Chapter Text
The alarm began to glow at 6:45am, soft blue digits bleeding into the grey of the room. It didn’t buzz, Minho never set it to. He hated the sound of urgency, of being yanked awake. Light was enough. Familiar. Quiet. The only sound was the wind pressing against the windows and the creak of wood expanding with the morning chill.
He didn’t move right away. Just lay there, eyes half-lidded, watching the shifting silhouette of the curtain as it swayed against the glass. Somewhere beyond the fogged windowpane, a bird called once, sharp and solitary, and then the world returned to silence. It had rained overnight. He could smell it in the dampness of the sheets, in the cool that clung to the corners of the house like breath held too long. The cottage had always been like this. Still. Listening. Like it remembered something he didn’t.
The kitchen light flickered when he flipped the switch, as it had for the past year. He never bothered fixing it. One of the tiles by the bench was chipped, the edge sharp enough to cut bare feet if he wasn’t careful. His socks were thin; he felt everything through them. The kettle took too long to boil and shrieked when it did, but he used it anyway. Toast went in the toaster, two slices, dry, always slightly burned. He didn’t look at them as they popped. Just reached for the butter and spread it out in tired swipes, absentmindedly, as if completing a ritual that had long since lost its meaning.
There were no sounds but the creak of the floorboards beneath him and the ticking of the clock above the stove. No music. No television. He didn’t like noise in the mornings. Or most of the time, really.
Minho sat at the small kitchen table, alone as always. His tea had already gone cold. He didn’t notice until he took a sip and grimaced. He drank it anyway. The window to his left was half-covered by a curtain that had been caught on a bent hook for months. He could’ve fixed it with a single nail, but he never felt inclined to put in the effort.
Outside, the front garden was overgrown. His parents had once kept it neat—rosebushes trimmed to perfect domes, mint boxed into careful rows, the little stone path always clear. Now it was tangled, wild, brimming with weeds and overgrown herbs, and he let it be. The rosemary had overtaken the fence. The mint was out of control. He never watered it, never touched it, but it kept growing anyway. Sometimes he wondered if it would do the same to him.
-
The walk to work took him forty minutes each way. That was part of the appeal, if he was honest. It gave him time. Time to not speak, to not think. Just walk. The streets blurred into familiar shapes: the little corner bakery that only opened on weekends; the faded yellow post box no one used anymore; the park bench near the hill where the streetlight always flickered.
He never took the main road. He liked the quiet roads, places where footsteps echoed and nothing smelled like coffee. The quiet suited him. People didn’t. He didn’t like how loud they were, or how they smiled when they didn’t mean it.
At work, he didn’t speak unless he had to. His coworkers didn’t push. They thought he was cold. Minho knew this. He didn’t correct them. It was easier to be misunderstood when you didn’t expect anything better.
He returned home the same way he always did, head down, coat collar turned up against the wind, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching an umbrella he never opened. The rain had eased, clinging to the air like it didn’t want to fall. Minho’s coat was already damp by the time he turned onto the narrow stretch behind the church, boots scuffing quietly along the edge of the curb. It was the part of his walk he liked most, quiet, a little forgotten, never crowded. The streetlight here always flickered like it was trying to say something and forgetting how.
He didn’t expect to see anything. But his steps slowed without meaning to, pulled by something pale tucked beneath the old bus stop bench. At first, it looked like a bit of plastic, or maybe a crumpled rag. The kind of litter that got caught in the wind and wedged itself into corners. But then it shifted. Raised its head.
A cat. Small. Cream-coloured. Fur damp from the weather, matted slightly at the tips. Its body was curled into itself, but its head was upright. Watching. And its eyes—
Minho stopped walking.
There was nothing special about cats, not here. They were everywhere, scattered through alleyways and back gardens, sleek and scrappy, proud and wild. But something about this one made his ribs go tight. It was so still. So quiet. And it was staring at him like it knew something.
He hesitated, glancing around, half out of habit, half to make sure no one else had already claimed responsibility. But the street was empty. There were no other houses on this road until his own. It was just him, the cat, and the mist hanging between them. He adjusted the strap of his bag, taking a slow step forward.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.
