When the GPS told him he was arriving at his destination, he slowed and veered right toward the opening of the trees and passed through, tires catching on gravel as the old Subaru bumped along the rough road. Then, rising out of the darkness, like some forgotten fortress wedged into the hills, stood Uma’s family home, a wrought iron gate wide open and waiting for them to cross its threshold. He slowed down and stole another glance at Uma before he drove them through the gates. Beyond them, the driveway wound in a slow incline as the headlights swept across the grounds. Looking at the house, Harry decided it was the perfect setting for a horror story to take place… stone walls, tall windows sunk like eyes into its face, a roofline that clawed and jagged against the black sky.

"Creepy," he whispered under his breath.

When he parked, he kept the car running and his hands on the wheel. There were hardly any lights on from inside the house. One was on in what looked like a room on the second floor, and a singular faint glow at the front door, something that hardly illuminated the sprawling porch. Harry breathed in and flicked off the radio. And finally, Uma stirred, eyelids fluttering open as though she had been summoned by the nearness of home. She stretched her limbs and smiled softly at him.

“We’re here,” Harry said.

Uma leaned forward, pushing her palm against the dash as if to steady herself, eyes still heavy with sleep. She blinked at the looming silhouette of the house and then she smiled as though this was the exact sight she had been longing for.

Harry shut off the engine, though he had briefly considered hightailing it out of there. The soft glow of the porch light barely pushed against the dark, and he thought, absurdly, that the glow looked like a candle lit for the dead.

Uma touched his arm. “I know it looks scary in the dark,” she teased, though her voice was hushed, like she didn’t want the house to overhear. “It won't bite.”

The heavy front door creaked open before they’d even reached the steps. Her father filled the doorway, tall, shoulders sloping, hand hooked casually on the frame as if he owned not only the threshold but the right to decide who crossed it. He didn’t step forward to reach for his daughter or meet them halfway. He waited, forcing them to close the space.

“Dad, this is Harry!” Uma chirped as she tugged Harry up the steps, and then her hand slipped away from him when her mother appeared. She leaned in close to her, brushing a kiss over her cheek. The contact was fleeting, not the loose, laughing embrace Harry was used to seeing when Uma met friends back in the city. Uma smiled anyway, soft and unforced.

Her father's shoulders hunched slightly forward as he appraised his daughter's new suitor before he bent at the waist, and Uma wrapped her arms around him. He returned it with one arm only, his other still braced against the frame. But the hug was terse, and Uma stepped back politely. Even Harry felt uncomfortable.

“You made it,” he said. “Hope the drive wasn't bad.”

Harry blinked. That was his cue to speak. "Yeah. Getting out of the city took a bit, but after the turnpike, it was smooth sailing." He scratched the back of his neck and slid his eyes over Uma and her parents. "And, uh, thank you so much for welcoming me into your home."

Uma’s mother stepped back inside the house, tilting her head toward the shadows behind her. “Bring your bags in, just here by the door,” she instructed gently, though the tone left no room for argument. “We’ll get them where they belong later.”

Harry shifted the strap of his duffel off his shoulder and set it against the wall, Uma doing the same with hers. The house was lit low inside, making shadows dance off every movement. Something tipped into his calf, a quick dark shape that darted away and then vanished.

That was when two more figures appeared at the end of the corridor. A boy, gangly, maybe seventeen, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, shoulders folded inward, a lot like Uma's father. His hair was dark, untidy, and he didn’t bother with a smile. He just stood there, studying Harry quietly.

Trailing just behind was a girl, a little younger, her braid swinging against her back as she walked with deliberate slowness. She didn’t come too close, but paused beside an old console table lined with candles in silver holders. Her fingers brushed the edge of the wax, her nail peeling at the surface.

Uma’s mother gestured, almost formally. “These are our younger two. Joel.” The boy looked down. “And Pearl.”

Pearl's gaze was direct and startlingly calm for someone her age. She smiled, but it didn't feel real.

“Hi,” Harry offered. “Nice to meet you both.”

The pair didn't respond. Joel blinked and looked at Uma, and Pearl turned her attention back to the candles. Harry cleared his throat and shifted. The car keys were heavy in his pocket, which was where he'd be keeping them. Close by. Just in case.

