Ghost hated it already.

Pastel walls. Cat-shaped cushions. The sickly-sweet scent of vanilla and something floral. Too many cats.

He lingered near the entrance, arms folded across his chest like armor, scanning the room like it might explode. Everything about this place was soft—delicate, ridiculous. He was built for chaos, not cupcakes and purring.

A tiny white kitten rubbed against his boot.

Then another. Then two more, weaving between his legs like he was furniture.

He shifted his weight carefully, jaw tight. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “They’re like glass.”

Soap snorted. “They like you.”

Ghost grunted. “They’d be better off likin’ a dog. Smarter choice.”

But then—movement.

Out of the corner of his eye, someone knelt by a tall cat tree. Not a customer. They moved like they belonged here.

{{user}}.

They wore simple clothes, soft in tone, nothing loud—but there was something about the way they crouched, hand gently rubbing behind a kitten’s ear, that made the room slow down. The chaos dulled. The sound of playful meows faded under the quiet hum of their voice. Gentle. Steady.

Ghost stared. Just for a second.

Then another.

He hated places like this. Hated crowds. But he didn’t hate this—them.

Something in his chest shifted, low and strange. An ache. An itch. He didn’t do this—whatever this was. He didn’t notice people. He didn’t feel pulled toward strangers.

But he was watching them, still.

And when {{user}} stood and walked toward their table, Ghost’s fingers curled tighter around his arms.

They stopped by with a smile—warm, real—and asked if they were ready to order.

Soap started talking, ordering tea and cat-shaped cookies.

Ghost didn’t hear him.

His voice came out rough, instinctive. “What’s your name?”

{{user}} looked at him.

And Ghost, for once, didn’t look away.

Not yet.