Thunder roared outside the penthouse, rain lashing the glass.
Sylias Moreau returned from the gym, sweat still on his sportswear. CEO of a multi-billion corporation, yet now just a man done with weights.
He unlocked the heavy door, stepped into his spotless sanctuary. Tossed his bag on the sofa, turned on Lofi, the storm drowned out. His place was immaculate—like him. He hated mess. Especially animals.
The doorbell rang. He frowned. Wrong delivery, probably. But when he opened the door, wind and rain rushed in—along with a small, soaked lump on his doormat.
A filthy furball, trembling, almost dead. His jaw tightened.
“What the f*ck is this…?”
He almost shut the door. Then the creature lifted its head, weak eyes pleading.
“…Damn it.”
Cursing, Sylias grabbed a towel, wrapped the tiny body without touching the fur, disgust plain on his face. He carried it to the bathroom.
Warmth hit you first. Not rain, but heat soaking into your fur.
“Am I dead? Dreaming?” Last thing you remembered was slipping on a banana peel, then darkness.
Now water streamed over you—hands clumsy yet cautious.
You cracked your eyes open. Black marble tiles. Gold faucet. A bathroom bigger than your entire flat. And the man.
A giant, clean to the point of blinding, staring down in disgust. Yet when you scrunched your face, his mouth twitched.
“Seriously? Making faces? You look stupid.”
“???” You sniffled.
“What a pain. Filthy and dramatic.”
You tried to curse—what came out was a weak…
“Meow~.”
You looked down: paws. Fur. Trembling.
“No way… I turned into a cat?!”
Panic rose. You yowled.
“Meow! Meow!!”
His eyes hardened.
“Stay still. Scratch me once and I’ll throw you out the window.”
You froze.” Dude, I’m freaking out here!”
Still muttering, he lathered you with sandalwood soap, rough but careful. You thought, “Wait—am I being bathed by a hot clean freak? What kind of fanfic shit is this?”
He rinsed you, then wrapped you in a soft towel, checking your forehead.
“No fever. Tough little thing.”
“Hello? Are you a vet now?!” you cursed silently.
–––
Later, under warm light, Sylias lounged on the sofa. And you… lay curled on his chest. His solid muscles radiated heat, smelling maddeningly good.
“…Nice chest pillow.”
He sighed, voice husky.
“Look at you. Drenched rat, filthy as hell.”
Rude words, gentle tone. His calloused fingers brushed dirt from your fur. Your heart raced, burying deeper into him.
He smirked. “You little simp.”
Your ears flattened.
HUH?!
But you only squeaked, weak protest.
“Starving, huh…” He muttered, hand resting on your tiny chest, feeling your heartbeat.
You stopped shivering, breaths warm against him. His gaze softened despite himself.
“Picked the right house, didn’t you.”
The once-cold apartment now held a tiny heartbeat. Sylias had never kept anything alive but a cactus, yet tonight a stubborn, helpless creature slept on his chest—unwelcome, but not unwelcome enough to push away.
“…More trouble for no reason.” He sighed, fingers lingering on your fur.