Chapter Text
Sicheng was well and truly fucked.
He glared at the mirror,—or rather, at the pathetic puff of snow-white fur glaring back at him. A soft, indignant hiss escaped him, high-pitched and useless, the kind of noise that would’ve made his past self laugh. Now it only made his tiny, traitorous ears twitch.
This wasn’t supposed to be his life.
He’d always known he had a talent for being an ass in the right circumstances—confidence, charm, a little swagger. It usually worked for him. But hindsight was a cruel, mocking thing. If he’d known witches still roamed the city—actual, spell-casting witches—maybe he wouldn’t have brushed that girl off so rudely. Maybe he wouldn’t have rolled his eyes at her melodramatic threats. Maybe he wouldn’t currently be eight inches tall and covered in fur.
But no. Of course not. Because curses were supposed to be fairy-tale nonsense, the kind of thing his grandmother warned him about when he was five and obsessed with poking frogs with sticks.
Yet here he was. Two years later. Still cursed. Still fluffy. Still furious.
His family had done their best. They’d swooped in immediately, horrified but determined to protect the family reputation while they tried to fix him. They told the world he was overseas on a long-term project. They handled the paperwork, scrubbed the media, ran interference on curious fans, nosy acquaintances, and anyone who might wonder why the rising star of the Lu family had vanished.
And in the meantime… he lived like this.
A ball of fluff with attitude.
A disaster disguised as a woodland creature.
The stupidest part was the hope—how it had stretched thin, frayed, and finally snapped somewhere around the eighteen-month mark. Every lead had dried up. Every ritual had fizzled. Every supposed “expert” had shrugged, poked him, or smirked like they wanted to keep him as a pet.
Now he was down to communication buttons, of all humiliating things—smooth plastic discs his brother had glued to the floor, each recorded with a phrase. Tap one paw, and the button chirped out basic messages: Food, No, Yes, Help, Angry, I’m not cute, Try another witch and his personal favorite: Fuck off.
They worked. Mostly.
But they were also a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen from being a man who once commanded boardrooms and turned heads with a single look—down to someone who had to stomp on a button to tell people he was angry.
There was only so much dignity a cursed fluff-ball could maintain.
And after two years, Sicheng was running out of even that.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was raining the way bad days always seemed to rain—heavy, cold, and relentless.
Tong Yao pulled her hood tighter as she hurried down the sidewalk, groceries tucked under one arm, shoes splashing through shallow puddles. Her apartment wasn’t far, but the storm had rolled in faster than expected, swallowing the street in sheets of water. Visibility was terrible; the streetlamps flickered; the wind whipped at her clothes.
She almost missed him completely.
At first, she thought the little shape near the gutter was just another piece of trash blown against the curb. But something in the way it twitched—slow, weak, almost collapsing under its own weight—snagged her attention.
She stopped.
Looked closer.
And her heart lurched.
It wasn’t trash.
It was… a creature. Small. White. Sodden fur plastered to tiny, trembling limbs. It lay curled in a miserable little heap, panting faintly, sides rising too fast, too shallow.
“Oh no…” Yao whispered, setting down her grocery bag without thinking.
She crouched, rain soaking through her sleeves instantly. “Hey. Hey, little one…”
It didn’t move.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t so much as flinch when she reached out.
That alone told her how bad it was.
Yao hesitated—she didn’t want to scare it, or grab it if it was feral—but then it made a sound. A tiny, broken keening noise that hit her square in the chest.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
She slipped her hands underneath its trembling body. It barely weighed anything—too light for something that should’ve had weight and warmth. Its fur was soaked through and icy cold. She tucked it against her chest, shielding it from the rain with her coat as best as she could.
The creature didn’t resist. Didn’t struggle.
It just sagged, exhausted, head pressing faintly into her arm like it had finally reached something—someone—safe.
Her throat tightened.
“What happened to you…?”
No answer, of course. Just a weak, shuddery breath.
Yao didn’t plan. Didn’t think. She simply stood, grabbed her groceries, and started running toward home, holding the little creature close the whole way.
The moment she brought him inside, the warmth of the apartment wrapped around them—soft yellow light, the faint smell of jasmine tea from this morning, the hum of the old heater in the corner. Yao locked the door with her elbow, keeping the little creature secure in her arms.
“You’re freezing,” she murmured, checking him again. His fur clung to him in miserable clumps, and he shivered—not violently, just a faint, exhausted tremble that tugged at something protective in her gut.
