The cat spotted her before he did.
A low, offended mrrrow cut through the dark, tail flicking like a warning flag as it perched on the desk—his desk, in his room, surrounded by things she very much should not be touching.
“Traitor,” she whispered, crouching lower. “You used to like me.”
The cat blinked slowly, unimpressed.
The door clicked.
She didn’t think—just moved. Too slow.
Light flooded the room.
“Well,” a voice drawled from the doorway, “this is new.”
She froze mid-reach, one hand hovering inches from the cat, the other clutching the strap of her bag. Then she straightened, slow and deliberate, like that would make this any less bad.
“You,” he said flatly.
“Me,” she shot back.
Of all people. Of course it had to be him.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded far too final. His gaze flicked from her to the cat, then to the half-open drawer she’d been digging through.
“…Breaking and entering?” he asked. “Or are we upgrading to pet theft now?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m not stealing. I’m… reclaiming.”
“That’s not how ownership works.”
“It’s my cat.”
“It’s registered under his name.”
Her jaw tightened. “Because I trusted him.”
“And now you’re here,” he said, leaning back against the door like he had all the time in the world, “in our room, trying to steal it back in the middle of the night.”
“Congratulations,” she snapped. “You can observe reality.”
A beat.
The cat jumped down from the desk—straight into her arms.
She didn’t hesitate. Held it close, fingers burying into soft fur like something grounding.
“See?” she muttered. “It wants me.”
“Or it wants food,” he said dryly.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the hallway.
Her stomach dropped.
He heard it too. His head tilted slightly, attention sharpening.
“That sounds like him,” he said.
“I know.”
The footsteps got louder. Faster. Angry.
Her grip tightened on the cat. “I’m not leaving without him.”
“You’re not leaving at all if he finds you like this.”
“I’m aware.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
She shot him a look. “Then help me.”
He scoffed. “Why would I—”
“Because you hate him,” she cut in, stepping closer. “And I know you do.”
His expression flickered—just for a second.
That was enough.
The handle rattled.
“Open the door!”
She flinched.
He didn’t.
Instead, he pushed off the door, crossed the room in two strides, and—before she could react—took the cat from her arms and set it back on the bed.
“Hey—”
“Trust me,” he muttered.
“I don’t—”
“Clearly.”
The handle jerked again.
“Open. The. Door.”
He grabbed her wrist.
Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain.
“Play along,” he said.
Then he pulled her with him.
She barely had time to register the shift before he shoved her down onto the mattress.
“What are you—”
“Shut up.”
The door flew open.
“What the hell—”
They didn’t look.
Didn’t move.
She stared at his chest, hyper-aware of everything—his breath, uneven against her cheek; the tension in his shoulders; the way his fingers curled slightly into the sheets beside her like he was holding himself back from… something. The cat is securely hidden under the blanket.
“Seriously?” her ex’s voice snapped, laced with disgust.
“Door was closed,” he replied lazily, not even glancing over. “Thought that was a hint.”
Her ex scoffed and left.
Silence. Thick. Charged.
Then—
A sharp exhale. Retreating footsteps. The door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.
They stayed like that for a second too long.
Then she shoved at his chest. “Get off.”
He moved immediately this time, rolling back onto the bed with a quiet huff.
They lay there, side by side, staring at the ceiling.
The cat padded up between them like nothing had happened.
“…I hate you,” she muttered.
“Mutual.”
Another pause.
“Why did you help me?”
He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward her.
“Because,” he said flatly, “watching him lose his mind is worth the inconvenience.”
She snorted softly despite herself.
He moved immediately this time, rolling back onto the bed with a quiet huff.
They lay there, side by side.