The cat didn’t move. Its ears twitched, but it held his gaze. Minho crouched slowly, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his knees. He didn’t reach out yet. Just looked. Took it in. The way its paws were tucked tightly beneath its chest. The slight tremble in its flank. The damp fur along its back.
“Where’d you come from, huh?” he murmured softly, voice gentler now. “You’re too pretty to be stray. Someone dump you?”
No collar. No tag. He rubbed his hands together, considering.
It’s probably just hiding. Maybe it has a spot somewhere. Maybe it’ll go back when the rain stops.
But something about the way it didn’t flinch, didn’t shrink away, something about its patience, made that hope feel like a lie. Still crouching, Minho reached out. Gave the cat a tentative scratch behind the ear. It leaned into it just slightly. Didn’t purr. Didn’t retreat. Just let him. His throat tightened, inexplicably. He stood. Took a step back.
Okay. It’s alive. It’s alert. It’s fine. I can go now. I did my part.
He turned away. He made it ten steps before he stopped again, hands tightening into fists at his sides.
It’s not fine.
Not out here. Not in this weather. Not with no shelter, no tag, no guarantee it wouldn’t wander into the road. He let out a long breath through his nose and turned around. The cat was still there. Still curled. Still watching. Minho stared back for a beat, then pulled the scarf from around his neck and started walking.
“Alright,” he said under his breath, almost grumbling. “But only for tonight.”
Minho approached the bench with his scarf crumpled in his hands, the wool still warm from where it had rested against his throat. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen as he knelt again, maybe that the cat would flinch this time, now that the intention was clear. But it didn’t. It just blinked at him. Calm. Patient. He crouched slowly, careful not to move too fast, and let the scarf unfurl beside the cat like an offering.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice low enough that it barely stirred the air. “This is gonna be weird for both of us.”
The cat didn’t move away when he reached for it, only turned its head slightly, watching his every motion like it had already decided it could trust him. That made his chest ache in a quiet, unfamiliar way. He slid one hand gently beneath its belly, the other around its shoulders, and lifted.
The cat weighed almost nothing. All fur and damp and delicate warmth, a tiny heartbeat fluttering under its ribs. It didn’t struggle. Just let itself be gathered into his arms, curling almost immediately against the soft fold of scarf and coat. Minho held it close, tucking the bundle to his chest as if by instinct, protecting it from the rain that still ghosted down from the sky in fine silver threads.
Okay. Okay, this is fine.
You’ve held things before. Groceries. A potted plant. You’re allowed to carry a cat.
But this wasn’t just a cat. And he could feel that already, deep in his chest where all the quiet things lived.
-
He started walking, slower this time. More careful. One hand supporting the cat’s body, the other anchoring the scarf in place like it might slip loose and the whole illusion would shatter. The cat didn’t make a sound. Just nestled its face into the crook of his arm and let the motion lull it. Minho didn’t speak again. The words felt too fragile now, too loud for the kind of silence this moment needed. Instead, he walked through the mist with a heart full of questions and a stranger pressed to his chest like it belonged there.
By the time he reached the gate of his cottage, the rain had picked up again, heavier now, steady and insistent. His coat was damp through, the cold seeping in at the collar, and the scarf wrapped around the cat was beginning to spot with water. But Minho barely noticed. All he cared about was the weight pressed gently to his chest. The tiny warmth tucked under his chin. The way the cat hadn’t moved once since he’d picked it up, trusting him without reason.
God, what are you doing, he thought again, stepping carefully over the cracked stone path.
You don’t even know if it’s healthy. What if it hates you. What if it tears your curtains to shreds.
He glanced down. The cat’s eyes were closed now, body tucked tight against his chest, one tiny paw resting against the open edge of his coat like it belonged there. His throat tightened.
One night, he told himself. Just until the rain stops.
