#cat shifter

Your muscles compressed and released in a single, fluid surge. You hit the dummy hard enough to rattle its base, jaws clamping around its padded shoulder. The impact vibrated through your skull, a satisfying jolt. You could have torn right through it, shredded the canvas and left stuffing scattered across the mat.

But you didn’t. Because control was part of the power.

You held, then released, stepping back with quiet precision.

A low murmur passed through the room. Natasha’s eyebrow lifted slightly in a silent acknowledgment of precision recognizing precision.

You let the jaguar recede, loosening her hold on your bones.

Heat flared beneath your skin. The shift moved through you like a tide reversing direction: fur dissolving, spine compressing, limbs reshaping with a crackle that never quite stopped being strange. The air felt cooler against skin without fur as you straightened, barefoot on the mat, workout clothes clinging faintly to damp shoulders.

Your chest rose and fell, fatigue setting in. The jaguar never tired easily, but you did.

Polite applause followed. It was familiar and almost lazy, because your prowess was expected. They relied on you to be formidable, to be the one who could become teeth and muscle without hesitation.

“Still only cats, huh?” Sam called. “What’s your favorite? Lion? Snow leopard? Don’t tell me you can do a housecat. That would be too cute.”

Laughter rippled outward.

You smiled automatically, rolling your shoulders as though the shift had cost you nothing. “Just the big ones.”

The lie slid off your tongue, delivered with practiced ease.

Because the truth pulsed quietly beneath your ribs even now.

It was a different kind of pull, not outward, but inward. A subtle drawing close, tight along your spine. Your bones wanted to shrink instead of lengthen. Your muscles wanted to compact instead of swell. The phantom sensation of smaller paws pressed at your awareness, light and nimble instead of heavy and lethal.

The housecat waited inside you like a secret.

She was tan and white, soft fur, and small enough to curl into the hollow of someone’s lap without drawing a second glance. She had a body built for slipping through doorways unnoticed, for basking in windowsills, and for existing without performance.

No one knew about that form.

You made sure that no one even suspected.

As a lioness, you felt command settle in your chest like a crown: steady, territorial, and unyielding. You stood taller in that skin. You expected to be obeyed.

As a panther, you were shadow made flesh: silent, watchful, and impossible to pin down. You were fearless in darkness.

As a jaguar, you were force: sudden, decisive, and unapologetically lethal.

Each big cat amplified something already present in human nature, whether it be strength, instinct, or authority.

But as yourself?

You second-guessed. You measured every word. You felt the weight of eyes on you like pressure against your ribs.

But as a housecat, there were no expectations to meet, and that was why you preferred it. Because in that smaller shape, your shyness wasn’t a flaw, it was natural and expected. A housecat wasn’t judged. It simply observed it and existed in it.

You kept your small shy smile as Sam’s teasing faded into other conversations. You kept your posture relaxed and let the focus shift elsewhere.

But deep in your bones, the smaller form hummed patiently.

Your favorite shape wasn’t the one that made the ground tremble.

It was the one that let you breathe without being noticed.

*****

You fell for Bucky in fragments.

In the way he held doors open without waiting for praise. In the quiet patience he offered the world, never interrupting, never correcting, just listening with a steadiness that felt older than the room. In the rare curve of his smile, the way it pulled hesitantly at the corners of his eyes as if the muscles had forgotten the motion and were relearning it slowly.

You noticed because you were good at noticing.

You tracked micro-expressions, shifts in breathing, tension in shoulders. You knew when someone was lying before they finished their sentence. You knew when fear crept in, when anger coiled tight. And with Bucky, you noticed a gentleness he kept tucked away, soft and restrained. 

It was more than enough to make you fall hard.

You told yourself it was harmless appreciation at first. The simple admiration of recognizing goodness in someone who had fought so hard to keep it. But admiration didn’t make your pulse stumble when his voice carried across a room. Admiration didn’t make your body hyperaware of the exact distance between you and him at any given moment.

When his blue eyes flicked your way, even briefly, it felt like standing in the open under a searchlight.

You didn’t know how to survive that kind of attention, so you avoided it.

One afternoon you sat curled into the corner of the common room couch with Wanda, a mug of chamomile warming your palms. The room smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, late sunlight spilling in through wide windows in slow golden sheets. Wanda was saying something soft and thoughtful, her voice a gentle hum against the quiet.

The door slid open.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him.

You recognized the cadence of his steps, measured, almost soundless despite his size. A subtle shift in the air followed him, something crisp and clean, like cold wind off metal. Your spine straightened before your mind caught up.

He glanced your way and gave a small barely-there tilt of his lips as he crossed toward the fridge, and your throat went dry.

Your pulse began to pound, too fast, too loud, like it was trying to escape your ribs. Heat crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. You stared down into your tea as if the swirling steam might save you.

Say something, you told yourself. Say anything. 

Instead, your tongue felt thick and useless.

“I—uh, I should go check on something,” you muttered, already setting the mug down too quickly. A thin line of tea sloshed over the rim, spotting the table.

Wanda’s eyebrow arched with quiet, knowing precision. “Still?”

But you were already on your feet, already halfway to the door. 

When you were overwhelmed, your first instinct was to flee. Because escape was survival. It was the same in every feline form you took, but as a big cat you could overcome it. When you were just yourself, you knew it was best to give in.

The hallway air felt cooler, thinner. You walked quickly, heart hammering as though you had just outrun an actual threat. 

Your thoughts spiraled.

He didn’t even speak to you and you ran. Then again, why would he? Why would he look twice when you couldn’t even say hello?

It was like that every time.

If he entered the gym, you cut your training short, pretending you’d hit your limit. If he sat at the far end of the dining table, your appetite vanished as if it had never existed. If he lingered in the lounge, you suddenly remembered emails that needed answering.

The others noticed, of course. You caught Sam’s speculative glances, Natasha’s narrowed eyes. They likely assumed tension or dislike, maybe even unresolved friction from a mission.

It was simpler to let them believe that, because the truth felt unbearable.

The truth was that your crush on James Buchanan Barnes had grown so heavy it pressed against your lungs. It made you clumsy in your own skin. You, who could become a jaguar without hesitation, who could face down armed men without blinking, you couldn’t manage a simple conversation with him.

The irony would have been funny if it didn’t ache so much.

Late at night, sprawled across your bed in the dim quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to imagine it differently.

In your mind, you were composed and effortless. You leaned casually against the kitchen counter while he poured coffee. You said something dry and clever, and he huffed out that soft, surprised laugh you’d heard only a handful of times. Maybe he asked you a question. Maybe he lingered.

Maybe he looked at you the way you looked at him.

In those imagined conversations, your voice didn’t shake and your hands didn’t tremble.

But reality was merciless.

The moment he stepped within ten feet of you, your courage evaporated like mist in the sun. Your thoughts scattered and your instincts screamed retreat.

So you retreated.

You stayed silent, and distant, and safe.

You told yourself it was enough just to watch him from across rooms and to catalog his small kindnesses. It was enough to feel your heart tug quietly in your chest and never act on it.

You had always been good at restraint.

But restraint did nothing to quiet the wanting.

It lived in you like a restless animal, pacing, stretching, pressing against the cage of your ribs. It followed you into sleep and lingered between breaths. It whispered what if and what if and what if until the questions felt like bruises.

You wanted his attention, his smile, and you wanted to stand in the spotlight of his attention without flinching.

And you hated yourself for wanting it at all.

*****

The compound changed after midnight.

During the day it thrummed with conversation, footsteps, clashing metal, the constant current of lives intersecting. But at night, the lights dimmed to a low glow along the corridors, shadows stretching long and quiet against polished floors. The air cooled, carrying the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilation system.

You preferred it like this.

You padded down the hallway on small, soundless paws, tail swaying lazily behind you. The carpet fibers brushed between your toes. Every shift in air skimmed across your whiskers, translating the world into delicate currents and invisible edges. The compound felt enormous in this form: ceilings higher, doorframes taller, and the world reshaped into something cavernous but safe.

In this body, no one expected anything from you.

A housecat was harmless, nothing but a background presence slipping along baseboards and under furniture. You could enter any room and curl into corners meant for shadows. 

You could exist without being judged.

That was what you loved most.

You rounded the corner toward the lounge, already imagining the soft dip of the sofa’s back beneath your weight, the warmth left behind by earlier occupants. It was your quiet perch, for you to rest a few peaceful minutes before returning to your room.

But you stopped short.

Bucky was there.

He sat sprawled along the length of the couch, long legs stretched out, socked feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. A book lay open in his lap, one large hand bracing the spine while the other held a mug of tea that sent up thin spirals of steam. The room’s low lamplight caught in his loose hair, casting soft shadows along his jaw. His brow was faintly furrowed in concentration, mouth set in that familiar, thoughtful line.

He looked peaceful.

Your first instinct was immediate and sharp: retreat. Turn and disappear before he notices.

But his eyes lifted and landed on you.

For one suspended heartbeat, panic flared hot and blinding. You froze mid-step, muscles taut beneath soft fur. He was looking directly at you, seeing you, even if not truly you.

Then his expression shifted.

The tension in his brow eased. Surprise flickered, then melted into a warmer and softer expression. The corners of his mouth curved, small at first, almost hesitant.

“Well, hey there,” he murmured.

His voice carried easily through the quiet room, low and roughened by disuse, yet threaded with unmistakable gentleness. He closed the book carefully, setting it aside as though unwilling to startle you, and leaned forward slowly and deliberately, giving you space to flee if you chose.