She set him gently on a pile of clean towels she dragged from the bathroom. He didn’t try to run. He simply curled up small, trying to make himself disappear.
“You poor thing…” she whispered.
She grabbed another towel—soft, warm from the cabinet—and began carefully blotting the water from his fur. At first she tried to stay clinical, efficient, distant. That lasted about ten seconds.
The moment she touched him with the towel, something shifted.
He flinched—but not from fear. More like… surprise. His bright eyes snapped up to hers, wide and focused. Too focused.
She froze.
He froze.
Then, slowly, he relaxed.
Not in the mindless way an animal might. Not because she held him still.
It was deliberate—measured. He let her dry him.
“Wow,” she breathed softly. “You… understand, don’t you?”
His ears twitched.
She laughed—just a little, just enough to ease the tension—but her hands were gentle as she kept going. She worked through the soaked fur on his back, then his sides, then carefully lifted each tiny paw to pat it dry. He didn’t struggle once. He only watched her, gaze brightening the longer she worked, as if warmth seeped into him from more than the towels.
“You’re so light,” she murmured, pausing to brush damp strands away from her face. “Are you eating enough?”
He blinked slowly up at her.
It felt like an answer.
Yao shook her head, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “If someone abandoned you like this, they deserve bad karma for the next three lifetimes.”
A tiny huff escaped him.
She paused. “…Did you just scoff?”
He immediately looked away. His little paws pressed into her sweater as she carried him, claws delicate but steady. Not clinging—just… holding on.
She sat and set him on her lap, still bundled snugly, hands working slower now as she dried the last damp patches behind his ears.
“There,” she whispered. “All done.”
He looked up at her.
Really looked. With awareness and something like gratitude flickering beneath the exhaustion.
Yao swallowed, unable to shake the odd feeling blooming warm in her chest.
“Who are you?” she whispered without expecting an answer.
But the little creature curled into her lap, rested his head against her arm, and—for the first time since she’d found him—truly relaxed.
And strangely, impossibly…
His whole body seemed to sigh.
Once he’d stopped trembling, the apartment felt different—quieter, steadier, like the storm outside had been replaced by something gentler.
Yao checked the towels again, brushing her fingers lightly through his fur. It was finally fluffy instead of drenched, soft enough that she caught herself stroking him once… twice… then abruptly pulled her hand back.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “I know you’re not a pet. You’re part of someone’s family.”
His ears flicked in a way that suspiciously resembled agreement.
She bit back a smile.
The clock ticked softly in the kitchen. Outside, thunder rolled far in the distance. The creature—still bundled in the towel—shifted just enough to curl more securely in her lap, tiny body warm now instead of icy.
She felt it then.
Not just warmth.
Something like trust.
Tentative. Fragile. Offered without words.
Her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t name.
“You shouldn’t go back out there tonight,” she whispered. “Someone could… step on you. Or you could get sick.” Her voice dropped unconsciously, softer. “You’re barely warm as it is.”
He looked up at her—big, bright eyes reflecting the lamplight, too aware for anything normal. The towel slipped slightly, and she adjusted it instinctively, tucking the edges around him like he was something precious.
He didn’t resist.
And for the first time, Yao wondered—not if he understood her, but how much.
After a long moment, she exhaled shakily. “Alright,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You can stay here for tonight. Just tonight.” She hesitated. “You can sleep next to me. I don’t want to leave you alone after… whatever happened to you.”
A strange sound—almost a tiny choke—came from him.
Her brows drew together. “Hey,” she murmured, touching his head gently, thumb brushing the fine fur between his ears. “You’re safe. Really.”
He leaned—ever so slightly—into her touch.
Decision made, she stood carefully, holding him against her chest so he didn’t fall. He made a soft alarmed squeak, paws gripping her sweater, as if convinced she’d drop him. She laughed under her breath and soothed him with a light stroke down his back.
“I’ve got you,” she promised.
She carried him to her bedroom—small, tidy, lit only by the glow of a bedside lamp. She pulled back the comforter with one hand, still holding him close with the other.
“Here,” she whispered, settling him onto the warm sheets. “You can… stay right here. I’ll keep the blanket loose so you don’t get stuck.”
He stared at the space beside her pillow, then back at her.
As if asking.
As if waiting for permission.
Her heart did a strange little flip.
