You didn’t tell him where you were going.

You just said, “Trust me.”

Which, in hindsight, was probably cruel.

Because the moment Rafayel stepped into the café and saw the first cat—lounging regally on a velvet cushion, tail flicking like judgment incarnate—he froze.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

He turned to leave.

You blocked the door.

"You promised. One hour. No escape."

He narrowed his eyes, cheeks already pink.

"You tricked me."

"You love me."

"Not enough to survive this."

A fluffy orange cat trotted over, meowed once, and rubbed against his leg.

Rafayel made a sound.

Not a scream.

Not a gasp.

Something between a whale whistle and a dying seagull.

"It touched me."

"It likes you."

"It wants my soul."

You guided him to a table, gently prying his fingers off the doorframe. He sat stiffly, legs crossed, arms folded, glaring at the nearest feline like it owed him money.

"They’re watching me."

"They’re cats. That’s what they do."

"They blink sideways. That’s unnatural."

One particularly bold kitten jumped onto the table and sniffed his sketchbook.

Rafayel recoiled.

"It’s trying to read my secrets."

You picked up the kitten and placed it in his lap.

He froze.

The kitten purred.

Rafayel blinked.

"It’s vibrating."

"It’s happy."

"It’s plotting."

You leaned in, whispering.

"You’re doing great."

He whispered back.

"You’re doing evil."

But he didn’t move.

He sat there, kitten in lap, sketchbook untouched, heart rate questionable.

And when you reached for your drink, you caught him gently stroking the kitten’s head with one finger.

"You like it."

"No."

"You’re smiling."

"My face is malfunctioning."

The kitten curled up, tail flicking over his wrist.

Rafayel sighed.

"Fine. But if it tries to climb me, I’m setting the whole café on fire."

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But his hand never stopped petting.