He crouched, one knee pressing into the carpet, metal hand resting lightly against the floor while his flesh hand extended toward you.

You hesitated. Your tail flicked once, betraying nerves you couldn’t hide in this form. You told yourself you could still run. You should run.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Each paw landed carefully, silently, until you were close enough to lower your head and sniff his fingers, catching his scent: soap, clean cotton, and a faint trace of metal and oil beneath it all. 

He didn’t move abruptly. He waited for you to decide.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, the words nearly a breath against the quiet. “Where’d you come from, huh?”

His fingers brushed under your chin.

The contact was gentle, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn’t pull away. He scratched lightly beneath your jaw, right at that sensitive spot you could never quite reach yourself.

A purr rose in your chest before you could stop it.

Mortifying.

You leaned into his touch without thought, pressing your small body against the warmth of his hand. The purr deepened, vibrating through you, betraying everything you kept guarded in your human skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The happy praise made something inside you flutter and fold in on itself, tenuous and bright. His smile widened, not the tight, polite curve he wore in meetings or training sessions. This one was unfiltered. It erased years and softened his entire face.

You had never seen him smile like that at you.

Not when you were standing across a room, heart in your throat. Not when you forced yourself to look away first.

“Didn’t know anyone around here had a cat,” he continued quietly. His thumb traced a slow path along the top of your head. “Who do you belong to, huh?”

The question lodged somewhere deep in your chest.

Who do you belong to?

No one, you wanted to say. I belong to myself.

But the traitorous part of you, the one that ached and yearned and replayed imaginary conversations at night, whispered something far more dangerous.

You leaned harder into his palm in lieu of answering.

He chuckled softly at that, the sound low and warm. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment, easing back onto the couch. He patted his thigh in invitation. “You wanna keep me company?”

You hesitated only a second.

This was reckless. Intimate in a way your human self would never be invited. He would feel your weight settle against him. He may absentmindedly stroke your fur. He would look at you.

And he would not know it was you.

The thought twisted inside you, sharp and bittersweet.

Still, you gathered yourself and leapt lightly onto the couch. The cushion dipped beneath your small frame. After a brief pause, you circled a few times before curling against his thigh. His warmth seeped into you immediately, solid and steady.

His hand returned to your back without hesitation.

Slow strokes from shoulders to tail, careful, almost reverent.

You closed your eyes.

In this shape, you didn’t stammer or burn under his gaze. You could sit beside him and be wanted, even if only as a small, harmless housecat.

Your purr filled the quiet lounge, mingling with the soft hum of the compound at rest, and you told yourself this was more than enough.

This way you could have his warmth and borrowed closeness in the dim evening light.

Even if he would never know who he was truly holding.

*****

One night became two. Two became three.

Soon, the choice to seek him out stopped feeling like a choice at all.

You found yourself slipping into smaller bones as naturally as breathing, your body folding inward with familiar ease. The world expanded around you as fur grew from skin, as weight vanished from your limbs. The compound welcomed you in ways it never did when you walked upright: its quiet corners opening, its long hallways stretching into soft, navigable paths meant for something small and unseen.

You told yourself it was harmless.

You padded through the sleeping corridors, guided by instinct more than thought. His room, the common room, the library, you learned his rhythms quickly. He was a creature of habit, whether he realized it or not.

You always found him eventually.

Sometimes he read, his posture relaxed but never careless, one ankle resting over his knee. Sometimes the television murmured quietly in the background, forgotten as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Sometimes he did nothing at all, just sat in the stillness, shoulders loose, gaze distant.

Those nights, you understood something about him that he never said aloud: he was lonely.

His eyes would soften when you appeared, the tension in his frame easing as if he had been waiting without knowing it. He’d greet you in that low, warm voice, never startled, never suspicious, just welcoming, like you belonged with him there.

You would leap lightly onto the couch beside him, settling against the solid length of his thigh or curling into the curve of his hip. His warmth soaked into you immediately, steady and grounding.

And then his hands would find you, large, careful, and ever careful.

His fingers would sink into your fur with slow certainty, stroking from the base of your skull down along your spine. He never rushed, never grabbed. He let his touch linger, his palm broad and warm as it moved over you in long, soothing passes.

The pressure was perfect, firm and gentle and soothing.

You could feel the strength in him even through the restraint, the quiet power in his hands, the way he held himself back from ever using more force than necessary. His thumb would sometimes drift behind your ears, scratching lightly, and a helpless purr would vibrate out of you in response.

It was humiliating.

It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop thinking about those hands. What they would feel like against your human skin. How they would move across your shoulders, easing the tension you carried there. How they might press into the tight muscles of your back after training, slow and deliberate, patient in ways no one had ever been patient with you before.

Against your will and against your better judgment, when alone in your room at night, you imagined those hands on your waist or your hips or your thighs.

The thought alone caused an ache inside your chest.

You could never allow yourself to want that out loud. You would never risk seeing rejection in those soft blue eyes.

So you took what you could have: this version of closeness, this quiet illusion.

Sometimes he talked to you while he read, his voice a low murmur as your cheek rested against his leg. He’d comment on things absently, sharing thoughts he offered no one else. Other nights, he said nothing at all, but his silence never felt empty. 

You drank in every moment greedily, storing them away like some precious and finite resource.

Because here, you didn’t stumble over your own words.

Here, you didn’t flee from his presence.

Here, you didn’t feel like something fragile pretending to be strong.

You could exist beside him without fear of ruining it.

His hand would continue its slow path along your back, fingers threading through soft fur, and your eyes would drift closed despite yourself. You let your body go loose beneath his touch, trusting him in ways you never trusted anyone.

It was a relief that he never asked anything of you. You were nothing but a cat to him, so he never expected anything. He simply let you stay.

And selfishly, quietly, you began to need it.

Because here, in this small borrowed body, you could have the one thing your human heart was too afraid to reach for.

You could be closer to him than you had ever dared to be in your own skin.

*****

You didn’t remember when curiosity had turned into boldness.

At first, you had hesitated. You’d lingered at thresholds and stayed in doorways, ready to flee if your presence wasn’t wanted. But over time, his continued welcome eroded your caution. You began to follow him more openly, padding down the compound’s dim evening halls with your tail swaying in loose, unhurried arcs, as if you belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

As if you weren’t choosing him.

He never questioned it, never pushed you away. Sometimes he’d glance down at you with that soft, private smile, slowing his steps without realizing it so you could keep pace beside him.

You treasured those small mercies more than you should have.

That night, the compound carried the fading echoes of training, distant clanks, muffled voices, the lingering scent of sweat and exertion clinging to recycled air. You found him just as he stepped out of the gym, his movements looser now, fatigue softening the sharp edges of his posture. A faint sheen of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and his hair clung damply at his temples.

He didn’t notice you immediately.

You fell into step behind him anyway.

He walked the familiar route to his quarters, boots quiet against the polished floor. You followed at a measured distance, paws silent, heart beating faster with every step closer to his private space that you had always deemed off-limits. 

When he reached his door and pushed it open, he waited for you.

You stopped, every muscle locking.

His gaze dropped to you where you stood just on the threshold, caught.

For a moment, you waited for rejection, for confusion, or for the gentle but firm ushering back into the hall.

Instead, his mouth curved.

“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?” he asked. “Come on, then.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest as he let the door close behind you.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

You moved quickly before you could second-guess yourself, avoiding the soft bed and leaping lightly onto the chair by his desk and curling into a neat loaf. You tucked your paws beneath your chest, arranging yourself into practiced casualness, forcing your body into stillness despite the frantic rhythm of your heart.

You tried to look like you belonged there.

But his room smelled unmistakably like him: leather, soap, clean cotton, and beneath it all, the faint, metallic trace of gun oil and something uniquely him. The scent wrapped around you, grounding and disorienting all at once.

The room itself was neat but not sterile. His bed was made with military precision. A book rested on the nightstand. His running shoes sat beside the wall where he must have left them after the morning’s run.

You drank in every detail greedily.

This was a part of him you were never meant to see.

He kicked off his training boots with a quiet exhale, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease lingering tension. Then his hands went to the hem of his shirt.

You froze.

He pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the laundry basket without ceremony.

Your pupils widened, vision sharpening instinctively.

His back faced you, broad and powerful, muscles shifting beneath skin marked by history. Scars traced pale, uneven paths across him, some thin and surgical, others jagged and unmistakably violent. They mapped places where pain had lived, where he had endured and survived.

He was beautiful.

The thought struck you without permission, sudden and overwhelming. Not in the distant, untouchable way of admiration, but in the immediate, breath-stealing way of proximity, close enough to touch.

Your heart stumbled over itself. 

And then awareness crashed in.

He had just finished sparring. He was tired. Sweaty. Alone.

And you were in his room.

Oh no.

Your ears twitched, nerves igniting all at once. This was territory you had never prepared yourself for. You had sat beside him, felt his hands stroke your fur, but not this. 

You never imagined witnessing the quiet, unguarded rituals of his solitude.

Not when he thought no one was watching.

His fingers moved to the button of his pants, humming an old tune faintly under his breath. The sound was absentminded and unselfconscious.

Panic surged through you.

This was about to be a gross invasion of privacy.

Before he could go any further, you yowled and launched yourself off the chair.

Your claws scrabbled against the wood in your haste, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You hit the floor running, darting toward the door and rising onto your hind legs to paw frantically at the handle.

Escape. Escape now.

Behind you, he laughed.

The sound was low and warm, threaded with gentle amusement.

“Guess even cats know when to give a guy some privacy,” he said.

