During his morning run the next day, Roman Griffin found a cat on the lakeside path.

The kitten was nothing but skin and bone, shivering yet rolling over to expose its belly in a pathetic plea for kindness. Its fur was so thin you could count every ridge of its ribs, and the base of its tail was matted with dried blood—likely the result of being bullied by the local strays.

"Meow..."

The sound was faint, tremulous, and laced with caution.

For some reason, the way it extended its hind legs to reveal its belly struck a chord in Roman, echoing a different, vulnerable voice from his own memories.

"Hold me."

He halted his pace. "Hungry?"

The kitten didn’t reply, its eyes tracking his every movement with frantic intensity.

"Stay here."

Roman kept running. Two miles later, he stopped at a convenience store to buy goat’s milk. On his way out, he looped back to the cooler, grabbing a tuna sandwich for good measure.

Four miles round-trip, and the cat was still huddled in the same spot.

It had hidden itself under a bush, carefully appraising every passerby. Whenever it saw someone who looked like they wouldn't kick it, it would let out a low, desperate mew.

So, it was playing the numbers game.

Roman let out a short, cynical laugh as he crouched down. "Come out."

Whether it recognized him or simply caught the scent of the food in his bag, the kitten shook its head and crept toward him, inching forward with the caution of a creature ready to bolt at the slightest twitch.

Roman ignored it, casually peeling open the sandwich packaging. He laid the plastic wrap on the ground, scraped the tuna onto it, and drizzled a splash of milk over the top.

Unable to resist the feast, the kitten tore into the meal. Once finished, it licked its chops and let out a significantly louder, more insistent "Meow!"

Within the span of a single meal, the kitten had moved from suspicious observation to trailing him closely. As Roman took a few steps away, the cat followed.

Roman looked down at it, his eyes hooded. "Want to come home with me?"

"Meow."

"Is it just me, or would you follow anyone?"

The cat tilted its head, as if weighing the question.

Roman started walking again, and the cat trailed behind. When he didn't stop, the kitten grew anxious. It leaped ahead, scurrying in front of him and flopping onto its back, effectively blocking his path. A few specks of mud stained its graying belly, right beside the flank.

Roman looked down, his mind drifting to the mole on Violette Ellis’s skin, the one he had spent all last night obsessively kissing.

How strange. Both the woman and the cat—it felt like they were meant to be his.

He reached down, gripping the kitten by the scruff of its neck and tucking it into his jacket. "Be good. Don't make a racket. There’s someone bigger asleep at home."

"Meow."

The kitten gave a short, submissive peep. It understood.

***

When Violette walked through the living room that morning, she felt like something was off. The room was still, yet the potted monstera in the corner was trembling. As she passed by again, it wasn't just the plant—the paper bag she’d left by the sofa was overturned and skittering across the hardwood floor with a frantic *tappa-tappa-tappa*.

Violette let out a surprised yelp.

A tiny, furry head popped out from under the paper bag. It was orange and white, looking utterly miserable, and let out a soft, pleading meow.

"..."

Hearing footsteps, Violette looked back. Roman was emerging from the home office, phone in hand. Seeing the scene, he offered her a soothing gesture, muttered, "You guys carry on, I'm busy," into the receiver, and hung up.

Violette, still feeling like she was in a dream, pointed at the bag. "A cat?"

"Sorry. Found him on the side of the road this morning." He leaned down to scoop up the kitten, squinting at it. "I thought I left you in the carrier. How did you get out?"

He carried it to the living room and set it down in a luxury cat carrier that still had the tags on it. The kitten, as if determined to prove its point to its new owner, worked its claws with practiced precision.

*Click.*

The latch swung open.

Roman sighed. "I’ll take him to one of the other apartments later."

"Is someone else going to take him?" Violette asked.

"Not yet," Roman said. "But keeping him here is inconvenient."

"You don't like him?"

"I don't mind him."

"Are you allergic?"

"No."

Violette paused. "Then why can't we keep him?"