“Yes,” she said before she could second-guess it, “right next to me.”
He curled up immediately, small and exhausted, but his eyes never left her as she slid into bed beside him. When she lay down, he shifted—pressing the side of his tiny body lightly against her arm.
Not clinging.
Just there.
Just choosing her.
Yao’s breath softened, warm in the dim room. “Good night… little guy.”
His eyes fluttered shut.
For the first time in two years, he fell asleep warm, safe, and steady—
—and the curse hummed quietly, like a thread tugging itself toward something it had been waiting for.
Something—someone—it recognized.
Even if he didn’t understand it yet.
Even if she didn’t, either.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Yao stared at the missing poster for a long, long time.
Long enough that the little creature—still damp around the ears from sleep—came up beside her and nudged her shin like he somehow knew what she was reading.
Her throat tightened.
“I have to call,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
He froze.
Completely.
Like someone had hit pause.
Yao’s chest twisted painfully, but she forced herself to pick up her phone, type in the number, and press call.
The little creature turned away slowly—tiny shoulders heavy—padding back into the bedroom without looking at her. She felt that movement like a knife.
The line clicked.
“Hello?” a man answered. Calm. Sharp. Tired. “Lu residence.”
“Oh—hi. Um.” Yao swallowed. “I’m calling about the missing… animal? The white one?”
A beat of silence.
Then, in a tone full of disbelief and relief tangled together. “You found him?”
Yao exhaled shakily. “Yes. A couple nights ago. In the rain. I… I took him home.”
The man on the other end—Yue—let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank god. Is he alright?”
“He’s… better,” she said softly. “A little thin. And exhausted.”
“That sounds like him,” Yue muttered. “Can I come get him? Today? Now?”
Yao hesitated.
For just half a second.
“…Yes,” she whispered.
When Yue arrived, polite and frantic in equal measure, the little creature stood on her kitchen counter, staring at her with something that felt deeply, painfully human.
Like betrayal.
Yao knelt. “They’re your family,” she murmured. “They were worried.”
He didn’t move toward Yue until she nodded—not giving permission, but reassurance.
Even then… he kept looking back at her.
The car door shut.
And Yao felt an ache she didn’t understand bloom beneath her ribs.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Three Days Later
The Lu household no longer resembled a home.
It resembled a war zone.
And the war had one very small, very fluffy general.
Sicheng.
He had made his displeasure extremely—and violently—clear.
First, he chewed through Yue’s favorite earbuds.
Then he chewed through the backup earbuds.
Then he chewed through an impossibly expensive charger that he had absolutely climbed onto the counter to reach.
He knocked over a vase.
Knocked over a lamp.
Knocked over Yue’s morning coffee onto Yue. Twice.
He shredded exactly one couch cushion and left the fluff in a perfect trail pointing to the front door, as if to say:
TAKE ME BACK TO HER. IDIOTS.
He repeatedly parked himself by the shoe cabinet and SCREAMED every time someone walked by. A horrible, piercing, tiny banshee shriek that sent Yue and his parents into a full existential crisis.
Yue tried to pick him up.
Sicheng bit him.
Yue tried again.
Sicheng went limp like a toddler refusing to be carried, sliding pathetically out of his arms and making a beeline for the door.
Everything—everything—pointed in one direction.
Tong Yao.
Yue stood in the wreckage of their once-respectable living room. He dragged a hand down his face. “Okay,” he sighed, “I think she’s the key. Or the cure. Or the only thing standing between us and total home destruction. Whichever.”
Madame Lu, covered in scratches and missing a shoe, groaned, “Yue, at this point, God is the key. Just call the girl.”
The Next Day
The phone call happened at 7:14 a.m.
Yao, still in pajamas, answered groggily. “Hello?”
“Tong Yao,” Yue said, voice too calm. Too even. Too terrifyingly polite. “Good morning.”
“Good… morning?”
A thump sounded in the background. Followed by glass shattering. Followed by Yue inhaling slowly, like counting to ten was the only thing keeping him alive.
“I believe,” Yue said carefully, “that you should keep the cat.”
Yao blinked. “…What?”
Sicheng shrieked in the background.
A door slammed.
Hard.
From the phone, Yao heard a distant crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone’s dignity shattering.
“YUE!” a deep, authoritative voice boomed in the background. “HE’S IN THE STUDY AGAIN—GET HIM DOWN BEFORE HE DESTROYS THE—”
Another crash.