But the storm didn’t show signs of ending. If anything, the sky seemed to open wider, the mist thickening into proper rain again, splattering against the windows, hissing softly in the overgrown garden. Minho reached the door. Shifted the cat awkwardly into one arm, fumbled with his keys with fingers stiff from cold. The porch light flickered once and then held steady.
The front door creaked open with a stubborn groan, hinges sticky from the damp. Minho had to shoulder it shut behind him, the old timber shuddering back into place with a soft thud. Rain still pattered on the porch roof behind him, heavier now, soaked leaves scattering across the boards like confetti.
He stood in the narrow space of the entryway, which bled straight into the living room without much fanfare. The whole cottage had that layout, tight, worn, honest. A one-man space. The cat shifted in his arms.
“Alright, alright,” Minho muttered, boots thudding onto the mat as he toed them off.
He crossed the living room, only a few paces really, toward the small built-in hearth nestled against the right-side wall. The fire had long since gone cold, just a few crumbled logs sitting like ghosts in the grate. He knelt, placing the cat gently onto the worn area rug, then reached for the kindling. The cottage never warmed quickly, and even if the cat only stayed a night, it deserved something better than a chill floor and a soaked coat. The cat gave a quiet chirrup as Minho coaxed the flame back to life, its golden light flickering against tired wallpaper and book spines barely touched.
“Don’t get comfy,” he told it, rising slowly. “You’re gonna sleep in the kitchen.”
He fetched an old fleece blanket from the linen cupboard, clean, if a bit scratchy, and folded it into a soft makeshift bed just inside the kitchen doorway. From there, the cat would still see the firelight. He added a shallow bowl of water from the tap and set it beside the blanket like it was second nature. And maybe it was.
“Just for the night,” he said to no one in particular, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You’ll be gone in the morning. Probably.”
The cat blinked at him with calm expectation. Minho stared back.
Then he sighed. “I’m gonna shower. Don’t set the place on fire.”
The cottage floors groaned softly as he disappeared to the bathroom. Hot water hissed to life behind the wall, a steamy exhale in the quiet. When he returned, hair damp and skin flushed from the heat, the cat wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.
Instead, it was sprawled in front of the now-roaring fire, paws tucked neatly beneath its chest, fluffy and dry as if it had never seen a drop of rain in its life. The firelight shimmered off its soft coat, making it look almost otherworldly. Minho paused in the doorway, towel still draped around his neck. His lips tugged, barely, into something not quite a smile.
“…Guess you like the fireplace too.”
He moved into the kitchen and started preparing dinner the same way he always did, mechanical, precise, boring. Chicken, lightly pan-seared with a side of steamed vegetables. Enough to fill his stomach and nothing more. But halfway through plating it, he hesitated. Then he cut off a small piece of chicken and set it on a saucer. Quietly walked over to the fire. The cat looked up, curious.
“I hope you like it,” he mumbled, placing the dish nearby.
The cat approached, sniffed, then delicately nibbled, chewing like it had table manners. Minho snorted under his breath and returned to the kitchen to retrieve his own dish. They ate in silence. Him at the counter, the cat at the hearth. Somehow, it didn’t feel lonely the way it usually did.
When he was done, Minho rinsed his plate, dried it, then sank into the armchair by the fire with a long exhale. One of the legs was uneven, made the whole thing tilt slightly, but he’d long since grown used to the way it leaned. A few minutes passed before the cat made its move, silent, subtle. It crept closer, then sat a few feet away, watching him with that same unreadable gaze.
Minho tilted his head. “It’s warm over there too, y’know.”
Still, the cat lingered. A few more seconds ticked by. And then, like it had weighed all the risks and decided Minho was worth them, it jumped into his lap. Minho went rigid. Then, slowly, relaxed. The cat settled, heavy and warm, tail curling over his thigh. Minho looked down at it, and something in his chest bloomed, small and unexpected. A weight lifting, a hush settling into his bones.
“…Fine,” he whispered, his voice softer than the fire’s crackle. “Just tonight.”
