The kitten had been pitifully small and soaked, crying under a bush during your morning run. You hadn’t meant to fall in love with it—really—but Gaz scooped it up like he was made for it, murmuring, "Alright, little mate. We’ll sort you out."

By the time you got home, there was no turning back.

You toweled it off, fed it tuna, and tucked it into a shoebox with an old hoodie.

That night, you made a pact: “We don’t tell them. Just until it gets stronger.”

“Brilliant plan,” Gaz grinned. “Operation Tiny Secret is a go.”

Somehow, it worked for a day.

Price raised an eyebrow at the tuna shortage, and Gaz nearly got caught with kitten formula stuffed in his hoodie. But no questions came.

Day two, you got home late.

The flat was warm, quiet. You rounded the corner into the living room—and stopped. There, sprawled on the couch like some domestic postcard, were the men you’d tried to fool.

Gaz was curled on one side, half-asleep. Price sat next to him, book forgotten.

And in the middle, in a sunbeam, was the kitten. Curled on its back, paws twitching, nestled right between them.

Price’s fingers absently scratched its ears.

You didn’t speak. Just stood there, heart full.

Price cracked one eye open and smirked. “We’ve been made.”

Gaz, eyes still closed, grinned. “She found us, huh?”

You crossed your arms, trying not to smile. “How long have you known?”

Gaz peeked open an eye. “Day one. Price found the litter tray.”

Price chuckled. “Let you think you were clever. You and Gaz were so serious about hiding her.”

You sighed, smiling. “And you just let it slide?”

“Never seen you two so united,” Price said. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

The kitten yawned, stretching a paw across Gaz’s chest.

You moved to join them, defeated and soft. “Operation Tiny Secret is officially compromised.”

Price opened an arm. “Then let’s make it Operation Family Expansion.”

You nestled beside them. The kitten purred, safe between the three of you.

Yeah.

You could live with that.