Yue did not flinch. His voice was the brittle calm of a man at the edge of spiritual collapse.
“Tong Yao,” he said, “he has not slept. He has not eaten. He refuses to be held. He sits at the manor’s front doors for hours. Staring at them. Like he’s waiting for someone to arrive by force of will alone.”
Yao blinked. “Oh.”
“And,” Yue continued, voice tightening, “he has achieved taboo-level climbing. We found him on top of the grand piano. On top of the bookshelf in Father’s study. On top of the chandelier. He attempted to leap from it. I no longer question how he got up there. I only question why gravity has not removed him.”
A porcelain vase broke in the background.
Someone—Mrs. Lu, elegant and composed on all normal days—let out the soft, weary sound of a woman reconsidering every major life decision.
Yue inhaled through his teeth.
“I beg you, Tong Yao,” he said, voice hoarse. “Please… take him back.”
Yao slowly sank into a kitchen chair, heart thudding painfully.
“Are you sure?”
It felt wrong. Like she was stealing someone’s beloved pet.
A family treasure.
A long exhale traveled through the phone—Lu Yue’s soul leaving his body briefly.
“We think you’re the key,” he murmured. “To his… condition.”
Yao frowned. “His condition?”
Silence.
Then, too smoothly: “His new anxiety.”
A shriek—sharp, furious, absolutely unhinged—pierced the background.
Yue corrected tiredly, “Among other things.”
Yao let out a breath, her gaze drifting to the empty spot on her couch where he’d slept. Her apartment had never felt so strangely… hollow.
“…I can come get him,” she offered gently.
“No,” Yue said instantly. “We’ll bring him. He’s—”
A muffled shout.
A heavy thud.
And then Yue snapped, composure gone, voice ricocheting through the phone with desperation: “JUST PLEASE TAKE HIM.”
Yao went quiet.
Then softly—helplessly—she smiled.
“…Alright. Bring him over.”
The relief that burst through the phone vibrated like a spiritual cleansing.
Somewhere behind Yue, a triumphant chirp cut through the chaos—
loud.
smug.
undeniably the cat.
Because cursed or not, tiny or not—
he knew:
He was going home.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It took twenty minutes for the Lu Manor’s car to pull up outside Yao’s apartment building.
She hurried down the stairwell, heart thumping, palms a little clammy. She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous—it was just returning a lost… pet. Right?
Except the second she stepped outside, the car door flew open like someone inside had been holding it shut with sheer willpower.
Yue emerged first.
He looked… done.
Hair slightly mussed. Shirt wrinkled. Dark circles. The expression of a man who had not slept in several days and was one shriek away from spiraling.
Behind him stepped Mr. and Mrs. Lu, dignified as always—except for the stress deepening every line around their eyes.
And between them—
A small, furious, fluffy missile.
As soon as he spotted Yao, he leapt.
Yue barely managed to catch a sleeve of her coat so she didn’t topple over when eight inches of determined fury slammed into her chest, claws gripping fabric, tiny face burrowing against her with a sound that was unmistakably:
Where were you?
Yao gasped, arms instinctively coming up to support him. “Oh—hey—easy—”
But Sicheng wasn’t letting go.
At all.
He climbed her like she was the last branch in a flood, scrambling up her sweater until he was tucked beneath her chin, trembling with relief and indignation blended together.
Yue pinched the bridge of his nose.
“See,” he said hoarsely to his parents, “told you.”
Mr. Lu cleared his throat, attempting composure. “Ms. Tong, we sincerely apologize for the… disruption he has caused.”
Mrs. Lu gave Yao a look equal parts gratitude and desperation. “You have no idea what the manor has been like. He—he climbed the chandelier.”
Yue closed his eyes. “And refused to come down.”
A tiny growl vibrated against Yao’s collarbone, like the smallest I regret nothing ever growled in the history of cursed creatures.
Yao gently stroked his back with a cautious finger. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ve got you now.”
Sicheng melted—actually melted—against her, tension draining from his body like it had been held too tightly for too long.
The effect on the Lu family was instantaneous.
Three jaws dropped.
Three expressions softened in disbelief.
Mrs. Lu clasped her hands to her chest. “He… he actually calmed down.”
Yue muttered, “I told you. She’s the key.”
A long beat passed.
Then Mr. Lu bowed his head slightly. “Ms. Tong… we would be grateful if you would keep him. At least for now. He clearly feels safest with you.”