Uma stepped into the space, as if to bridge the awkwardness, her hand brushing Harry’s sleeve. “They’ve been waiting to meet you,” she said brightly, though Harry wasn’t sure he believed it. In fact, he was positive she was just trying to lighten the mood. Not a single family member seemed happy that he was there.

Behind them, a shape sauntered noiselessly across the floor. A black cat, tail high, weaving around Pearl's legs before settling beneath the console. So it had been a cat that had bumped into his leg when he stepped into the house.

Uma’s father clapped a hand down against the doorframe. “Come,” he said, turning. “Dinner’s waiting.”

Uma reached for Harry’s hand again, and they followed her parents deeper into the house, the siblings trailing them. Portraits lined the hallway, their eyes dark with varnish, watching. Harry caught himself staring at a woman painted in a dress the color of bruises, her throat marked by a thin scar the artist had chosen to keep.

When they stepped into the kitchen, it was dark at first and it had Harry a bit on edge, like he was about to encounter something awful. Then, Uma's mother flicked the lights on, and a bright sconce filled the room with light at once. Harry noticed the table was already fully set. A table for ten, set for seven. Plates, knives, forks, napkins… And at the center were dishes full of food for serving. Harry quickly did a count in his head and wondered who the 7th person was.

He also tried not to think of how odd it was that they had a full dinner set out and ready on the table with the lights off. But maybe it wasn't strange. Perhaps they just liked saving on electric costs. That, Harry could understand.

"Here, kitty, kitty!" Pearl sang out when their cat padded into the room. Black, sleek, each step liquid. She paused, her tail flicked, then curled, and her eyes were golden, fastened on Harry with curious focus.

Uma’s father pulled out the chair at the head of the table, lowering himself with a quiet groan. Her mother settled at the other end, her hands folding loosely in her lap before she picked up her napkin and smoothed it across her knees.

Uma guided Harry toward the chair beside her own, midway down the table. He sat on the cushion, trying not to notice the empty spot directly across from him, set as if someone were expected but missing. The polished silverware gleamed in the light, and the china plates, patterned with ivy, seemed too fine for such an ordinary visit. Or maybe this kind of thing was a big deal to them. Harry wondered if they were used to receiving visitors and silently decided they were probably not.

The food at the center of the table looked almost out of place. A roast chicken, browned and glossy. A dish of carrots glistening with butter. Mashed potatoes in a porcelain bowl with an old silver serving spoon. Pitchers of water and a dark red wine.

Harry reached for the serving spoon, but Uma’s father spoke, interrupting his motion. “Uma.” He knocked his head to the side, communicating something silently, and she flushed slightly, setting her hand on Harry’s wrist before taking the spoon herself and scooping potatoes onto her plate, then his.

As she plated her food and his, Uma's father bowed his head, and a low humming filled the air instead of words. A sound that made Harry’s skin prickle, too long, too measured. Like a prayer or a chant that only he participated in.

Conversation didn't begin right away. The first sounds were of people eating, wine being poured, and the clank of forks on porcelain.

Harry cleared his throat. “This looks… fantastic. Thank you.”

Uma’s mother smiled briefly as she sliced a cut of chicken to eat. Her father chewed a mouthful of carrots and set his knife down with precision, the blade angled exactly against the plate’s rim.

Finally, Uma filled the silence. “Harry’s been working on a big campaign at his firm,” she said brightly. “One of those billboard things, you know the kind, where the picture changes when the weather does? He can tell you about it.”

Harry hesitated, but Joel’s dark eyes had shifted toward him, expectant. So he launched into it, describing the concept, how commuters saw one message in sunshine, another in rain. He kept it brief, trying to make it sound casual.

Joel leaned back, one brow ticking up. “So… ads that know the weather. That’s… weird.”

Uma laughed, and the sound loosened the tension by a hair. “Weird’s good. It gets people to notice, right?”

Even Pearl smirked faintly at that, lifting her glass with both hands and sipping carefully. “Sounds futuristic,” she commented.

Harry smiled back, relieved at the tiny flicker of normalcy. Uma’s knee brushed his under the table, bringing him back to what really mattered and why he was there.

Still, the cat’s eyes never left him. Every time he glanced toward the sideboard, she was there, tail flicking once, gaze unblinking, as though taking stock of every word he said.

