But that was not the whole of it.
That was what kept catching on me.
Nothing about him felt careless. Not his silence. Not his timing. Not the way he had watched me in that room when he knew exactly what he was doing. He had not embarrassed me for sport. He had exposed a weakness and let me feel it. There was a difference, and somehow that difference bothered me more.
A sharp, guttural roar tore through the apartment. It snapped me right out of my spiral. I stilled.
“Fuck—”
Another howl melting into a scream bounced off the tile around me.
Bento.
“Fuck—” Alois’s grunt was followed by a sharp hiss. Violent. Immediate.
I moved before I thought, water still dripping down my back as I shoved the shower curtain aside, grabbing the first towel I could reach and wrapping it tight without checking, without caring. My heart kicked hard against my ribs as I scrambled into the hall, bare feet slipping against the floor as I pushed forward.
Another sharp sound—movement, fabric, something hitting the couch?—
I turned the corner.
And stopped.
For half a second, my brain tried to make sense of what I was looking at.
Alois stood in the middle of the living room, broad shoulders pulled tight, one arm angled awkwardly away from his body like he was trying not to make the situation worse—and failing.
Bento was latched onto him. Not perched. Not swatting. Completely attached. Claws dug into the front of his shirt, back legs braced like leverage, teeth sunk into his shoulder with absolute commitment. His tail lashed once, hard, his entire body locked in with focused, deliberate intent.
Alois didn’t move. Didn’t shake him off. Didn’t react the way most people would.
He was… holding still. Like this was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve yet.
Water slid down my spine, dripping onto the floor in soft, steady taps I could hear too clearly over everything else.
“What did you do?” I demanded, already moving forward, instinct overriding everything else.
His gaze snapped to me.
Sharp. Panicked.
His eyes dropped for half a second.
Lower.
Then came right back up.
“I didn’t do anything,” he bit out. “I stood up.”
“You must have done something!” I mocked automatically, closing the distance as I reached for my cat, careful, practiced.
I slid my hands under Bento’s body, fingers finding the exact points I needed without hesitation. He resisted for half a second—just enough to make a statement—before releasing his grip with a sharp, indignant sound.
Alois exhaled immediately, the tension in his shoulders shifting—not gone, but recalibrated—as I pulled Bento back against my chest.
“You’re fine,” I murmured, hoping to calm my freaking feline. “You’re dramatic, but you’re fine.”
His body twisted in my grip, offended beyond reason, a loud, outraged sound tearing out of him as he attempted to turn midair and redirect his attack toward the nearest available target.