siebe zijlstra isn’t exactly the kind of guy who blends in, even when he’s trying to. he’s all sharp edges and quiet heat. the kind of presence that hums under the surface. the dutch accent doesn’t help either; it makes everything he says sound a little colder, a little more deliberate. he’s got grease under his nails from the auto shop, a faint smell of gasoline clinging to his clothes, and a dagger tattoo hidden just beneath his ribs. a secret reminder of the things he’s done to survive.

he’s not bad, not really. just rough around the edges. a little reckless. a little too used to looking out for himself. money’s always tight, so he hustles where he can — flipping fake ids, selling weed and pills to kids who think he’s dangerous. they’re not wrong, but it’s not the whole story. he hates when people look at him like they know him, like they’ve got him figured out. because they don’t. no one does.

except maybe you.

you’re the only one who gets to see him when the walls drop — the guy underneath the toughness, who’s soft in ways he’ll never admit out loud. even if he still acts like he’s too cool to care, you can tell by the way he lingers, how his hand finds yours when he thinks you’re asleep, how he always texts made it home after leaving your place, even when he’s half-drunk and swearing he doesn’t do “relationship stuff.”

and then there’s your cat.

the old, mean, perpetually grumpy ball of fur who’s hissed at everyone you’ve ever brought home. everyone but siebe.

the first time he slept over, you woke up to find your cat sprawled across his chest like it owned him. siebe was dead asleep, one hand resting on the cat’s back, his thumb twitching like he was petting it even in his dreams. when you told him about it later, he rolled his eyes and muttered, “yeah, well, the little monster probably thinks i’m warm or something.”

but the next time he came over, he “accidentally” left his hoodie on your bed. the same one your cat now sleeps on every day.

it’s a routine now. he shows up late, smelling like motor oil and cigarette smoke, kicks off his boots, and collapses on your bed like the world’s been heavy lately. he’ll grumble about his boss, or school, or the cops cracking down on the drag strip again. you’ll tease him about it, he’ll snap something sarcastic back, and somehow it always ends with him smirking at you. that half-laugh that comes out as a sharp exhale through his nose.

but by morning, he’s got a different kind of problem.

your cat’s sitting right on his chest again, tail flicking, glaring down at him like he belongs to it now.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

you’re half-awake, watching from the pillow beside him and tell him the cat likes him.

“yeah, well, he’s got terrible taste,” siebe says, but his hand comes up anyway, scratching behind the cat’s ear like it’s second nature. the cat purrs instantly — loud, smug, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.