Uma’s mother broke her silence at last, voice soft but cutting through. “Autumn is the season for honesty,” she said. She picked a piece of chicken delicately from the bone, lips barely parting. “Leaves fall. Things are bare. People see more clearly than they want to.”

Joel chuckled under his breath. “That’s Mom’s way of saying you’ll get no lies past us.”

Uma elbowed him lightly, and for a flicker of a second, the siblings shared something that actually felt warm.

Harry took a long swallow of water, throat tight. His wine sat untouched in his glass. He didn't want to be rude and not have any, but he'd seen the scary movies before where the guest was poisoned, whether tea or wine… It was a ridiculous thought, he realized, but the poisoned characters also thought the same, and look where it got them. He set his fork down carefully, trying to make the least amount of noise possible. If he could shrink himself into a smaller size, he would.

Uma’s father leaned back in his chair, surveying them all. “Eat,” he said, low, almost indulgent. “The night is long.”

The words hung over the table, cryptic and too heavy, but for some reason, no one else seemed to find anything odd. The empty plate across from him, intentionally sat for someone, her father's low humming before he took his first bite, the cat's eyes watching… not to mention how strange her family was overall. He was even beginning to wonder about Uma, if she felt like any of this was normal.

The meal ended, but not fast enough for Harry's liking. Even with Uma attempting to keep everyone talking, it was strained and disquieting. One moment Joel was still pushing carrots across his plate, Pearl sipping the last of her wine with exaggerated care, and the next, Uma’s mother was rising, gathering dishes silently. Pearl slid in to help her, stacking forks on top of porcelain, her braid swinging over her shoulder. Joel disappeared without a word, leaving his chair angled away from the table.

Harry stood, nudged Joel's chair into place (just in case), and offered a hand with the dishes, but Uma caught his wrist and shook her head. “They’ll handle it,” she whispered, eyes reaching past him to her mother and then her father. There was something urgent in her tone, almost warning.

Her father lingered at the head of the table until the last plate was gone, then finally pushed back his chair in no hurry. “You’ll want a tour before the night gets on too far,” he said. "Uma." He looked at his daughter with a nod, and she smiled, taking Harry's hand.

Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, but Uma tugged him out of the kitchen and up the stairs before he could consider it for much longer.

The second floor was also dark, shadows pooling in the angles where the wall sconces had burned out. She kept her hand in his, leading him past old portraits and paintings, then hollow dark rooms, until at last she opened a door at the very end of the hall.

Her room was warmer than he expected. The wallpaper was a faded print of foxes, the edges peeling to show its age. A bed with a heavy quilt sat in the corner, and a low window with curtains covering it. It felt better in her room, away from her parents and siblings and the dark corners of the old house.

Uma shut the door behind them, and Harry relaxed immediately, but there was one lingering question buzzing in his mind that he needed to know the answer to.

"The table was set for 7. Was there another person expected?"

"No," she said, leading him to her bed to sit. "It's for my grandmother. She passed away like ten years ago. Mother still insists on setting a place for her."

He nodded. So it had been for sentimentality. It made some sense, he figured. But before he could ask her another question, Uma crawled over his legs, straddling his lap, her arms twining around his neck. The sudden intimacy made him laugh nervously, but she silenced it with her mouth, her lips moving against his with urgency. Harry let himself sink into the feel of her, the weight of her body pressing him down, her hands sliding over his chest, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

For the first time since arriving, he wasn’t thinking about how creepy the whole house and her parents were. All he could focus on was Uma’s warmth, the soft sound she made when he kissed her deeper, the press of her heartbeat against his.

Her fingers slipped beneath his collar, tracing his skin, and he groaned low in his throat, finally feeling settled. He placed his hands on her over her hips and pulled at her, a soft moan breaking from his throat.

But the moment was ripped in half when her door was pushed open. No knock. Just the old wood swinging wide without permission.

Uma’s mother stood there, watching her daughter and their guest with heaving chests and wide eyes. Harry shuffled but Uma stayed on his lap, clutching at his shoulders.

“It’s time to part for the night.”

Harry blinked and looked at his girlfriend, brows folding together in confusion, but her expression was simply apologetic. “I—what?”

Her mother stepped further in, the hem of her long skirt dragging against the floorboards. “Guests don’t sleep in family rooms. You’ll have your own.”

Uma pulled back, color flooding her cheeks. “But—” she said, looking at her mother. “Why can't he stay here? Just tonight. Please.”