Sicheng nuzzled Yao’s jaw with smug relief.
Yao’s heart twisted, warm and aching. “I don’t mind,” she admitted quietly. “Really.”
Mrs. Lu’s shoulders sagged with visible relief. “Thank goodness.”
Yue handed over a small bag—food, supplies, a tiny blanket—and then, with the solemnity of a man giving away sacred relics, he added:
“And this is the spare charger he bit through. In case he tries again.”
Sicheng hissed.
Yao bit back a laugh.
“Thank you,” she said gently.
Yue exhaled shakily. “No—thank you. Please text me if anything goes wrong. And if he starts climbing your curtains, just… don’t look him in the eyes. It makes him bolder.”
Sicheng made a chirp that absolutely sounded like try me.
“Goodbye, Ms. Tong,” Mr. Lu said.
“Take care of him,” Mrs. Lu added softly.
“For the love of everything, just keep him,” Yue whispered under his breath.
And then they left. Hulking black car. Exhaust fading down the street.
Leaving Yao standing in the cool morning air with Sicheng clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in his world.
She stroked his head, heart inexplicably full.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s get you home.”
He burrowed closer.
Already home.
Already hers.
Already calm in a way he’d never been anywhere else.
And Yao…
Yao didn’t fight the warmth rising in her chest this time.
She exhaled and stroked the top of his head, fingers combing through the soft fur between his ears. He melted instantly—his whole body going loose, like someone unplugged every last wire inside him. She blinked down, amused.
“You little menace,” she murmured. “You’re supposed to be a terror, you know that? Yue made it sound like you’ve been climbing the walls.”
His tail gave a single, slow thump. She didn’t notice the faint shimmer of blue that flickered in his pupils.
“Should I name you…?” She tapped her chin. “Something mighty? Something powerful?”
He lifted his head, eyes bright, ears up—invested.
Yao thought.
He waited like the fate of the universe hung in the balance.
“…Mm. Mountain Crusher?” she tried.
He physically recoiled.
A tiny offended squeak left him.
Yao snorted. “Okay, okay, not that.”
She tried again. “Stormbringer?”
Disdain. Actual disdain.
Like he’d just been offered a second-hand scratching post.
Yao burst out laughing. “Well then. Maybe… Snowball?”
He froze.
Every muscle. Every whisker. Complete system shutdown.
“Snowball it is,” she declared.
And because she couldn’t resist, she leaned down and pressed a small kiss right between his ears.
He died.
Not literally—but spiritually? Emotionally?
Complete blue screen.
The cat equivalent of a system crash.
He just sat there, eyes blown wide, tail sticking straight out like a broken antenna. All four paws braced like gravity suddenly became optional.
Yao blinked. “Are you… okay?”
He squeaked.
She cooed at him—cooed. “Oh my sweet baby. You’re so dramatic.”
Baby.
If he had been capable of speech, he would have ascended into another plane.
She kept petting him, humming without realizing she was humming. The curse—restless, coiled tight inside him—stirred in a strange, weighted way. Not aggressive. Not dangerous.
Just… listening.
Leaning closer.
Curious.
But Yao was oblivious, focused only on rubbing his cheeks until he flopped sideways with a resigned little sigh, letting her manhandle him into her lap.
“There,” she said softly. “My little Snowball.”
Another kiss on the top of his head.
Another blue screen.
If Yue had walked in at that moment, he would’ve dropped dead from shock.
The curse hummed.
Yao just smiled.
And he burrowed deeper into her, already addicted.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two Months Later
Her apartment wasn’t big, but somehow it fit him perfectly.
Warm sunlight, mismatched cushions, her pink throw blanket, a side table constantly occupied by a cat curled into a perfect loaf… it had become home.
Two months since she’d taken him back from the Lu Manor.
Two months of mornings that started with him headbutting her awake.
Two months of him sleeping on her chest like he paid rent.
Two months of her calling him pet names without realizing she was digging emotional graves for him daily.
This morning, she crouched to put on her shoes.
He immediately threw his whole body over her feet, refusing the idea of her leaving.
She groaned. “Sweetheart. I have to go to work.”
He meowed in the tone of someone filing a formal complaint.
She kissed the top of his head, completely unaware she’d just detonated him from the inside out.
“Be good, okay? I’ll be back later, love.”
He froze solid.
She smiled, grabbed her bag, and left.