-
The morning came grey and quiet, thick with the hush of clouds that hadn’t quite decided whether to cry or linger. Minho stirred early, as always, the habit carved into his bones more than any need. His alarm hadn’t gone off yet, it often didn’t. Instead, it was the silence that woke him, the feel of the world holding its breath just before dawn.
He sat up slowly, spine clicking, and blinked toward the kitchen where the fire had long since faded to ash. Still warm, though. Still safe. He rubbed the heel of his hand into one eye and glanced to the side.
The cat was curled in a perfect spiral on the armchair cushion across from him, soft belly rising and falling in rhythm with the gentle breeze outside. Somehow, it had made itself at home without asking. Minho didn’t mind.
“Still here, huh?” he mumbled, voice gravel-thick with sleep.
He stretched, padded barefoot to the kitchen, flicked on the light. A simple breakfast: toast, tea. He didn’t eat much in the mornings, not when work was a long walk away. He moved through the motions slower today, gaze drifting often to the bundle of fluff still dozing by the fire. By the time he finished dressing, black pants, soft jumper, an old coat that had seen better years, the cat was awake, blinking lazily at him from the same chair like it had never moved.
Minho crouched by it, resting his arms on his knees. “Alright,” he said gently, as if talking to a child, small and sensitive. “I’m heading out. Time for you to go home, little guy.”
The cat blinked. Minho stood, opened the door to the soft patter of drizzle, and stepped aside to let the creature out. It hesitated, then padded toward the threshold. The air smelled of damp earth and moss, wildflowers heavy with dew. The cat sniffed the breeze, tail high, and stepped out into the morning.
Minho followed, locking the door behind him. He glanced down the overgrown path and sighed. Long walk again. He started off, feet finding their usual rhythm, breath forming soft clouds in the air. Three minutes later, the lightest scuff of paws met his ears. He glanced back. There it was. Fluffy, dry, determined, trotting after him like it had somewhere to be and he was the only one who knew the way.
“Oh, come on,” Minho said, stopping short. The cat slowed too, pausing just a few paces behind him.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaled. “You’re unbelievable.” It tilted its head.
With a groan that had more fondness than frustration, Minho crouched and scooped the cat up. Its fur was warm now, soft against his collar as he cradled it awkwardly. “I’m not a taxi service,” he muttered, turning back toward town. “Just so we’re clear.”
The cat purred once, quiet and smug. Minho didn’t smile. But his chest felt warmer than it should’ve.
-
Work passed slowly. It wasn’t hard, just spreadsheets to update, customer files to double-check, stock orders to skim through. The tick of the wall clock felt louder than usual, each minute dragging its feet across dull carpet and flickering fluorescents. Minho kept typing, sorting, clicking. Same as always. But today, the chair across from his desk felt too empty.
Every now and then, he’d glance toward the front window of the building like he expected something, some tiny face or soft blur of fur. Nothing.
It was stupid. It wasn’t his cat, it was just a creature that had wandered into his space, eaten his food, stolen his chair, and left his chest slightly aching with an absence that had no right to exist.
By the time his shift ended, the drizzle had thickened to a steady rain. His coat soaked it up quickly as he stepped outside, tugging the collar up high. The walk home felt longer today, each step a quiet plod through shallow puddles and misted silence.
He didn’t expect the cat to be waiting. Of course he didn’t. That would be ridiculous. But he looked anyway. Looked behind benches, under bikes, past hedges, each time feeling more foolish for hoping. By the time his cottage appeared through the silver haze, his shoes were soaked, and so was his mood.
Then he stopped.
There, just ahead, tucked beneath the lone porch chair, was a small bundle of fluff. A familiar golden tail curled tightly around tiny paws. Two eyes blinked up at him, slow and sure, like where have you been?
Minho’s chest gave one sharp, bewildered squeeze.
He rushed up the steps, kneeling low despite the damp. “You—what are you doing here?” he asked, water dripping from his coat sleeves. “You walked all the way back?”
The cat blinked again. Then stood. Rubbed its head against his shin. Minho let out a laugh that caught at the edges, almost a gasp. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, voice thick. “You chose me?”
