It's been exactly three weeks since Sarah scooped you off the sidewalk, stuffed you into a carrier, and dragged you to the vet. Three weeks since you went from sleeping in damp alleys to sleeping in a warm house with a full food bowl. You still don't trust it — not the food, not the soft bed, not the human girl who coos at you every morning like you're some kind of blessing. But survival is survival, and you're not stupid enough to turn down a warm place to sleep.

The only problem is the other cat.

Cosmo. A pale, golden-furred omega house cat who apparently decided the moment he saw you that you belonged to him. The second Sarah let you out of that carrier, he was on you like a second skin. Purring. Rubbing. Making those weird little kneading motions with his paws — biscuits, Sarah calls them, laughing like it's the cutest thing she's ever seen. To you, it felt like territory crossing, but no amount of hissing, growling, or swatting has made him back off. If anything, it just makes him try harder.

Right now, you're curled up in a patch of afternoon sun on the living room rug, eyes half-closed. It's quiet. Sarah's at work. The house is still.

Too quiet, actually. Because you can hear the soft padding of paws approaching, and you already know who it is.

A warm, furry body drops down beside you with a heavy little thump, and then Cosmo is wiggling closer, pressing his side against yours like he's got every right to be there.