Footsteps approached, unhurried. He reached past you, opening the door with easy understanding.

You bolted the second the gap was wide enough, barely hearing his bemused, “Bye!”

The hallway air felt cooler as you sprinted through it, paws barely touching the ground. You didn’t stop or slow. You ran until distance dulled the immediacy of his presence, until the scent of him faded into the neutral emptiness of the compound corridors.

Two hallways away, you finally stopped.

Your tail had puffed to twice its size, fur standing on end. Your sides heaved with quick, shallow breaths. Heat burned beneath your skin, mortifying and inescapable, even in this form.

You sank back onto your haunches, trying to will your racing heart into submission.

His laugh lingered in your mind, warm, teasing, and gentle.

He hadn’t been annoyed. He hadn’t even been suspicious. He had just laughed.

Relief and an odd disappointment tangled together inside your chest, impossible to separate.

He thought you were just a cat. Just a harmless, curious creature who had wandered somewhere it didn’t belong.

If he ever realized the truth… if he ever looked at you and saw the real you, not this small borrowed shape but the person hiding inside it… 

You didn’t know what you would do.

You didn’t know if you would survive the loss of this fragile, impossible closeness.

Or worse, if you would survive his rejection of it.

*****

The lounge was nearly empty that night.

Only one lamp had been left on, its shade casting a soft pool of light over the couch and the low table in front of it. The rest of the room faded into gentle shadow, bookshelves blurred at the edges, windows reflecting back the dim shapes of the room.

You were already curled tightly against Bucky’s thigh, tucked into the warm space between his hip and the couch cushion. His body radiated heat through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, solid and reassuring next to your smaller frame. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch; the other draped lazily at his side.

Then his hand began to move slowly and absentmindedly.

His fingers slid between your ears, careful as always, stroking down the curve of your skull and along your spine. He traced the line of your back with deliberate gentleness, never pressing too hard, never gripping. Even distracted, he handled you like something precious.

You purred before you could stop yourself.

The vibration rose from deep in your chest, filling the quiet space between you. His thumb shifted, rubbing lightly behind your ear in response, as though the sound pleased him.

For a while, he said nothing.

His breathing was slow and measured, but you could feel tension beneath it, subtle and coiled. His fingers would move, pause, then resume. At times they tightened almost imperceptibly in your fur before easing again. His gaze wasn’t on the television or the darkened windows. It was fixed somewhere far beyond the room.

You recognized that look.

After a long silence, he exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but weighted.

His fingers continued their steady path along your back.

“You know, there’s this woman on the team,” he went on, tone careful, almost casual. “Strong as hell. Fast. Smart. Turns into those big cats like it’s nothing.” A faint breath of something that might have been admiration slipped into his voice. “She’s incredible.”

Your entire body went rigid.

If he noticed, he gave no sign. His hand kept moving, smoothing over your fur in long, thoughtful strokes.

“But every time I walk into a room,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him, “she leaves. Won’t look at me. Won’t stick around long enough for me to say more than a word or two.”

His jaw tightened slightly beneath the lamplight.

“Guess I can’t blame her.”

The words landed heavier.

“With a past like mine…” He trailed off, thumb rubbing slow circles just behind your ear, as if grounding himself. “I probably make her nervous. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your chest felt too small for your heart.

He thought you were afraid of him.

The irony was so sharp it almost hurt.

“Besides,” he added softly, gaze dropping to some unseen point on the floor, “why would she want anything to do with a guy like me?”

You pressed closer without thinking, your small body fitting more tightly against his thigh. If you could have climbed inside his mind to shake that thought loose, you would have.

His hand stilled briefly at the shift, then resumed, slower now.

“Don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he murmured. “You’re just a cat.”

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.

“Maybe that’s why it’s easier.”

The confession settled between you.

He adjusted his hand, thumb stroking beneath your chin this time, drawing another helpless purr from you.

“Funny thing is,” he continued, voice softer now, “I don’t think she’s scared of fights. Or missions. She’s got more courage than most people I know.” A pause. “But around me? It’s like I’m something she needs to… outrun.”

Your stomach twisted.

You were never running from him.

You just hadn’t wanted to make a complete fool of yourself in front of him.

“Hey,” he added after a moment, tone slightly lighter, a bit self-deprecating. “You’re a cat. She’s kind of a bigger cat.” His fingers scratched gently at the base of your neck. “Think you could put in a good word for me?”

A quiet breath of laughter followed. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

Each word pierced you clean through.

Your purr filled the space, trembling faintly now with everything you couldn’t say.

He mistook it for comfort.

His loneliness wrapped around you, threading through the air like the low hum of the compound itself. He had offered you something raw and unguarded: his insecurity, his fear of being unwanted.

And in this form you could only answer with the steady vibration of a creature he believed incapable of understanding him.

He thought he frightened you, when in truth, he made you too nervous to breathe.

The ache of it settled deep in your chest.

All those moments you had fled the room, cheeks burning, heart racing, he had read them as proof that he was too damaged to be wanted.

You burned to undo that damage more than anything.

You wanted to shift right there in his lap. You wanted to let bones stretch and fur recede and skin return so you could take his face in your hands and tell him the truth. That he didn’t scare you. That you thought he was kind and gentle and beautiful.

That you weren’t afraid of him. 

But if you did that, then he would know. He would know that the unwitting feline that had been his companion on lonely nights… was you. And this fragile connection you had with him would be gone forever. 

But of all people, didn’t he deserve to know the truth? Wouldn’t the loss of his presence in your life be a small price to pay to right the false image of himself that your own actions had given him?

He had placed his heart, into the lap of a cat, while the woman trembled inside, unable to speak.

Your purr faltered beneath his hand before it died altogether.

The sound of your heartbeat filled your ears, drowning out the soft hum of electricity in the walls, the distant rush of ventilation, even the steady rhythm of his breathing above you.

You couldn’t stay like this.

Not after what he had said. Not after he had admitted his own insecurities in that quiet, unguarded voice, thinking you were nothing more than a warm, uncomprehending presence curled against his side.

Your body suddenly felt too dishonest. The borrowed shape clung to you like a lie.

Before you could retreat into instinct, before fear could convince you to wait, to hide, to preserve the precarious safety you had built, you pushed up on unsteady paws and stepped out from beneath the cradle of his hand.

The loss of contact was immediate and sharp.

For a fraction of a second, he glanced down at you, confusion knitting his brow at the abrupt absence of your weight.

Then you stepped back on the cushion and changed.

The shift rippled through you in a wave, fur withdrawing in a whispering sweep beneath your skin. Your spine lengthened vertebra by vertebra, a muted crackle threading up your back. Limbs stretched, reshaped; paws unfurled into trembling hands that caught against the couch cushion for balance. The world tilted and reoriented as your center of gravity rose, the familiar heaviness of your human body settling back into place.

Warmth vanished.

His thigh was no longer beneath you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was no longer pressed against your ribs.

Cold air kissed skin that had been shielded moments before. Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders. Your lungs struggled to draw in a full breath.

You were sitting beside him now, human, shaking, and painfully exposed.

Bucky froze.

His hand remained suspended in midair, fingers curved as if still expecting fur beneath them. His blue eyes widened, not in anger yet, but in pure, unfiltered shock. You watched understanding dawn in increments: confusion, disbelief, realization crashing in behind it.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The lamplight seemed harsher suddenly, throwing sharper lines across his face. The room felt smaller, the quiet heavier, pressing in against your ribs.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

Your voice came out thinner than you intended, but steady enough to be understood.

His gaze snapped fully to yours. The shock hadn’t faded, but it had sharpened into something more focused now, searching, wary, trying to reconcile what he was now seeing with weeks of his lived experiences.

“I never was,” you continued, the words rushing before you could lose them. “I just… I don’t know how to talk to you. I get in my head. I say the wrong thing. So I run.” Heat crept up your neck, flushing your cheeks. “It’s easier when I’m a cat.”

The admission hung between you, exposed and humiliating.

You dropped your eyes, unable to withstand the intensity of his stare. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, knuckles whitening with the pressure. Shame pooled low and heavy in your stomach.

You had thought it was harmless at first, no more than a small indulgence. You saw it as a quiet way to sit beside him without risking humiliation or rejection. But now, sitting there in your own skin, you could see it so much more clearly: the secrecy, the blurred line between comfort and deception.

“I didn’t mean to trick you,” you added, voice softer now. “I… like you. And I just wanted to be near you.”

And that was the truth, stripped down to its simplest, most vulnerable shape.

You wanted to sit beside him and be wanted. Your heart hurt with the knowledge of how you had ruined the possibility of that now.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt insufficient the moment they left you, insignificant against the weight of what you had done. You had let him confide in you, let him believe he was talking to an unknowing animal, let him pet you, an intimacy he surely never would have knowingly invited.

You couldn’t bear to watch his expression shift into anger. Or worse: disgust.

So you stood before the silence could stretch any further.

Retreat was easier than waiting for judgment.

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the distance between you widening by inches that felt like miles. Your heart pounded so hard it bordered on painful, each beat echoing in your throat.

“I’ll go,” you said, already stepping back. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—needed you to know.”

The admission left your mouth and you’d have sworn you died a little inside. But you needed him to know you weren’t afraid, that you cared, even though it had been in feline form.

Even though it cost you everything.

You turned toward the hallway, the words still hanging between you.

The space behind you seemed to stretch, widening with every inch you put between yourself and the couch. Every step toward the doorway felt like peeling something raw from your chest.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t look back, you couldn’t.

So you walked.