Her mother’s eyes flicked to her daughter, then to Harry, then back again. “He may not,” she said.

Harry swallowed. He was totally caught off guard. Uma had never mentioned this, and it seemed silly given they were both adults and were already used to sleeping next to one another.

But then Uma’s father appeared behind her mother, filling the frame. “You’ll rest better on the other side of the house.”

Uma’s hands lingered on Harry’s chest, as if she could keep him there by sheer will. “It’s stupid,” she whispered fiercely, her forehead pressing against his temple. “I’ll come get you early. I promise.”

But she drew back when her father cleared his throat, sliding off his lap and moving away. Harry realized that his fate had been decided for him. He would not be sleeping next to his girlfriend, his only reason to be there (to be with her). Instead, he'd be alone in a room in the creepiest house he'd ever set foot in.

When he stood up, Uma smiled and squeezed around his hand. "I can—"

"You'll stay here," her father interrupted, Harry's duffel in his grip.

Uma's shoulders slumped with a frown, folding her arms tight around herself. "Sorry, Harry."

"It's fine," he responded quietly. But really, it wasn't. Harry almost couldn't believe he was being separated from her. He was regretting the entire trip now.

He stepped into the hall behind Uma's dad and followed. The hallway beyond her room was even darker. Several sconces were mounted along the walls, but most were off (or dead). The carpet over wood flooring muted the tread of their shoes.

The tall man walked with long, quiet strides, his presence more oppressive than protective. He spoke only once, gesturing with a broad palm toward a door on their right. “Bathroom,” he said. “For your use.”

Harry nodded quickly, stuffing his hand deeper into the pockets of his jeans to ward off the sudden chill.

They turned a corner down another hallway, just as dark. One light flickered and then brightened as they passed it. The portraits hung there were not of people, but landscapes rendered in dark oil paint. Woods in winter, a lake during a storm, a field. They were just paintings, but even they creeped Harry right out.

At last, they reached a white painted wooden door, smudges and scratches near the brass knob. Uma's father pushed it open, stepped inside, and set Harry’s bag down just inside the door before he stepped in further.

The guest room was modest. Bare plaster walls, a low bed covered in a quilt, and a single lamp with a slanted shade that made the light fall unevenly. A wardrobe stood in the corner, its mirror tarnished and cloudy.

Harry lingered in the doorway, not yet stepping inside. “Thank you,” he managed, his voice sounding as unsteady as he felt, but forcing himself to step inside the room finally.

The man nodded. “Keep the curtains closed at night,” he said evenly.

Harry blinked. “…Why?”

“The woods are alive after dark. You wouldn't want to invite anything unwelcome.”

Harry gulped, and the sound was loud, which would have been comical if he weren't absolutely terrified. But before he could ask what that meant, Uma’s father clapped Harry on the back as he stepped out of the room.

“Sleep well,” he said, though there was nothing comforting in it.

Harry hovered a moment longer after Uma’s father left, listening to the fading tread of footsteps swallowed up by the carpet before he peered into the hall. Nothing but shadows, stretching long in both directions, broken only by the single flickering bulb they’d passed. Definitely horror-movie material.

The skin at the back of his neck prickled as though something unseen was watching. Harry shut the door quickly, the latch snicking louder than he wished. He leaned against it, breathing out a shaky laugh. “Jesus…”

He hadn't had the heebie jeebies like this since he was a kid. He pressed his palm over his heart and felt the quick-paced thud of it underneath. It felt childish, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something was standing just behind him, waiting to be let in.

The bed sagged slightly when he sat down. He pulled out his phone, when he felt it buzz in his back pocket and saw a message from Uma.

sorry about them. hate this rule. promise i’ll sneak in tomorrow <3

Harry smiled, thumbing the heart reaction to her message, and for a moment, the house seemed less oppressive. But then the screen went dark, and the silence surged back again. But not the welcome kind of silence, it was the kind that let you hear the creaks under the house and the wind that hit windows and tapped.

He didn't understand why she hadn't warned him about all this. Why she let him walk into it blindly. Surely the daylight would make things better, but even then… She had to know her family was… weird. Uma could have at least given him a heads-up about the rule that would have him sleeping on the opposite side of the house from everyone, alone.