As she shook off her initial surprise, she crouched down and let out a few soft meows of her own. Her eyes crinkled into crescents. "I’ve always been so envious of people with pets, but I’ve been too busy with work. Do you know? Back when I used Twitter, I used to spend all day just watching other people’s cats online."

"I thought you didn't care for them," Roman said, clearly relieved.

The carrier door swung wide. The kitten tentatively stuck a paw out, inching through the gap. It was definitely the type to push its luck.

Roman popped open a tin of wet food by the door. He extended a finger, and as the kitten ate, he absentmindedly scratched the tuft of yellow fur on its head. His touch was gentle; any pressure he applied was meant to be fleeting, leaving only a faint indent before he smoothed it back down with a thumb.

Violette watched from the side, a sudden clarity washing over her.

Roman was always so composed and gentlemanly. If he could show this level of care and tenderness to a stray cat he’d just picked up, how could he be any different with her?

His affection was simply a product of his upbringing and natural refinement. It wasn't the frantic, soul-consuming love she’d felt from him the night before.

When she thought of it that way, she realized she should be grateful to Roman. He’d made her feel loved from the very beginning of their marriage, even if it was a misunderstanding.

It wasn't a bad thing. They were just two people getting exactly what they needed out of a partnership.

Violette crouched beside him, watching his fingers groom the kitten’s fur.

"Roman, it's so strange."

Roman turned his head, his expression soft. "Hmm?"

"Everything I wanted to do before... it feels like it's all slowly coming true since I married you."

"Is that a bad thing?" he countered.

Violette thought for a moment before saying it was a good thing.

Roman nodded, as if they were discussing the weather, and replied with calm finality, "Then let's just keep living like this."

***

That weekend, they decided to hit the mall for pet supplies.

They walked through the aisles like any normal couple, grabbed lunch out, stuffed the trunk with bags, and hovered over the directory map in the massive parking structure to find the exit.

Things Roman had never done—things he’d always offloaded to his assistants or the household staff—suddenly felt remarkably interesting when he was doing them with Violette.

When they were picking out a cat tree, she acted like an engineer, measuring the height with intense seriousness.

"If we put it in the living room, will it block the liquor cabinet?"

"It won't," Roman reassured her.

"I still think that luxury cat condo looks cooler."

"Then let's get that one."

"Do you think Sunny has a sensitive stomach?" She jumped to another topic. "I've seen other bloggers buying this brand of canned food all the time!"

"Buy some, we'll see if he likes it."

"Wow! Look at these tracking toys! Feather wands! Scratching pads!"

Roman didn't try to stop her; he only murmured, "Sunny will love those."

Sunny was the kitten's name—found beneath the shrubs, reborn from the wood. It was a fitting name to balance out Violette’s lack of a 'wood' element in her birth chart.

The larger items would be delivered, but the trunk was still overflowing with smaller supplies by the time they left. On the drive home, Violette was busy studying the user manuals for their new purchases.

Noticing the car had been idling for a while, she looked up. "What's wrong?"

"A moving truck is blocking the lane."

Roman signaled for her to look ahead.

The entrance to their underground parking garage was obstructed by a small truck parked sideways in the middle of the road. Workers were moving boxes in and out with practiced efficiency.

The property manager was nearby, trying to clear the path. When he spotted their car, he jogged over.

"Mr. Griffin."

Roman rolled down the window. "How much longer?"

"Just a few more minutes. The owner below you is moving out, and these are the final boxes. If you're in a hurry, just give me your keys, and I’ll park it for you."

"No need, we're not in a hurry," Roman said, waving him off. "The apartment below was sold?"

"That’s right. The unit for 2.8 million."

"The current market regulations are pretty tight. Not the best time to be offloading assets."

"Tell me about it."

They traded a few more casual remarks.

Violette, however, felt a sharp prickle of unease at the base of her neck. A detail she had overlooked suddenly surfaced: scrolling through her social media feed a few days ago, she’d seen a post from Blake Pierce.

He’d written: *Finally have a home in Deepwater.*