The cat didn’t answer, just butted its head into him again like it had never doubted. He reached down and scratched behind its ear. “You know I’m gonna have to buy a litter tray now, right? Food bowls? A hundred toys you’ll ignore?”
It purred softly, circling his legs like it belonged there. Minho’s smile was small but real, tugging at his lips as he straightened up and unlocked the door. “Alright then,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The rain fell harder behind them. But inside, it was warm. The door clicked closed with a sigh, shutting out the rain but not quite the chill it left behind. Minho stood in the entryway for a beat longer than necessary, fingers still resting against the doorknob. The air inside was still and cool, the fire had faded to ash, but it felt warmer than the evening outside, if only just.
He glanced down.
The cat had slipped past his legs and wandered in ahead of him, soft paws barely making a sound against the old wooden floor. It gave no dramatic pause, no sweeping glance around the room, just padded, unbothered, toward the living space and hopped up onto the same armchair it had claimed last night.
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Settling in fast, aren’t you?”
No response, of course.
He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook by the door. The sleeves were damp from the walk. His shoulders ached. The room felt like it had been waiting for them both to return. He moved through the house without turning on the overheads, just the small lamp near the hearth, its amber glow softening the edges of everything. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle, lit the stove, stood in silence while the flame crackled to life. The cat stretched lazily, kneading one paw into the arm of the chair.
The kettle began to hum, low and steady. He made a cup of tea, added a second bowl to the counter without thinking. He wasn’t even hungry, really. But his hands went through the motions: pulling a pack of chicken from the fridge, slicing vegetables without fanfare, boiling rice. Familiar steps. A quiet ritual. The scent of garlic and steam began to fill the space, settling into the walls like memory.
After a moment, he glanced toward the living room. The cat was watching him. Not lounging, not blinking off into space, watching. Quiet, intent. Like it knew what he was doing. Like it had been waiting for the moment his eyes would find it again.
Minho looked away, heat creeping up his neck. “I’m not sharing the good cuts,” he muttered, slicing a plain piece of chicken from the edge. “You can have the boring stuff.”
He plated his food without rush. Placed the small dish on the floor beside the hearth, then finally settled into his armchair again, tea in hand, the warmth seeping into his palms.
They ate in silence. Only the fire crackled now, he’d lit it not long after the rice went on, and it was slowly coaxing life back into the room. The cat finished first and curled again into the chair opposite him, tail flicking once, then still. Minho sipped his tea, eyes distant. Then, after a few minutes, he spoke softly.
“…I should name you.”
His voice sounded strange against the hush. The cat didn’t stir. Minho tilted his head toward it, fingers absently running along the seam of his mug.
“I could call you something simple. Socks. Mittens. Or, I dunno… something dramatic. Napoleon.”
The cat blinked once.
“Okay, yeah, that’s dumb.”
He stared into the fire a while longer. Its warmth didn’t quite reach the ache sitting quiet in his chest.
“I’ll think of something,” he murmured. “Something perfect.”
He didn’t notice the moment the cat moved, only when he glanced down again, it was perched beside his chair, one paw resting on the worn cushion like it was asking permission. Minho blinked.
“…You’re persistent.”
The cat jumped up. Turned in a slow circle. Settled in his lap. Minho didn’t move. Not at first. But then, cautiously, almost like the motion might break the spell, he lifted one hand and let it drift over soft golden fur. Warmth bloomed slowly in his chest.
-
As the late evening hush fell over the house, Minho gently relocated the cat to the ground. He headed to the kitchen to rinse his cup and set it gently in the sink, the clink of ceramic barely echoing in the stillness. The fire had burned low by now, casting sleepy shadows over the walls. He didn’t bother adding another log, just let the quiet cradle the space as he padded toward the bedroom, lights dim and movements slow.
Behind him: a soft tap tap, light as breath. He didn’t turn around, just kept walking. The sound followed. In the mirror above the hallway table, he caught a glimpse—golden fur, a little damp from the earlier rain, but already fluffed out again like it belonged here. Like it had always belonged.
