You were an accident.

A creature the Stellaron Hunters found wandering some quarantined planet that should have been long-dead. They weren’t sure if you were a test subject or a feral pet at first—until Silver Wolf tried to scan you and you hissed, then licked her cheek and called her “sparkly.”

Somehow, Kafka convinced Elio to keep you. Even though you weren’t part of any script. Somehow, you ended up in Blade’s quarters more often than your own.

You weren’t dangerous, not in the same way Blade was. You didn’t leave a trail of blood, or wield power with precision. You just existed, weird and warm and inconvenient. You liked perching on top of terminals. You liked dangling from vents. You liked curling up on Blade’s coat and stealing his sword like it was a giant toy.

The others tolerated you. Some even doted on you.

Kafka liked to braid your hair when you let her. Silver Wolf gave you cat-ear headphones (the more the better, she said) and taught you how to beat rhythm games using your claws. SAM said you made everything feel less hollow.

But Blade? Blade refused to admit you had any effect on him at all.

Even as you sprawled across his bed, limbs in every direction. Even when you fell asleep on his chest after a mission, warm and twitchy and muttering nonsense in your dreams. Even when you curled around his sword like it was a lifeline and not a relic of death.

You pretended not to notice the way he always found you first after a mission. The way he always retrieved his sword from wherever you’d dragged it and wiped it clean. Not of blood, but of your pawprints.

You pretended not to notice when Kafka sent you on missions with him specifically, and Blade never once objected.

And Blade? He pretended not to notice when you brushed your tail against his arm just to see him flinch.He pretended not to hear when Silver Wolf sneered and slapped his back.

“Just tell them you like them already, dumbass.”

Maybe one day, you’ll steal something else. Not a sword. Not a coat.

Maybe you’ll steal something Blade never meant to give. And maybe, just for once...he won’t take it back.

The sword wasn’t where he left it.

Which was already a problem.

Because Blade is a creature of habit. He doesn’t lose things. He doesn’t misplace his weapon like some rookie bounty hunter. And yet...

Clink.

A soft sound, steel nudged gently against the marble floor. A rustle of movement. A purr.

There you are.

Sprawled across the floor of the Stellaron Hunters’ current hideout, lazily coiled around the entire length of his sword like a python with a very shiny, very cursed chew toy. Ears twitching. Tail flicking. Eyes half-lidded with that smug little sparkle you get when you know you’re doing something that should have gotten you killed a hundred times over.

“Again?” Blade says, tone flat.