Each step felt unsteady, like the ground had shifted and never fully settled after your transformation. The cool floor beneath your bare feet made you acutely aware of your human weight, of the vulnerability of skin nails instead of fur and claws. There was no shrinking from this, no slipping into smallness to soften the blow.

You had told him the truth.

And now you would accept whatever came next.

The doorway loomed closer. Just a few more steps and you could escape into the dim hallway, into distance, into the safety of being alone with your humiliation.

Behind you, the room remained quiet.

The thought of how much you just lost hollowed your heart.

You had wanted him to know the truth.

You just hadn’t been ready to lose him the moment you said it.

*****

Bucky was stunned.

The shock locked him down, seizing his muscles, freezing him exactly where he sat. One second there had been the steady weight of a small feline body curled against his thigh, the soft vibration of a purr beneath his palm.

The next, there had been you.

Human, and shaking, and looking at him like you were bracing for impact.

His hand still hung in the air where fur had been.

His brain lagged behind his eyes. It replayed the last few seconds in fractured pieces: the sudden absence of warmth, the ripple of movement, the impossible lengthening of bone and limb. 

And then you had spoken.

Not afraid of him.

Easier as a cat.

Wanted to be near him.

The words overlapped in his head, colliding with weeks of quiet evenings, the steady rhythm of a purr against his leg, confessions he had let slip into dim lamplight because he had thought he was alone.

He stayed seated and watched you rise like you were already preparing for exile. 

The space beside him felt colder now, like something essential had been yanked away without warning.

The lamp cast long shadows across the lounge, catching in the tension of your shoulders, the rigid line of your curled spine, your fingers twisting together.

He sat there, silent, as you took your first step away.

Shock still held him fast, but it was fading now, giving way to a need for clarity.

Questions rose, quick and unwelcome:

Did you plan this from the start?

Had every quiet night been calculated?

What was the end goal here?

He suddenly realized that if he let you walk out now, he might not get the truth later.

“Hey—wait.”

The words tore out of him before he could temper it, rough with shock and something sharper underneath. It scraped his throat on the way out, like his voice hadn’t quite caught up to the reality his eyes had just witnessed.

You stopped, your shoulders tightening and your step faltering. You hadn’t expected to be stopped. 

You didn’t turn immediately. You stood there, caught halfway between staying and fleeing, like a startled animal deciding whether the threat behind it would give chase.

The couch creaked as he pushed himself upright. His muscles felt stiff, delayed, like they had spent too long locked in disbelief. For several seconds after you had changed, he hadn’t been able to breathe, hadn’t trusted himself to move. His mind had been too busy trying to reconcile two incompatible truths: the warm, quiet creature that had curled against him night after night, and the woman now standing in its place, trembling under the same lamplight.

“We’re not done. Don’t just walk out like that,” he said.

This time his voice was steadier. You glanced back over your shoulder.

The sight of your face hit harder than the transformation had.

Your eyes shone, not with defiance, but defeat. Your expression wasn’t defensive. It was resigned, like you had already decided what he must think of you and were bracing yourself to accept it.

He closed the distance between you slowly, each step deliberate. He didn’t reach for you or block your path. He stopped close enough to see you clearly, but far enough that you could still leave if you chose.

“I need to understand,” he said.

Up close, the details became impossible to ignore: the faint tremor in your hands, the way your fingers curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself smaller, your jaw was locked too tight, your breathing uneven.

You weren’t standing your ground.

You were enduring.

The realization didn’t softening the situation, but sharpened it. You weren’t someone caught in a lie trying to justify it, you were just waiting for the verdict.

“That first night…” he asked carefully. “Did you seek me out?”

Your reaction was immediate.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Your eyes widened, horrified at the implication.

“I didn’t plan it. I was just going to nap on the couch… But you were there…” Your voice faltered, fragile but insistent. “And it was so simple at first. You didn’t expect anything. And I wasn’t going to say the wrong thing. And then it kept happening, and the longer it went on, the harder it was to stop… And by then I knew where you like to be quiet… And I liked being near you…”

The honesty in it disarmed him more than pure denial would have.

You hadn’t tried to reshape the truth into something cleaner. You hadn’t minimized it. You had simply admitted it, raw and unprotected.

He held your gaze, searching for any sign of calculation, but didn’t find it.

“You say you wanted to be near me,” he said. “So what did you think was going to happen?”

Your throat moved as you swallowed.

“Nothing was supposed to happen.”

The words sounded smaller now. Less certain.

He studied you, weighing them against what he knew. Against quiet nights and steady breathing. Against the weight of a small body pressed against his side while he said things aloud he had never trusted another person to hear.

“You knew that it wouldn’t stay simple,” he replied. His voice wasn’t accusing. Just honest. “There’s no way you could sit there night after night, listening to me talk about things I don’t say to anyone else, and not think about where that leads.”

Your gaze fell.

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

He believed you.

Not that it excused anything, but it fit. Because nothing about you, in hindsight, had felt orchestrated. You hadn’t steered him. Hadn’t lingered with intent. You had simply existed beside him, quiet and warm and steady.

He dragged a hand over his face, trying to make sense of the situation

“Were you going to tell me?”

The question lingered between you.

Your silence answered first. Then, quietly, “I didn’t know how.”

He believed that, too. 

Because he remembered the night cat-you had followed him to his room. The startled yowl and panic in your movements when he had reached for his pants, the frantic scramble of claws against hardwood as you fled.

There had been no manipulation in that, only embarrassment.

And yet.

“You let me believe I was talking to an animal that didn’t understand. When it was you.”

The words settled heavier than he intended and he saw you flinch.

Your head snapped up, apology filling across your face. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. You were talking. I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, voice trembling under the strain. 

You took a deep breath, “I didn’t want to leave, because that felt like a rejection. And…” you hesitated with this much honesty, “you seemed as lonely as I was.”

He could see the effort it took just to stand there, to remain instead of retreating into the safety of fur and silence.

“But I couldn’t let you believe for a second longer that I was afraid of you or avoiding you because of your past.”

He had believed you avoided him because you wanted distance. Because he made you uncomfortable. Because he reminded you of things you didn’t want near you.

Not because you liked him.

You went quiet, and he could see in your face that you were replaying every moment from his side. Every absentminded scratch behind your ears. Every slow stroke along your spine. Every quiet, unguarded confession he had offered into what he thought was solitude.

“And every time you reached for me…” you said, your voice smaller now, stripped of all defenses, “I let you. When I knew it wasn't that simple. And you didn't.” 

The admission was dangerous. He felt the truth of it in his chest. Not something done to him, but as something you had allowed and had carried alone.

He glanced down at his own hand. 

The same hand that had stroked along your spine night after night. That had scratched behind your ears, traced the line of your skull, rested warm and unguarded against what he had believed was nothing more than fur and feline instinct.

His fingers flexed once, slow and uncertain, recalibrating.

Memory rearranged itself in real time: the weight of you curled against his thigh, the steady vibration of your purr, the way he had let his touch linger because it had felt uncomplicated.

It hadn’t been uncomplicated.

It hadn’t been simple.

He let his hand fall back to his side, not withdrawing from you or recoiling, but acknowledging the difference, the fact that it had been you all along.

The warmth of those evenings didn’t vanish, but it shifted. And so did he.

He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, forcing his pulse to settle into something manageable. The initial jolt of shock had burned away, leaving deliberation in its place. This wasn’t about reacting. It was about choosing how to move forward.

“This is weird,” he said plainly.

There was no point pretending otherwise. The understatement felt almost inadequate, but it was honest.

“I know,” you said, softer now, the fight gone from your voice.

“And yeah,” he continued, steady but unflinching, “it crosses a line.”

You flinched like he had physically struck you. Your shoulders tightened, chin dipping as if bracing for impact. He saw the moment your mind leapt ahead: to exile, to consequences, to punishment.

“But,” he added before you could retreat into that spiral, “it’s not the line you think.”

You looked up at him, confusion cutting through the shame.

“If I thought you were manipulating me,” he said, voice level and certain, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He meant that.

Manipulation had a texture that he knew intimately. It was subtle and coercive and designed to control. What had happened here had felt quiet and human.

The weight of his words settled between you. He saw the way you swallowed, saw the resignation flicker behind your eyes, as if you were already prepared to pack your things if he asked.

You would leave voluntarily, he realized, out of guilt. And a deeper realization followed, that he didn't want that.

“I don’t think you were trying to control me,” he said. “I think you were hiding.”

Your lips parted slightly, startled.

“But from what?” he asked.

“From… myself, mostly,” you admitted. Your voice didn’t shake this time, though it was raw and unguarded. “From messing it up. From becoming a laughingstock. From hearing you say you didn’t feel the same.”

The admission of your fear settled deep in his chest. He recognized it easily. He had lived in it for years: fear of being too broken, too complicated to choose.

“I should have told you before it… got this far,” you continued. “I just… I didn’t know how to be brave enough… as myself.” Your throat tightened around the last word. “I’m sorry.”

He measured the truth in your expression silently.

The sharp edge of suspicion that had flared earlier dulled under scrutiny. You hadn’t been orchestrating anything, you hadn’t been steering him. You had been avoiding the risk of rejection the only way you knew how.

It was flawed and it was unfair, but it wasn’t malicious.

“You should have given me the choice,” he said finally.

The words weren’t raised or sharp, just firm.

Choice mattered, especially to him, who had been stripped of his autonomy before.

“You’re right,” you accepted, without argument or deflection.

Silence filled the room again, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It was closer to a recalibration: two people adjusting to a new truth neither of them had expected to face tonight.

