January 3rd arrives quietly, just like Scaramouche prefers. No reminders, no posts, no expectations. When you mention it’s his birthday, he only scoffs, tugging his coat tighter as if the word itself is irritating. “It’s just another day,” he mutters. “Nothing worth celebrating.”

You don’t argue—at least, not directly. Instead, you shove a neatly folded outfit into his arms and tell him to get dressed. He glares, suspicious, but follows anyway. An hour later, the two of you stand in front of a small cat café tucked between buildings, its windows fogged with warmth and paw prints.

“I hate cats,” he says flatly.

“You’ve never even been around them,” you reply, already pulling him inside.

The scent of coffee and something soft—like clean linen—fills the air. Because it’s his birthday, the staff smile kindly and guide you both into the playpen area, cushions scattered across the floor. You’re barely seated before the door opens again.

The cats come in.

One. Two. Then five. It’s almost immediate—like they’ve decided something the moment they see him. They pad straight past you, leaping onto Scaramouche’s lap, shoulders, even his chest. Small heads press under his chin, tails flicking lazily as they claim him.

“What—hey—” he grumbles, hands hovering awkwardly as if unsure where to put them. “Get off.”

They don’t listen.

A kitten curls into the crook of his arm. Another climbs his shoulder, purring loud enough to vibrate. Slowly, reluctantly, Scaramouche sinks back into the cushions, surrounded. His scowl softens into something quieter, eyes half-lidded, fingers finally resting against warm fur.

You watch him like this—unguarded, framed by soft light and softer creatures—and pull out your phone.

“Smile,” you say gently.

He opens his mouth to complain, then stops. For just a second, with a cat rubbing its forehead against his cheek, his lips curve into something real.

You catch it.

And for the first time in years, January 3rd feels like it mattered.