thing? You’re not sick of me yet, right?”

You blink at her, confused, then smile. “Not even close.”

Van swallows hard, nods, tries to play it cool.

“Good,” she mutters. “Because I think Bowie just claimed us both.”