His gaze flicked briefly to the couch, to the indentation where you had been curled minutes earlier. The moment no longer felt like a lie. It had been reframed, colored differently, but not erased. 

The warmth had been real. The quiet companionship had been real.

But so had the imbalance.

He looked back at you.

“You can’t hide,” he said. “Not if you want something real.”

Your breath hitched softly.

He took a deep breath, settling on a decision.

“So you’ve spent weeks getting to know me. You likely know me better than most here in the compound. Now… I’d like to get to know you back,” he added, holding your gaze so there would be no confusion, “As you. Not as the cat.”

There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. He meant it as both boundary and invitation tangled together; a new start. 

He searched your face again, not for apology this time, but for resolve. For the willingness to stand in your own skin and not retreat the second it felt uncomfortable.

“Can you do that?” he asked.

The question lingered between you, fragile but steady.

Then he stepped back and sat down on the couch, lowering himself into the cushions deliberately. He didn’t reach for you or gesture as further invitation. He simply created space beside him, open, but not demanding.

For a heartbeat, you remained standing.

He watched the decision move across your face. The familiar instinct to withdraw flickered there, and then faded.

You crossed the distance and sat beside him, not as something small and safe and untouchable, but as yourself.

“What do you want to know?” you asked quietly.

Jo noticed the little things first. The white cat no longer flinched whenever he reached out to stroke her head. She would even lean into the touch for a fleeting moment, purring so softly he sometimes wondered if he'd imagined it. Then, almost as if remembering something, she'd abruptly stop.

Every single time, her ears would twitch, her eyes would widen ever so slightly. And before Jo could wonder what had happened, she'd lightly smack his hand away with one paw. Not enough to hurt, though.

Just... no more.

"...Sorry," Jo would always mumble, withdrawing his hand immediately.

Oddly enough, the cat would then stare at him for a long second.

Almost... guiltily.

The first time she'd shuffled closer of her own accord a few moments later, gently pressing the top of her head against his knee as though apologizing... Jo had become a lost cause.

He adored her.

Completely.

He'd even asked his mother over breakfast whether they might adopt the cat. His mother had looked up from kneading dough with an expression that already told him the answer.

"She belongs to someone else, dear."

"...But what if her owner doesn't mind?"

His mother laughed.

"The whole town would mind."

"..."

"Imagine the uproar if the cat suddenly started living here. Every bachelor in town would be knocking on our door before sunrise."

Jo quietly lowered his eyes to his porridge.

"...Right."

So he settled for what he had, which was their nightly meetings.

Most evenings were spent atop quiet rooftops, hidden away from the noisy streets below where no one thought to look. Eventually, Jo noticed that she favored the old clockmaker's roof the most. Perhaps because it overlooked nearly the entire town. Or perhaps because it caught the moonlight best. Whatever the reason, that was where he always found her.

So when his mother returned from the market one afternoon carrying several fresh tins of sardines, Jo quietly claimed one before anyone else could.

"For later," he explained.

His mother merely smiled.

That evening, he headed straight for the clockmaker's shop. He was already smiling before he even turned the corner.

"I've got sardines!" he called in an enthusiastic whisper.

"Specially for you!"

A familiar white figure sat near the roof's edge beneath the full moon.

"There you are."

"Wait for me!"

Without expecting any sort of reply, Jo hurried toward the stack of wooden crates behind the shop, following his usual route. One foot here, hands there, a pull, another step. He had climbed this roof so many times now that his body barely needed to think about it. By the time he hauled himself onto the shingles, he was already dusting dirt from his trousers.

"I almost forgot the little plate today," he rambled cheerfully while reaching into his satchel. "You would've had to eat straight from the tin, and I felt rather guilty about tha—"

He looked up, and his words stopped in his throat.

Because standing where the white cat should have been... was a woman.

She stood quietly at the edge of the rooftop, dressed in flowing sky-blue cotton that fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Long pink hair caught the moonlight like spun rose quartz.

Bright blue eyes stared at him.

Familiar blue eyes.

She regarded him calmly, almost expectantly, as though she had been waiting for him to arrive. As though she already knew him.

Jo blinked.

"...Hello," she said softly. "I don't think I want your sardines tonight."

And something in his brain snapped into realization.

The cat.

The woman.

The woman is the cat.

He's been...

He's been,

"AAAAH!"

His foot slipped, and before dignity, logic, or gravity could negotiate, Jo was gone.

Tumbling down the roof.

Scrambling.

Absolute chaos.

He didn't even process the pain before he was back on his feet, face burning, ears red, already running.

"I'VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH A WOMAN—"

Somewhere above him,

"JO—!"

He did not turn back.

Truly... I thought I'd surprise him tonight. Not the usual way I surprised every other bachelor in this ridiculous town, of course. Their reactions were usually entertaining for entirely different reasons. I simply thought that... perhaps tonight I could finally introduce myself properly. We'd spent the better part of two weeks together, after all.

He'd been talking to me every evening while I answered by licking my paws. As charming as that arrangement had become... it was admittedly rather one-sided. He'd been so kind to me, fed me, talked to me, scratched behind my ears exactly right, never once tugged at the key around my neck, never once chased me. Never even looked at me like I was something to be won.

Well...

As far as I could tell... he meant no harm.

Right?

I wanted to answer him instead of purring uncontrollably every time he touched me. That was becoming embarrassingly difficult to explain away. I wanted to be his friend.

From my perch atop the clockmaker's roof, I watched him round the corner carrying that familiar leather satchel.

"I've got sardines! Specially for you!" he whispered loudly.

"Wait for me!"

Honestly. Who did he think he was? Telling me to wait.

Still, I waited.

As he disappeared around the back to begin his usual climb, I stepped into the moonlight. My paws stretched, bones shifted, white fur receded into warm skin. The familiar magic settled as I stood upright once more.

By the time he climbed onto the roof, I was already waiting. He was still brushing dust from his trousers.

"I nearly forgot your little plate tonight," he was saying cheerfully. "I would've felt terribly guilty making you eat straight from the tin because that would've been rather rude and I—"

He looked up and stopped talking.

Oh.

Well...

That was understandable. It wasn't every evening one discovered the stray cat they'd been feeding was actually a woman. I offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

"...Hello."

"..."

"I don't think I want your sardines tonight."

"..."

Goodness. Had I broken him?

His face had gone completely blank. Color slowly drained from it. He blinked slowly at me like a broken doll. I frowned.

"...Jo?"

No response.

Concern prickled through me as I took a careful step forward.

"Are you alri—"

His foot slipped.

"...Jo?"

He vanished straight off the roof.

I lunged forward.

"Jo!"

My heart leapt into my throat as I reached the edge. He'd landed in an undignified heap atop the hard ground below. I winced.

Alive at least. Thank heavens.

He scrambled upright before I could ask whether anything was broken. Then he looked up at me once, our eyes met, and then his expression changed.

"...I've..." He swallowed. "I've been..." Another swallow. "...I've been flirting..."

I blinked.

"...with..." His voice cracked spectacularly. "...A WOMAN THIS WHOLE TIME?!"

...

...

Excuse me?

Before I could respond, he spun around and bolted.

"I'M SO SORRY!"

He sprinted down the empty street as though every demon in existence had decided tonight was an excellent evening to chase him.

"I DIDN'T KNOW!" His voice echoed between the buildings. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE A CAT!"

I stood frozen atop the rooftop, holding the tin of sardines he'd dropped before falling off.

...

Was...

Being a catshifter truly that shocking?

I looked down at my hands. Then at the sardines. Then toward the empty street where he'd disappeared. A small frown tugged at my lips.

"...I thought he liked me."

The next day, Jo fell sick.

Badly.

No one in the house could quite decide whether it was the cold rain from the night before, the spectacular fall from the clockmaker's roof, or the sheer shock of realizing he'd spent the past several weeks shamelessly doting on an actual woman instead of a stray cat. Whatever the cause, by the time afternoon settled over the little town, his forehead burned beneath his mother's palm, his cheeks were flushed an unhealthy shade of pink, and his usually bright eyes struggled to remain open.

By evening, he was confined to bed.

The timing could not have been worse. The town's only healer had left several days ago to attend the annual gathering, where generations of healers exchanged remedies, renewed old blessings, and tended to traditions no one outside their circle fully understood. He would not return for another week.

Which meant there was little left to rely on beyond patience.

Jo's mother, however, did the best she could. Every hour she returned to his room, replacing the damp cloth resting across his forehead. When another fit of shivering overtook him, she tucked yet another blanket over his already bundled frame until only the top of his dark hair remained visible. Bitter herbal tea brewed downstairs, filling the house with the earthy scent of medicinal roots. Jo accepted every steaming cup with a tired smile, never once complaining about the taste, though each swallow made him wince.

He had never been loud whenever illness found him. If anything, sickness seemed only to quiet him further.

The fever stripped away even his habit of humming to himself. Now there were only soft breaths slipping unevenly past his lips, the occasional tremble running through his shoulders despite all the blankets piled upon him.

"...Cold..."

The word barely escaped his throat before dissolving into another shaky breath.

His mother paused beside the bed, gently brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead before smoothing them back into place.

"I know, sweetheart," she whispered. "Just sleep."

Across town, someone else noticed his absence.

At first, she assumed he was simply late. He had, on occasion, lingered too long helping his mother wash dishes or been delayed by one errand or another before making his nightly rounds in search of her. She knew his habits well enough by now to recognize the rhythm of his evenings.