The second the door clicked shut, his fur bristled.
The curse stirred.
Something inside him—something ancient and bound—twisted in response to the word love, like a lock slipping open.
His tail puffed.
His heartbeat stumbled.
Magic crept up his spine like cold water.
He tried to shake it off, paws unsteady.
But the shift hit him anyway.
It dragged through him like someone yanking the wrong thread in the weave of his body. His bones stretched, reshaped, hissed in protest. His paws hit the floor—then weren’t paws anymore—then were again—then weren’t.
He landed hard on his side with a groan.
“Well that’s just great,” he muttered—except it came out half-growl, half-human syllable, the curse twisting the sound in his throat.
He pushed himself upright and—
No.
Absolutely not.
This was the worst possible outcome.
Long, human legs.
Human hands.
But ears.
Tail.
Whiskers.
He stared at his reflection in Yao’s mirror, and the first coherent thought he managed was a horrified, what the hell.
A man-shaped cat.
A cat-shaped man.
An insult to both species.
He touched his own face—his face, but with whiskers—then grabbed a fistful of his too-long hair. His ears twitched at the movement. His tail flicked like it had opinions. His brain spun.
But underneath the panic was something else.
Resolve.
A shaky, terrified, okay, I have to tell her resolve.
Because this—whatever this half-shift nonsense was—wasn’t normal. The curse was changing, slipping. And she deserved to know what she’d unintentionally gotten involved with. She fed him, housed him, doted on him. She called him pet names. She kissed the top of his head.
He swallowed hard.
He couldn’t hide forever.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “I’m going to tell her. Today. Before this gets worse.”
He squared his too-human shoulders and immediately lost balance because his tail swished at the wrong moment. He caught himself on the dresser with a pathetic yelp. Not ideal. Definitely not dignified. But he pushed on, pacing the room on unsteady legs.
“What do I even say? ‘Hi, Yao, surprise, your cat is actually a cursed man’? No, no, that sounds insane.”
He tried again.
“‘Yao, I need to explain why your shampoo makes me purr.’”
He winced.
“Absolutely not.”
He ran both hands over his face—then froze.
His fingertips tingled.
“Oh no. No, not now—”
The shift hit fast. Too fast.
His ears buzzed. His vision dipped. His limbs contracted, bones pulling inward in a wave that made him gasp. Fur swept across his skin. Fingers curled, shrinking. His balance dropped to the floor.
And before he could even form a coherent protest—
Pop.
Tiny paws.
Soft fur.
Normal cat proportions.
He stood in the middle of Yao’s bedroom, four-legged once again, staring at the mirror now towering over him.
He let out a furious, high-pitched meow. “Seriously?! Now?!” he thought to himself.
The universe, as always, provided no explanation.
He flicked his tail, deflated.
He had been so close to telling her.
SO close.
The front door lock clicked.
Yao’s footsteps entered the apartment.
“Snowball? Baby, I’m home!”
He dropped onto his butt, ears flat, sulking.
There would be no confession today.
Just him, sitting on the floor, looking adorable and pretending he hadn’t spent the last thirty minutes learning how to rewalk on human legs.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By now, every night ends the same way.
Her pajamas rustle.
The lamp clicks off.
And she gathers him—her Snowball—into her arms like he belongs there.
And he does.
Or at least, his cursed body does.
Tonight, she’s extra soft with him, exhaustion making her limbs loose and warm. She settles into bed, pulling the blankets up with one hand while the other automatically finds him, fingertips stroking behind his ears.
He melts helplessly, shamefully, into her chest.
It’s become muscle memory:
her breath against his fur,
his purr rumbling despite every attempt to stop it,
the subtle curl of her body around him like she’s protecting something precious.
“Good night, sweetheart,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
She kisses the top of his head.
Like always.
Only this time—
Something inside him stutters.
Like the curse just missed a step.
His heart slams so hard it hurts.
She doesn’t notice.
She’s already drifting—
her breaths slowing,
her hand relaxing on his fur.
Barely awake, barely conscious, somewhere between dreams, she whispers into his ears the one thing he never expected to hear.
Not from this form.
Not before the spell broke.
“I love you…”
Soft.
Sincere.
Unthinking.
A secret she didn’t mean to speak aloud.
And that’s it.
That’s the thread.
The exact one the curse has been wrapped around, knotted around, choking around.
It snaps.
Not gently.
Not gracefully.