Minho looked at the cat through the reflection. “You’re really not leaving, huh?”
He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t need one. He gave a faint, crooked smile and flicked off the light. “Alright then. Come on.”
The bedroom was dark, save for the sliver of firelight still filtering through the open door behind them. Minho peeled off his jumper and pants, folded them over the foot of the bed, then tugged on a worn grey long-sleeve and his softest pyjama pants. The cotton clung gently to him, comfortable, familiar. Like routine. Like home. He moved slowly, not out of weariness, but something quieter. When he turned around, the cat was sitting on the threshold of the room again, head tilted.
Minho chuckled under his breath. “Are you going to do that every time I walk away?”
The cat’s tail flicked once.
He pulled back the covers, the sheets cool against his skin as he slid beneath them. Usually, the silence here felt too big. Like it echoed. Tonight, it was gentle. The kind of quiet that held space, rather than hollowing it out. He rested his head on the pillow and looked toward the doorway. The cat padded in without hesitation. Hopped onto the bed with more confidence than grace. It stepped carefully over the blankets, testing the weight with its paws, then sat right beside his shoulder, upright and alert.
“You’ve got good instincts,” Minho said softly. “That’s the warmest spot.”
The cat blinked slowly. He reached up, let his fingers brush the side of its face, thumb trailing behind one soft ear. “Still no name,” he murmured. “But I guess we’ve got time.”
And then, like it had decided this moment mattered, the cat stepped forward and curled into the hollow of his neck. Its warmth pressed against his collarbone, tail wrapping lightly around his chest, breath soft against his skin.
Minho didn’t move. His fingers hovered for a second. Then settled in its fur, slow and gentle. He stared at the ceiling a while, not really thinking. Just feeling. The room was warmer than it had any right to be. His heart quieter than it had been in years.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t preparing himself to wake up alone. He closed his eyes, and sleep found him before he could doubt it.
-
It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hurts, he knows that kind too well. The kind that echoes against stone walls and stretches across years like a second skin. No, this is a different quiet. The kind that hums beneath the floorboards. The kind that rustles the curtains just a little, like the wind is exhaling. The kind that feels like the space between two heartbeats.
He moves carefully through it, small paws making no sound on the wood. The fire’s nearly out now, just embers and faint warmth reaching across the hearth. Still enough light to see the shapes of things. The lines of a life not touched very often.
Everything here is worn in a way that doesn’t feel neglected. It feels… patient.
His claws click softly against the floor as he rounds into the kitchen. The bench is clean. The sink empty. A towel folded neatly near the stove. There are two mugs side by side, still faintly damp from drying.
He pauses there. The warmth in his chest flares and flickers. He’s not used to being given things. Not like this. Not gently. Not without expectation.
He used to know what that felt like, maybe. A long time ago. He’s not sure anymore. So much has been forgotten, blurred by time and fur and the way the world stops listening when you stop being a boy.
But today, tonight, someone looked at him and saw something worth feeding. Worth talking to. Worth touching.
He pads toward the hallway, light trailing behind him like a fading echo. The walls here are lined with photos. A frame sits slightly crooked, and he stops just long enough to press a paw against the wall beneath it. He doesn’t know the people in the picture. But he knows the look in their eyes.
He moves on.
The bedroom door is open. The covers are rustled. A figure lies curled beneath them, one hand half-tucked under the pillow, the other resting where warm fur had just been.
He stays in the doorway for a while. Watches the rise and fall of a chest that breathes a little easier tonight. Watches the gentle crease between brows that, earlier, were pulled too tight from years of being alone.
He wonders if he’ll be allowed to stay. If this quiet will keep holding him, or if it’s just a dream.
He steps inside, one paw at a time. The bed still smells like firelight and soap and something grounding. Something real. He doesn’t climb up, not yet. Just circles to the edge where the blankets spill over, and curls into a small, golden shape beneath them. Close enough to feel the warmth. Not close enough to be a burden.
He can wait. He’s waited this long. But tonight, he hopes.
For the first time in forever, he hopes.