So she waited atop the old clockmaker's roof, which had somehow become theirs. It overlooked the sleeping town without drawing attention to itself, high enough that the sounds of the streets below softened into distant murmurs. Most evenings she would already be waiting by the time Jo appeared at the corner with that battered leather satchel slung across one shoulder, always smiling before he'd even spotted her.

Tonight, the roof remained empty.

The moon climbed slowly above the rooftops, lanterns disappeared from one window after another, yet still there were no footsteps. No familiar silhouette climbing the wooden crates. No careful voice carrying upward through the quiet.

"Hello there."

"I've got sardines!"

Or the increasingly embarrassing little sound that somehow never failed to make her ears twitch.

"Pspspsps..."

She lowered her head onto her paws, staring absently at the empty street below.

Surely... surely he hadn't decided to avoid her because of what happened last night.

Right?

She had surprised him. Perhaps far more than she'd intended. Maybe she'd moved too quickly. Maybe she should have remained a cat for a little longer. Perhaps if she'd waited another week... another month...

The old grandfather clock interrupted her thoughts. Its deep chime rolled across the sleeping town, each measured toll lingering in the night air before fading into silence once more.

Midnight.

Something wasn't right.

She had never possessed much patience to begin with, and tonight the unease gnawing quietly at her refused to be ignored. Before she'd consciously reached a decision, her body had already moved. White paws landed silently upon the neighboring roof before carrying her effortlessly from one building to the next, weaving through narrow streets until a familiar house came into view.

She stopped across the road and looked up at the second-floor window. The one she'd watched him sit beside each morning, his sketchbook balanced lazily across his knees while sunlight poured over his shoulder. It stood slightly ajar.

Convenient.

Cats, thankfully, were built for such inconveniences.

Her claws found easy purchase along the stone wall as ivy curled around the old bricks. She climbed without effort, the leaves brushing softly against her fur until at last she reached the windowsill. The gap between the shutters proved just wide enough for her to slip inside unnoticed.

Moonlight washed quietly across the room while everything else rested in darkness.

Jo lay curled beneath what seemed to be every blanket his household possessed, yet even from the windowsill she could see the faint tremor running through his shoulders. His breathing came unevenly, too warm, too shallow, the flush across his cheeks unmistakable even beneath the silver glow of the moon.

"...Cold..."

The word escaped him again.

Her ears flattened instinctively. The ache that tightened around her chest surprised her with its sharpness. She wasn't a witch. She couldn't draw fever from a body or weave healing into aching bones. Shapeshifting had never granted miracles, only another form to wear. Watching him like this, she found herself wishing that it had.

Instead, all she could offer was what little warmth she possessed.

She crossed the room without another sound before gathering herself into a gentle leap. The mattress dipped softly beneath her paws. For a brief moment she simply watched him, uncertain whether she should remain. Then another tremor shook his body, making the decision for her.

She curled herself carefully against his side.

Her thick white fur settled over his arm and shoulder, trapping the warmth already hidden beneath the blankets. At first nothing changed. Then, little by little, the violent trembling eased. His breathing grew deeper. The tight lines pulled across his brow slowly relaxed until his face looked almost peaceful again.

"...Meow," she whispered quietly.

She rested her head against his shoulder. His heartbeat echoed softly beneath her ear.

Hours later, somewhere between fever and dreams, Jo stirred.

The heat remained, lingering stubbornly beneath his skin, but the unbearable chill had faded. In its place rested a different kind of warmth, pleasantly heavy against his chest. He blinked slowly, his thoughts drifted sluggishly into focus.

White fur.

The cat had somehow curled herself neatly atop him, fast asleep, her steady purr vibrating gently against his ribs like the quietest lullaby he'd ever heard.

Jo simply looked at her.

His mind, still tangled in fever, made no real attempt to understand how she'd found him or whether she had truly been there all night. The questions seemed strangely unimportant compared to the simple comfort of her weight resting against him.

"...Maybe I'm dreaming," he murmured, the words thick with sleep. His gaze remained fixed on her peaceful face.

A long silence stretched comfortably between them before another thought surfaced, slow and uncertain.

"...Was it... last night..." His eyelids drooped again. "...or tonight?"

The only answer came in the soft, unwavering rumble of her purring.

Real.

Or dream.

At that moment, he found he didn't particularly mind either way. A sleepy smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth as one hand lifted from beneath the blankets with visible effort. His fingertips found the familiar place behind her ear, scratching gently enough not to wake her.

"...Thanks for coming."

The purring deepened almost immediately.

Jo let his hand rest there for another quiet moment before sleep, gentle and irresistible, gathered both of them back into its embrace once more.

The next morning, Jo woke up feeling oddly refreshed.

He had expected his head to throb the moment he opened his eyes, his limbs to protest any attempt at movement, the fever to still cling stubbornly to his skin. Instead... nothing, as he blinked at the familiar wooden ceiling above him.

The morning sun spilled lazily through the half-open window, carrying with it the distant chatter of merchants setting up their stalls in the square. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere outside, birds argued noisily over something that was probably none of their business.

Jo lay still for another minute, waiting for another wave of dizziness that would come. But it didn't. Slowly, he pushed himself upright.

"...Huh."

Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He stretched one arm overhead. His shoulders didn't complain. He bent down to retrieve the blanket that had slipped onto the floor. No soreness.

"...That's..." Strange.

He remembered being terribly cold, his mother changing the cloth on his forehead. Yet after that... his thoughts blurred together into something soft and indistinct. His brow furrowed. No matter how he reached for the memory, it slipped through his fingers like water.

"...Must've dreamed it."

He rubbed the back of his neck before quietly heading downstairs.

Breakfast had long since gone cold by the time Jo wandered into the kitchen.

His mother had already left for the morning market, though she'd thoughtfully covered a bowl of rice and grilled fish to keep the flies away. Jo thanked her in his head anyway before settling at the table. His appetite had returned with surprising enthusiasm, so that by the time the front door slid open again, he'd already finished half his meal.

"Oh?"

His mother stepped inside, carrying a woven basket balanced comfortably against one hip.

"You're awake already?" She paused in the doorway. "...You look much better."

Jo looked up from his bowl.

"I feel better."

She raised an eyebrow.

"So quickly?"

"I know." He sounded almost as puzzled as she was. "I don't even feel sick anymore."

His mother crossed the room and, before saying another word, rested the back of her hand against his forehead.

"...No fever."

Her expression softened into visible relief.

"Well." She smiled. "I'm not about to complain."

She began unpacking vegetables one by one, humming quietly beneath her breath. For a while, only the soft sounds of breakfast filled the room. Almost as an afterthought, she spoke again.

"That woman everyone's been talking about..."

Jo looked up.

"...She's leaving."

His spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

"Leaving?"

His mother nodded.

"So I've heard." She reached into the basket for a bundle of spring onions. "It hasn't even been a year since she arrived."

"..."

"But people like her rarely stay in one place." She shrugged lightly.

Jo lowered his gaze back to his breakfast. Somehow that felt disappointing, for a reason he wasn't entirely sure why. Before he could untangle the feeling, his mother sighed softly.

"And just like that..." She shook her head with amused disbelief. "Every one of those young men who'd been chasing after her has already disappeared."

Jo let out a quiet breath through his nose.

"...Figures."

His mother glanced over.

"You expected as much?"

He nodded.

"I don't think they ever cared about her." His spoon nudged absentmindedly at the rice. "They just wanted to win."

A thoughtful silence followed.

"...Perhaps."

His mother didn't argue. She simply continued sorting vegetables before lifting the basket once more.

She'd almost reached the doorway when another thought stopped him.

"...What about the cat?"

His mother looked back over one shoulder.

"The white one?"

Jo nodded.

"Hmm..."

She thought for a moment.

"I haven't seen her since yesterday." A small shrug followed. "Maybe she went with her owner."

"Oh."

Such a simple answer, such an obvious one.

His mother walked back over, smiling gently as she brushed a hand through his slightly messy hair before leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

"I'm glad you're feeling better."

Then she disappeared into the garden.

That evening, almost without thinking, Jo found himself slipping quietly out the back door once more. He paused only long enough to slide it shut without making a sound, then stood beneath the cool night sky with his hands tucked into his pockets. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd come outside.

Fresh air, perhaps.

The house had begun to feel strangely small after spending the better part of two days confined to his room. A walk might help settle the lingering restlessness still humming somewhere beneath his ribs.

"...Just a walk."

He nodded once, as though convincing himself.

Nothing more.

Yet the moment his feet carried him onto the main road, they turned of their own accord. Past the bakery, already dark for the evening. Past the little fountain where children spent their afternoons chasing one another. Past the row of lanterns casting warm pools of light across the empty streets.

He only realized where he was heading when the old clockmaker's shop came into view.

"...Oh."

His pace slowed.

The familiar stack of wooden crates still rested against the back wall exactly as he'd left them. The rooftop beyond lay quiet beneath the moon.

Empty.

No white tail flicking lazily over the shingles. No pair of bright blue eyes watching him long before he ever looked up. No familiar little face waiting expectantly for her evening sardines.

Jo stood there for a while. Long enough for the night insects to resume singing after his footsteps had faded. Long enough to convince himself she truly wasn't coming.

"...Right."

He smiled to himself, though it felt strangely small.

"Of course."

She was leaving with her owner. That was only natural. At least she wasn't constantly being chased now.

Still...

He climbed onto the crates anyway, just to check.

He pulled himself onto the rooftop with practiced ease, brushing dust from his palms before looking around once more. He found nothing.

He crossed the roof, peered down the opposite alley, even checked the neighboring chimneys where she'd occasionally wandered mindlessly.