He stripped down and put on a pair of sweatpants, folding his jeans over the chair in the corner. The air felt colder against his bare skin, a chilly draft slipping out from under the wardrobe. He eyed the curtains but decided not to risk peeking out.

He considered turning off the lamp but thought better of it. Leaving it on felt smarter. He slid beneath the quilt and pulled it tight to his chin as he stared up at the ceiling. In one corner, a long shadow stood steady, like it was hiding something not meant to be seen.

The mattress suddenly jolted, followed by something dark landing beside him, and Harry shot up, jumping from the bed to the floor, a sharp curse ripping out of him as his heart slammed against his ribs.

The cat. Sleek and black, tail curling neatly, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. She had sprung onto the bed with fluid grace, and now she looked at him as though mildly amused at his terror.

“Fuck,” Harry said under his breath, clutching his chest. “You—goddamn, you scared me.”

The cat ignored him as she arched her back in a big stretch. He looked toward the closed door, then back at the cat curiously. Perhaps she'd slipped in while it was open.

He let out a long exhale, the last of his panic draining away before he climbed back into the bed next to her. He readjusted the blankets as she circled once before tucking herself neatly against his side. Her body was warm, heavy in a comforting way, the slow rhythm of her breathing already calming his nerves.

He reached out and stroked her back, fingers sinking into soft fur. “Okay, Kitty,” he said softly. “Guess you’re my roommate tonight.”

In truth, having the cat there felt like a safety blanket. The house was so eerie that even the presence of a small cat made everything feel lighter. Like if the cat were there with him, somehow, no harm would come.

He felt the gentle press of paws and a shift until she was closer, like she needed the warmth of him. Her purr rumbled low and steady, a motor vibrating through his side. Harry let his eyes sink shut, listening to it, the sound lulling him in a way no silence could.

His hand drifted, smoothing over her back and then to the top of her head. Back and forth, long strokes, the way he might calm himself as much as her. The quilt was warm, the lamplight steady, and his breath began to lengthen as his body grew heavy and he felt that familiar call of sleep.

The fur under his fingers softened then changed, strand by strand, like the texture of a dream shifting without warning. Gloss became silk. Fur became flesh, smooth and warm against his palm.

Harry’s head lolled to the side, half-asleep, half-something else. The purr softened until it sounded like air filling lungs. Like the cadence of breath rising and falling against his chest.

He continued drawing his fingers along the warmth and thought of Uma and then work and the long drive in from the city. His thoughts swirled and collided until one didn't match the other and he was lying somewhere else in another time, another life.

A hand rested on him, splayed over his sternum, light at first, then pressing just enough to feel the beat beneath. Then a nail traced over his chest, a soft sigh in his ear. The palm on his skin stilled for a moment, then slid lower, fingers dragging gently, deliberately, as if it was written, inevitable.

He let out a low sigh, his head swimming in a dream or in some bed somewhere, his hand brushing over warm curves where no cat ever existed. A woman, a stranger, maybe a lover he'd always known…

Her lips brushed against the inside of his wrist, then moved to the bulk of his bicep. He felt her fingers graze along the hair on his chest before he finally saw her, eyes mesmerizing and dangerous. Her lips tipped up into a smile before she climbed higher and perched her thigh over his hip.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered into his ear

Harry swallowed hard. “It's the house."

Her hand swept down over his chest, nails grazing just enough to sting, then smoothing her palm over him in apology. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “You’re safe as long as I'm here.”

He watched her for long moments as she caressed him, her eyes locked on his, and he felt the familiar swell of heat at his groin when she lifted just enough that he caught sight of pretty nipples and soft breasts.

"You have a kind face. Trustworthy," she mewled when she lifted his hand up to her mouth and kissed the heel of his palm. "Big hands. Comforting voice."

She leaned close to him, breath cascading over his lips, and he caught her mouth with his like he'd die without feeling it. Her kiss deepened with each heartbeat, her lips insistent, her tongue teasing at his until he groaned softly. It was sweet and wet, and Harry had never felt like that before.

When she broke away, she trailed kisses along his throat, pausing to nip at his jaw. “I wish you were mine,” she said, her breath hot on his skin.

Harry’s hand slid to her side, fingertips trailing over the slope of her ribs, then higher, cupping the weight of her breast. She sighed when he kneaded gently.

"I am yours."