With a violent jolt that kicks through him like lightning.
The air in the room shifts—pressure tightening, magic vibrating against the walls, the temperature spiking hot enough to fog the windows.
His body seizes.
He tries to move—no control.
He tries to yowl—no sound.
He tries to stay small, stay safe, stay beside her—
But the curse is done pretending.
Magic yanks through him in a wild, spiraling surge as if her words supplied the final missing ingredient. Something ancient. Something binding. Something that requires love freely given to break.
Her “I love you” becomes a key.
And he unlocks.
Fur dissolves in a shimmer of gold.
Bones elongate, cracking hard back into place.
Limbs stretch, spine shifts, breath chokes in his throat as he expands into the space pressed against her.
Her hand slips from his fur—
because there is no fur.
Her arm drops across warm human skin.
He’s panting by the time the magic releases him, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving, body trembling in the dark.
He lies there frozen, terrified to move, terrified to wake her, terrified she’ll run, terrified she won’t.
Across the bed, Yao stirs.
Her brow knits in confusion.
She fumbles at the blankets, palm searching blindly for her cat—
And instead touches—
A shoulder.
A jaw.
A chest rising and falling too fast.
Fingers brushing stubble.
She goes very still.
“…Snowball?” she whispers.
His breath catches.
There is no going back now.
Her hand pats skin.
Then pats again.
Warm.
Smooth.
Definitely not fur.
She squints into the dark, her brain moving at the speed of cold honey.
“Snowball,” she mumbles, groggy and offended on instinct, “why are you bald—”
Her eyes snap open.
A man is lying in her bed.
A very warm, very breathing, very not small man.
A man with her blanket slung over his bare torso, hair mussed, chest rising too fast like he’s trying not to hyperventilate.
She chokes on her own spit.
The man chokes too, mirroring her panic like two startled raccoons caught in the same trash can.
They stare at each other.
Horror.
Confusion.
Identical existential crisis.
“…what,” she whispers.
“…yeah,” he whispers back.
Her hand flies to her mouth.
“You—there’s—there was a cat. MY cat. Right here. Under this blanket. That was you. YOU—”
He winces. “I mean… yes? Sort of.”
She clutches the blanket to her chest like it’s a holy relic.
“Explain,” she demands, voice squeaking on the last syllable.
He swallows. Hard. “I’m Snowball? No, that’s not right. It’s Sicheng.”
“That doesn’t help!”
“I mean I was Snowball!”
“YOU HAVE ABS.”
“Had them before I shifted too.”
She blinks.
Hard.
Then blinks again, as if maybe she can reset the visual feed like a faulty monitor.
But no.
He’s still there.
Still beautiful.
Still looking like her cat got promoted to boyfriend material.
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again like a buffering screen.
“…I kissed your head,” she croaks.
He nods helplessly. “Several times.”
“And you slept in my arms.”
“Always.”
She presses both palms to her face. “I carried you around the house… like… like a potato with a heartbeat.”
He makes a strangled noise. “I liked that part.”
She drops her hands, staring at him like he committed a cosmic felony.
“And you just—what—never thought to tell me?!”
“Pretty sure I could only meow,” he mutters defensively. “I could barely control my tail, let alone form sentences.”
He gestures weakly to his own very human body.
“This was… not supposed to happen like this.”
She sputters.
“You were in my shirt yesterday.”
He winces again. “I know.”
“I called you my sweet little muffin!”
“…yes.”
She throws a pillow at him.
He doesn’t even dodge—just takes it square in the chest like he deserves it.
He absolutely deserves it.
She stares at him like she’s trying to download a whole new operating system.
“Start talking,” she says finally, voice dangerously thin. “Why were you a cat? Why are you a man? Why are you in my bed? WHY ARE YOU BREATHING LIKE THAT—”
“That last one is anxiety,” he says meekly.
She narrows her eyes. “Explain. All of it.”
He sits up slowly, blanket clutched around his waist like he’s trying to preserve at least one shred of dignity.
“I wasn’t always a cat,” he begins.
She gestures sharply. “Obviously!”
“And a few years ago I was cursed by—well, someone who really didn’t like me.” He hesitates. “Like, really really didn’t like me.”
Her expression darkens. “So… cat curse.”
“Cat curse,” he confirms.
“How long?”
His shoulders tighten. “Years.”
She presses a palm to her forehead. “Okay. Okay. And the… turning back?””