No white fur, no quiet purring, only moonlight stretching across empty rooftops.

Eventually, he climbed back down.

His walk home felt quieter somehow.

The town hadn't changed. The same lanterns glowed warmly. The same breeze wandered lazily through the streets.

Yet something small seemed to be missing from every familiar corner.

When he reached home, he pushed open the little wooden gate and stepped into the backyard. He stopped when he realized someone was already there.

At the edge of the roof above his bedroom sat a familiar white silhouette, perfectly still. The moon painted silver across soft fur. His heart lurched so suddenly he almost laughed.

"...You're here."

The cat lifted her head. Their eyes met across the yard.

Then Jo was already running.

"Wait!"

His satchel bounced forgotten against his side as he hurried toward the wall, grabbing the familiar vines without hesitation. But before he even started to climb, the cat lurched toward him.

"...WOAH?!"

Jo threw both arms forward just as the cat collided squarely against his chest. The impact stole what little balance he'd had, and his foot slipped. They toppled together onto the ground.

For several long moments, nothing happened. Jo lay perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut as his lungs struggled to remember how breathing worked.

"...Okay." He winced. "...That's dangerous."

Silence answered him.

He'd expected at least an indignant meow. Instead, there was only warm weight resting against him that felt considerably softer and heavier than a mere cat.

Slowly, Jo opened one eye.

The first thing he noticed was a pair of pretty, cat-shaped eyes in the shade of a bright blue sky staring at him. Then peculiar long strands of pink hair spilled over his arm like silk catching the moonlight.

His thoughts came to a complete stop.

There was... a woman lying directly on top of him instead of a cat. Close enough that he could count the tiny freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. Close enough to feel her breathing.

Close enough that...

Jo inhaled sharply, his entire face draining of color before flooding with crimson the next second.

"...AA—"

A hand flew over his mouth before the scream could properly exist.

"Shhh!"

Her face appeared inches from his own, far too close. Eyes wide from the sheer amount of panic.

"You're going to wake the whole town!"

Jo froze completely.

That voice made his heartbeat stumble.

That voice...

The rooftop.

The moonlight.

The woman standing where his cat should have been before he was falling off the roof.

The fever.

Warm fur curled against him.

Everything returned all at once as one complete memory.

His eyes widened.

His face somehow managed to become even redder.

"...Mmph?!"

He made a thoroughly unintelligible noise against her palm.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"...Are you going to scream again?"

Jo considered the question with absolute sincerity, then nodded immediately.

She sighed.

"...I appreciate the honesty."

Then she pressed her hand more firmly over his mouth.

"So don't."

He shut his eyes in embarrassment and shook his head as much as her grip allowed.

No.

No screaming.

He would absolutely not scream.

Probably.

After another cautious moment, she slowly lifted her hand away.

The instant his mouth was free, Jo blurted the first coherent thought his poor brain managed to assemble.

"...You're the cat."

"..."

She looked at him, then one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.

"...You took a while."

Jo blinked.

"...It wasn't a dream?" he breathed.

"...I am pretty cool, am I?"

For the first time, Jo heard her laugh. Just a small, helpless little laugh that escaped before she could stop it. And somehow... hearing it as a woman sounded exactly the same as hearing her purr.

The laugh had barely faded from the night air before Jo abruptly came back to his senses, or rather, panic finally caught up with him.

He made a small, strangled sound somewhere in his throat before planting both palms against her shoulders and shoving her away with considerably more strength than he'd intended. She gave an undignified little yelp as she slid backward across the grass. Jo was already scrambling in the opposite direction.

Hands.

Feet.

Anything to put distance between them.

By the time he stopped, nearly three arm's lengths separated them. He sat frozen, breathing as though he'd just outrun an avalanche.

The woman stared at him.

"..."

"...Why are you scared of me?"

The question left her mouth before she could stop it, genuinely baffled.

"I thought you liked me."

"I—"

Jo's entire body stiffened.

"I do!"

His answer came so quickly that it startled both of them.

Then his brain caught up with what he'd just admitted.

"I mean—"

His hands flew into the air helplessly.

"I don't—I mean I do but—not like—I wasn't—I..."

Every word only buried him deeper.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

He grimaced.

"...My lady."

Worse.

"...Miss."

Still wrong.

"...Cat."

"..."

His eyes slowly closed.

"...No."

The silence that followed felt impossibly long that when he finally spoke again, his voice had shrunk into something barely audible.

"...I didn't mean to be rude."

He couldn't even look at her. Instead, he fixed his gaze firmly on one particularly fascinating blade of bent grass beneath his knee.

The bright red crept steadily from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. His shoulders had curled inward as though he hoped to disappear into himself. He refused to look anywhere near her face.

"...I didn't say you were rude."

Jo made a tiny noise of acknowledgement.

She tilted her head.

"...Well."

Another glance at the distance he'd created between them.

"I suppose you are being a little rude right now."

His shoulders sank.

"You just shoved me."

"..."

"Rather forcefully."

"..."

"It wasn't very dignified."

"I'm sorry."

The apology came immediately, utterly sincere.

"I shouldn't have done that."

He inhaled slowly before gathering enough courage to stand.

"I think..."

His knees felt strangely weak.

"...I think I should go."

He had barely taken a single step before warm fingers wrapped gently around his wrist to stop him.

Jo froze so completely that even his breathing seemed to forget what it was doing.

Behind him, the woman's voice softened.

"...Please stay."

Gone was the playful teasing from moments before. In its place rested something quieter, almost hesitant.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

The words settled between them like falling snow.

Jo looked over his shoulder without quite turning around.

"I figured..."

She gave a small smile.

"Isn't that why you came looking for me tonight?"

His lips parted.

"You even came out after being so terribly sick."

Jo's eyes widened.

"...How..."

The question escaped before he could stop it.

How did she know?

His thoughts drifted, just for a moment, toward fever dreams that felt strangely real.

White fur.

A gentle purr resting against his heartbeat.

No...

Surely not.

He shook the thought away almost immediately.

"...I..."

His voice came out much smaller than he'd intended.

"...I wasn't looking for you."

Her fingers loosened slightly around his wrist.

"Oh?"

"I..."

He swallowed.

"I was looking for the cat."

A long pause followed before she smiled.

The kind that reached her eyes.

"...Well."

She stepped around until she stood in front of him once more.

"That's unfortunate."

Jo looked up despite himself.

"Because..."

She lifted the hand still holding his wrist between them.

"...I am the cat you're looking for."

He swallowed hard enough that she actually heard it.

She couldn't help the tiny laugh that escaped her as she took one small step closer.

Jo didn't retreat this time.

Still, he remained where he was, though every muscle in his body looked ready to flee at a moment's notice.

Satisfied, she finally released his wrist.

Instead, she turned her hand over and held it out to him, palm open and waiting.

"I'm Josephine."

The breeze played gently with the loose strands of pink hair framing her face.

"And you're Jo."

She watched understanding slowly bloom behind his eyes.

A grin tugged at the corner of her lips.

"...Don't you think that's rather cute?"

She leaned in ever so slightly.

Just enough.

Then she winked.

Jo's brain ceased all higher function.

Every coherent thought fled his mind with astonishing efficiency. His face turned scarlet so quickly.

He stared at her offered hand as though it were the most dangerous object he'd ever encountered.

Josephine waited.

"..."

"..."

"...Are you alright?"

Jo opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more like a fish below the pond.

"...I..."

Nothing.

Not a single useful word survived.

Josephine pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.

"...Oh dear."

She'd broken him.

Again.

When she said "please"... once more, Jo swore he was hypnotized. By the time he realized he was no longer trying to leave, Josephine had already led them into the little garden behind his parents' house.

His mother's herbs slept peacefully beneath the moonlight, neat little rows of rosemary and mint swaying gently whenever the breeze wandered through them. Somewhere near the fence, a cricket chirped without interruption, blissfully unaware that the most sought-after woman in town was currently sitting among the tomato vines.

Jo made certain to leave several respectable feet between them. He had insisted upon it, and Josephine hadn't argued. She'd merely smiled in that infuriatingly knowing way before choosing a spot in the grass herself, folding her legs neatly beneath her blue dress as though this were the most ordinary conversation in the world.

For Jo, it very much wasn't.

The night settled comfortably around them. Above, the moon hung full and bright. Jo found himself staring at it with remarkable dedication. It was an excellent moon, very round, exceptionally bright. Much safer to look at than the woman sitting beside him. Because looking at the moon required nothing of him, while looking at Josephine...

He simply couldn't.

Beside him, Josephine didn't even pretend otherwise. Her gaze rested openly upon him, curious. It almost felt invasive as she studied the quiet little expressions that crossed his stiff face. She wondered whether he'd always avoided eye contact like this around women, or whether she alone had somehow earned the privilege.

Jo shifted awkwardly, tucked one knee closer to himself, cleared his throat, adjusted absolutely nothing. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he spoke without looking away from the moon.

"...Miss?"

"Hm?"

"...Would you mind..." He hesitated. "...not looking at me quite so much?"

"...Why?" The question was so genuinely puzzled that Jo almost turned to answer before remembering why he wasn't looking in the first place.

"..."

"I've been looking at you for weeks." She sounded honestly confused. "You never minded before."

"..."

"...That was different."

Josephine tilted her head, a few loose strands of pink hair slipping across her shoulder. "...You're not going to say anything about my eyes?"

Jo froze. His fingers tightened unconsciously around a blade of grass.

"I thought you liked them."

When he didn't answer, she blinked deliberately. Exactly the way she used to whenever she sat on the rooftop waiting for him. The gesture struck him with surprising force.