She pushed out a breathy laugh. "You're not, Harry. You don't belong to anyone."

He exhaled, a thumb trailing her nipple. "I am yours. I swear. I know I am."

"If you're mine, then tell me my name."

He blinked, and his heart dropped. What was her name again? He should know it; they were soulmates after all. It was at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite reach the word. He ran a hand over her jaw and shook his head.

Her lips brushed his ear. “Kitty.”

The word spilled out of him in a hoarse murmur. “Yes. That's it. Kitty.”

She rewarded him with another kiss, wetter this time, lingering, before shifting lower. Her lips dragged across his chest as she trailed down, planting kisses in a slow path, tasting him with her tongue. Harry moaned, his muscles twitching under every scrape of her teeth, every kiss, every lick.

Then he felt her graze a finger against the outline of him under his sweatpants and he groaned as he watched her. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

“You’re already hard for me,” she teased, fingers tugging at his waistband. “So easy.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, his hips jerking up involuntarily.

She pulled his sweats down just enough, curling her hand around him, stroking leisurely, deliberate. Her thumb teased the head, spreading the slick there, while her eyes never left his face.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

Harry nodded, dizzy with need. “Yeah… Kitty. Anything.”

She smirked, lowering her mouth to kiss along his length, pausing to lick him slowly from base to tip, savoring the taste of him. His hand fisted in the quilt, breath hissing through his teeth.

Then her lips parted, and she swirled her tongue around his crown, watching him as she guided her lips over his tip and suckled softly. She stayed there for minutes, sucking and licking just his swollen cockhead, lapping at his precum and kissing his slit.

"Oh… I love that."

She pulled her mouth from him, her hand still wrapped around his shaft. "I know."

Then, finally, she wrapped her lips around him firmly and lowered to take him inch by inch, her tongue pressing and cradling, her pace maddeningly unhurried. Harry groaned, head tipping back, eyes rolling shut.

“Oh my God, Kitty—”

Her nails raked lightly down his thighs as she worked him deeper, dragging sharp red lines into his skin. He gasped at the feel of her.

She mewled around him, the vibration making him curse aloud. Pulling back just enough, she glanced up, lips glistening. “Is it good?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, sitting next to him, agile and smooth, grinning seductively… He reached for her, a palm finding her breast. "You're everything. Better than anyone."

"Better than Uma?"

"Wha—?" He sank back into the pillow at the name of his girlfriend. He hadn't even thought of Uma once. It was as if she didn't exist, and even right then, he was having a hard time remembering what she looked like or when he last saw her. The moment he laid eyes on Kitty, he belonged only to her.

"But I'm yours."

Kitty moaned and lowered her mouth again to his tip, lips spreading over his shaft and slicking down until her nose was stuffed against his pelvis. She pushed and sucked all the way up to his tip and dug her nails in.

Harry groaned, louder, the sound tight and helpless as Uma was once again nothing more than an old memory from another life. “Shit… you’re gonna kill me.”

Kitty’s lips slid down his shaft again, tongue flattening as she swallowed him deeper. Her throat flexed around him, and Harry’s whole body jerked, the quilt bunching in his fists and the bed springs squeaking with every motion. She pulled back with a wet gasp, a string of spit clinging from her lips to his cock, then smiled wickedly before licking it up in one languid sweep.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, his voice breaking. His thighs trembled, muscles burning with the effort to hold still.

She circled her tongue around his tip, teasing, suckling, then dove back down with sudden force, taking him to the hilt until her nose pressed into his skin, his tip curving down her throat. She coughed out a gagging sound, then purred around him like she was savoring it.

Harry cried out, raw, desperate. “Jesus, Kitty, oh my god—”

She moaned around him, the vibration shooting through his cock, making him writhe. Her nails dug into his hips, scratching deep enough to bite, holding him down while she bobbed her head, her throat working to swallow him again and again. Spit slicked his length, pooling at the base, dripping onto his thighs, but she didn’t care. She only sucked harder, wetter, messier. The sound that filled the room was obscene. Wet gushy slurps and glucking noises, the creaking of the bed, Harry's moans…

He was shaking, every muscle quivering, his breath ragged. He tilted his head to watch, and it was lewd. The way her lips wrapped tight around him, how she could take every inch of his shaft down to the root of him and still keep her eyes on his, the spit dribbling down her chin and neck.

