“Nope.” I slide the box to the far corner. “That’s mine. We’re establishing boundaries on day one.”
He follows it with his eyes. Then he looks at me. I look at him.
I lose the staring contest. Badly. It’s not close.
The article stalls three paragraphs in, so I do what professionals do. Jumping jacks. Twenty of them, right next to the desk.
The cat watches the entire set with an expression I can only describe as reevaluating.
“Don’t judge me. It’s my process. The process ships nearly one hundred articles a year.”
When I sit back down, he steps off the desk into my lap like it was scheduled, turns around twice, and settles. He’s heavier than he looks. Warm. My whole body adjusts around him without asking me — knees shifting, one hand typing, the other dropping to his back between paragraphs like it’s been doing this for years.
Somewhere around the section on pothos care, I look at Gerald.
“I always heard the cat distribution system was real,” I tell him. “Now we have proof. Which means he’s ours forever. Aren’t you excited? You have a brother!”
Gerald takes it well.
“He needs a name.”
The cat’s ear rotates toward me, which I’m choosing to read as participation.
“Pumpkin?” Too seasonal. “Marmalade?” Too sweet. “Toast?” Cute, but not him. “Kevin?” Tempting. Deeply tempting. But I can’tyellKevinin an emergency without sounding like a tired mother in a grocery store.
He kneads my sleep shirt like he owns stock in it. Warm and orange and smug.
And I just know.
“Muffin,” I say.
His head comes up.
I gasp. “Oh my god. You know your name.”
He stares at me.
“Muffin,” I whisper, because obviously this is a sacred moment.
His tail flicks once.
“Gerald, he answered.”
Gerald says nothing, but I know support when I see it.
I finish the article with a cat now named Muffin in my lap and a deadline dissolving the way deadlines do when your nervous system has been professionally recalibrated by a stray.
And the whole thing beautifully shoves all the logic right in Gunnar’s stupid handsome face.
I grin at the monitor as I hit send because someone has to enjoy this.
Then I leave the article open. Full screen. Bright as a courtroom exhibit.
When he comes back, I want witnesses.
Somewhere in there I start talking without meaning to.
“You picked a weird day to show up, buddy.”