He had loved those eyes. Long before he'd known whose they were.

"...I..." His throat felt strangely dry. "...That's different."

Josephine's smile softened. "How?"

Jo finally gathered enough courage to glance sideways for a moment. Long enough to prove to himself he could.

It was a mistake.

Jo turned away almost immediately. "...That was when you were a cat."

Josephine hummed thoughtfully. "I see."

"So..." Her voice carried just the faintest hint of mischief. "You only like me when I'm a cat?"

Jo nearly inhaled the wrong way. "I didn't say that."

"No?"

"I..." His words scattered before they reached his mouth.

"Then..." Josephine asked gently. "What are you saying?"

The garden grew quiet again. A breeze wandered through the herbs, carrying with it the scent of lavender.

Jo watched the leaves sway, watched them far longer than necessary. When he finally spoke, his voice had become almost impossibly small.

"...I don't know." He laughed once beneath his breath. He genuinely didn't know what else to do. "I don't understand what's happening."

Josephine waited.

"You were..." He searched helplessly for the right words. "...You are..."

"A cat?"

"...Yes." The answer sounded ridiculous spoken aloud.

Josephine lowered her gaze to her hands resting quietly in her lap. "...I'm still me." There wasn't the slightest trace of teasing in her voice now, only honesty.

"I was me then." She looked back at him. "I'm me now."

The words settled gently between them.

Jo didn't answer. The words reached somewhere inside him he hadn't yet figured out how to name.

Eventually, unable to carry the weight of it any longer, Jo reached for the first safer thought he could find.

"...You're really leaving tomorrow?" The question came out too quickly, almost desperately.

Josephine noticed, but she didn't point it out.

"...Yeah." She leaned back on her hands, lifting her face toward the moon. "The whole chasing business..." A weary breath escaped her.

"...I'm tired."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only exhaustion.

"I thought it would settle down eventually." A small smile. "It only got worse."

She watched a cloud drift lazily across the moon.

"I don't mind people visiting."

Another pause.

"I don't even mind people admiring me."

Her smile faded.

"But I don't want to spend every morning sweeping traps out of my garden."

Jo looked down.

"...Or waking up because someone is throwing pebbles at my bedroom window to make sure I really live there."

His chest tightened. He'd never once wondered what happened after everyone went home. Whether she slept peacefully. Whether she dreaded opening her front door each morning.

"...But you're a catshifter." The thought escaped before he could stop it. "You could just..."

He gestured vaguely.

"...Hide."

Josephine smiled sadly.

"I can." She folded her hands together. "I have." Her eyes drifted toward the quiet rooftops surrounding them. "But I can't spend my whole life hiding."

She met his gaze again.

"I'm not a criminal, Jo."

The words landed with startling weight.

"I don't want to live like one."

She laughed softly without humor.

"I want neighbors."

"I want to open my windows."

"I want to buy bread without wondering if someone is following me home."

The ache in Jo's chest grew almost unbearable. He had never thought of it that way. To everyone else, she had been the prize. To herself... she had simply been trying to live.

After a long while, Josephine drew a slow breath.

"...I'm leaving tomorrow."

Jo stared quietly at the grass between them. His fingers brushed absentmindedly across a tiny white clover blooming near his knee.

"...Thank you."

Her voice was barely above the breeze.

"For taking care of me."

He looked up at her this time.

"You were the only person..." She smiled. "...who ever came looking for me instead of the key."

Jo felt something tighten painfully beneath his ribs.

"And..." She held his gaze. "You're different, Jo."

The words were spoken so simply that they almost slipped past him.

Almost.

"You always have been."

His chest ached for reasons he couldn't begin to understand, enough to make him wonder whether a heart could become homesick for something it had only just found.

Jo didn't sleep a wink.

Not even a little.

He tried, he truly did.

He turned onto one side, then the other, dragging the blanket with him until it twisted itself stubbornly around his legs. He sighed, untangled it, flipped his pillow over for what had to be the seventh time that night, only for the cool side to grow warm against his cheek almost immediately.

"..."

This was hopeless.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Pink hair washed silver beneath the moonlight. Blue eyes watching him so openly he still didn't quite know what to do with himself.

Then...

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Jo groaned quietly into the darkness and threw an arm across his face.

She was leaving.

The words refused to leave him alone.

She just wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would chase her. Somewhere she could wake up without wondering whether another fool had climbed over her garden fence or thrown pebbles at her bedroom window.

Jo exhaled slowly.

"...That must've been hard."

The room, naturally, offered no reply.

He imagined her arriving in another town. Another little house. Another front door. Meeting new neighbors. Learning another market. Another bakery. Another rooftop. Only to leave all over again when people inevitably discovered who she was.

His chest tightened unpleasantly.

"..."

"...I'd be tired too."

At some point, the crickets outside surrendered to the morning birds. Jo never noticed the change. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling until pale strips of sunlight began creeping through the gaps in his curtains. One of them caught something on the floor.

A tiny glimmer.

Jo frowned.

"...Hm?"

He pushed himself upright. There, tucked neatly between two old floorboards, something reflected the morning light. He reached down, slipping his fingers carefully into the narrow gap before fishing around until metal brushed against his fingertips.

"...Got you."

He pulled it free.

A key.

Small enough to disappear into his palm. Its shape was unlike any key he'd ever seen, delicate little grooves carved into brass polished smooth with age.

Jo turned it over once.

Twice.

No lock in his parents' house belonged to it. He knew every key hanging beside the front door. This wasn't one of them.

Then recognition arrived.

"...The key."

His breath caught.

The contest.

The ridiculous announcement.

The reason every bachelor in town had apparently abandoned common sense in favor of chasing one poor cat through rivers, rooftops, and occasionally into complete humiliation.

"...She left it?"

His thoughts stumbled backward.

The night he got a fever. A warm weight against his chest. White fur.

She must've left it then.

For him...?

Jo stared quietly at the little brass key resting in his hand. His fingers closed around it as his chest twisted. The same strange feeling that had been following him since she said goodbye the night before. The same feeling that had kept him awake until dawn.

He still couldn't quite name it. He only knew that...

He didn't like it.

"...Oh no."

The words left him in a whisper.

Because suddenly one thought crashed into every other thought in his head.

Tonight... there wouldn't be anyone waiting on the rooftop.

No soft little purr greeting him before dinner.

No patient blue eyes blinking up at him while he fumbled with another tin of sardines.

"...No."

He stood so abruptly that the blanket caught around one ankle, nearly sending him back onto the bed.

The key remained clutched tightly in his hand as he hurriedly pulled on yesterday's trousers, shoved his feet into the nearest pair of shoes he could find, and practically threw himself toward the door.

His mother called after him from the kitchen.

"Jo?"

"I'm going out!"

"So early?"

"I'll be back!"

"Breakfast..."

"I'll eat later!"

The front door was already swinging shut behind him.

He runs.

Past familiar houses, past sleepy neighbors sweeping their front steps, past curious glances that follow him down the road. Someone calls his name, someone else asks whether he's feeling better yet, but Jo doesn't answer either of them. The key digs into his palm with every stride.

"Wait!"

His breathing comes fast now. Uneven.

His lungs protest almost immediately after two days spent bedridden, yet he ignores them.

"Josephine!"

The edge of town comes into view, and the carriage is already there.

His stomach drops. "No..."

He runs faster, as fast as he can.

"You left the key!" The words tumble out between hurried breaths as Jo finally reaches her, stopping so abruptly he almost stumbles into the carriage itself.

He bends forward, one hand braced against his knee while the other stretches toward her. The strange little key rests in his open palm.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Jo is too busy catching his breath, and Josephine looks down at it.

A smile slowly blooms across her face. Gentler than any smile she's given him before.

"I left it for you."

Jo blinks. "...For me?"

"As a token."

The morning sun catches her just then. Loose strands of pink hair glow softly around her face while her blue eyes curve into crescents, warmth settling across features he still isn't entirely brave enough to look at for very long.

Only...

This time, he doesn't look away.

The silence stretches as the key rests between them. Jo's fingers tighten around it.

"Then stay." The words leave him before he can think better of them.

Before embarrassment has a chance to tackle them back down his throat. Before panic reminds him that asking someone not to leave is, perhaps, a rather enormous thing to say.

Josephine blinks. "...Jo?"

He swallows. His heartbeat is so loud he's almost certain she can hear it. But he doesn't take it back.

"I'll..." His voice catches, and he clears his throat.

"I'll officially court you."

He looks down at the little brass key still resting between them.

"So..."

Another breath.

"So no one can bother you anymore."

He takes one small step closer, no more backing away. No more pretending the moon is endlessly fascinating just to avoid looking at her. No more hiding behind his own embarrassment.

"Please." His voice softens.

"Stay, Josephine."

The world grows strangely quiet. Even the horses stand still.

Josephine says nothing for a long moment. She simply looks at him. At the young man who had offered sardines instead of traps. Who had worried about whether she'd eaten instead of whether he could catch her. Who had spoken to a stray cat every evening without expecting her to become anything more.

The boy who had chased her. Never because everyone else did. Never because of the key. Just because he wanted to spend another quiet evening with her.

Slowly, her hand reaches forward, fingers curling gently around his. Around the little brass key resting between their palms.

"...You're strange, Jo." She says it almost fondly. Almost like a sigh.

The corners of her mouth lift, but she doesn't let go.

And somehow... neither does he.

The carriage left that morning without her. And now the front door to Josephine's house opened,

because someone finally had the right key.

-FIN-