“You’re so fucking good,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “Nobody—nobody’s ever—”

Her hand joined her mouth, stroking the base in quick, tight motions while she worked her lips over the head, tongue flicking mercilessly at his slit. She pulled back with a filthy pop, spit stringing down her chin, and licked him from base to crown with one long, slow drag.

“You’re close,” she cooed, stroking him harder. “I can taste it.”

“Kitty, please—” His voice was wrecked, pleading, his body arching off the bed.

She grinned, lips glistening, before sinking back down on him with sudden hunger, sucking so hard it made his vision blur. She bobbed her head in quick, ruthless strokes, her hands holding the very tops of his thighs steady to keep him in place.

Harry’s entire body locked tight, his breath breaking into short, helpless moans. “Fuck—fuck, Kitty, I’m com—”

She hummed around him, urging him, sucking faster, swallowing harder until his hips bucked wildly despite her claws holding him down.

And then he was done for. Harry came with a strangled cry, spilling into her mouth in hot, pulsing waves. His whole body seized, back bowing off the bed, his hands clutching her head. Kitty sucked around him like she was pulling a beverage through a straw, drinking him down greedily, her throat working as she swallowed every drop.

She didn’t stop, not until his spasms began to fade, until he was gasping and twitching, too sensitive, begging with incoherent sounds. Even then, she milked him with slow, languid suckles, licking him clean until there was nothing left but the ragged rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, she pulled off, a strand of spit shining across her chin. She watched him melt slowly, his body pliant and satisfied.

His limbs were trembling, and his throat was raw from groaning her name. The room spun around him, the lamp’s glow softening to blur with Kitty’s silhouette burned into his vision as she leaned over him, smiling like she owned him.

And then the edges of everything went black, his consciousness sinking into dark, dreamless sleep.

.

Uma’s voice startled him awake. “Harry?”

His eyes snapped open. She stood in the doorway as morning light filled his room. She was in one of her soft sweatshirts, sleeves pulled down over her hands, smiling faintly as if she’d just woken up herself.

Harry’s heart lurched, panic buzzing through his chest as he looked at the spot next to him, thinking he'd just been caught with Kitty in his bed, but the quilt was neatly laid across the mattress and over his chest.

He turned his head sharply, scanning the room, half-expecting to see his dream girl somewhere, but instead, there was just the cat, curled at the foot of the bed. Sleek and small, her paws tucked under, tail flicking lazily.

Harry sat bolt upright, sweat prickling across his back. For one wild second, he was sure Uma would see… would know. His throat closed on words he couldn’t find.

The cat stretched, unhurried, arched her back, then hopped gracefully off the bed. She padded across the floor, tail rising, and slipped past Uma’s ankles into the hall.

Harry stared after her until she disappeared.

“Hey.” Uma tilted her head, concern edging her smile as she moved into the room and sat next to him. “You okay? Was it a bad dream?”

Quite the opposite, actually.

He dragged a hand down his face, trying to steady his breath. The house looked different in the daylight, and he could even smell coffee brewing. But he couldn’t shake the weight in his chest, the certainty that last night hadn’t only been a dream.

“Yeah,” he said finally. He forced a smile. “Just… didn’t sleep great, I guess.”

She touched his arm and cocked her head curiously. "What's this?"

He looked at where Uma's finger slid over an angry red mark. He blinked down at it slowly and then felt the ghost of claws still tingling along his thighs. "Uh… Don't know. Maybe I scratched it in my sleep."

"I don't think I slept well either," she said as she put her hand on his cheek, warm and familiar. Harry leaned into her instinctively, his eyes drifting once more toward the door where the cat had vanished.

"What's the cat's name?"

Y/n dropped her hand. "We didn't really ever name her. Just Kitty. Was she here all night with you?"

He nodded, eyes still roving the room in case a naked, beautiful woman were to suddenly appear out of thin air. "Yeah. She was."

He felt Uma’s eyes on him as he forced another smile, his chest still prickling with relief, or maybe it was panic. She smoothed her sleeve down and glanced toward the hall. “Breakfast is waiting,” she said lightly, like nothing in the world was amiss.

He nodded as she rose and offered her hand. Sliding his palm against hers, he let himself be led toward the day ahead, even as some hidden part of him was already aching for the dark to fall again.

.

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