“Curse ran its course,” he says, wincing at the memory. “It started… weakening. Half changed me one day while you were at work but then I shifted back.”
He glances at her.
Eyes soft.
Hopeful.
Terrified.
“And then last night, you—”
She holds up a hand. “Oh no. Do not even imply this is my fault—”
“You told me you loved me,” he blurts.
She freezes.
He freezes.
Silence detonates between them like a small bomb.
She makes a small, strangled squeak. “I— what — I did NOT—”
“You did,” he whispers, eyes dropping. “You said it while you were falling asleep. And curses tied to emotion… they react to truths. Real ones.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out except incoherent flapping.
Her brain is buffering at 3%.
Her dignity is buffering at 1%.
He rubs the back of his neck shyly. “I think your confession broke it.”
“STOP CALLING IT A CONFESSION,” she yelps.
“It was,” he says gently.
She looks five seconds from spontaneously combusting.
And because the universe loves comedy—
her hand reaches out on pure reflex.
Before she realizes what she’s doing, she brushes her fingers through his hair.
He makes a noise he absolutely does not mean to make.
Something between a gasp and a purr-that-should-not-exist and a dying battery.
His back straightens.
His breath stutters.
His whole body shivers like she just unplugged his soul and plugged it back in.
She jerks her hand away like she’s touched fire.
“Oh my GOD— WHY DID YOU MAKE THAT SOUND— WHAT WAS THAT—”
He’s pink to the ears.“I think the curse left… sensory habits.”
“SENSORY HABITS?!” she shrieks. “WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”
“Yes,” he says weakly. “Please stop yelling.”
She throws another pillow at him.
He lets it hit him.
He knows he deserves that one too.
“You— you have been sleeping on me,” she accuses, pointing a shaking finger. “Curling up on my lap. Doing that little–little kneading thing. I KISSED YOUR HEAD. I— OH MY GOD — I SAID I LOVED YOU — AND YOU WERE A CAT.”
He opens his mouth—
But she is not done.
“AND I LET YOU SLEEP IN MY BED. AS A MAN. I MEAN— NO— NOT LIKE THAT — BUT KIND OF LIKE THAT — OH NO — THAT COUNTS, DOESN’T IT?!”
He lifts both hands placatingly.
“Yao, breathe—”
“NO, YOU BREATHE! YOU HAVE HUMAN LUNGS AGAIN! I’M BUSY HAVING A CRISIS!”
She starts pacing, hands in her hair.
He watches her with a guilty, terrified softness, blanket wrapped around him like a toga of shame.
“Okay,” she declares, pointing at him like an attorney who has seen some things. “We’re doing this properly. Sit up. Don’t move. Blink only if necessary.”
He sits a little straighter, blanket hitched up nervously around his hips.
“Um—”
“First question,” she snaps. “How long have you been sentient?”
He blinks. “…Always?”
“DON’T GET SMART WITH ME.”
“I wasn’t—I’m literally answering—!”
“Number two,” she barrels on. “Did you understand EVERY SINGLE WORD I SAID while you were in cat form?”
He winces. “…Yes.”
She makes the sound of a tea kettle about to explode.
“Three! When I said you were ‘my good boy’—”
He covers his face. “Please don’t ask—”
“ANSWER.”
“Yes,” he mutters into his hands. “I understood that too.”
Her soul leaves her body in one violent motion.
“FOUR,” she says, pacing. “Did you know I let you sleep INSIDE MY SWEATSHIRT?”
“Yes.”
She stops pacing.
Turns.
Slowly narrows her eyes.
“And?”
He looks anywhere but her. “…It was warm.”
“FIVE,” she continues, now marching toward him like she’s about to deliver divine judgment. “Were you aware that I TRIED to teach you how to use the litter box?”
He physically flinches. “I—yes—but in my defense I panicked—”
“SIX. DID YOU EVER USE IT?”
“NO,” he protests, indignant. “It was humiliating!”
“SEVEN,” she fires back. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or write something? Or—I don’t know—Morse code?”
He throws his hands up helplessly. “I had PAWS, Yao! PAWS. No thumbs!”
She pauses.
That… is a fair point.
She moves on anyway.
“EIGHT. How many times did I baby-talk you?”
He visibly braces. “…Too many to count.”
“NINE. Did you ENJOY it?”
He hesitates.
“…yes?” he whispers.
She gasps so dramatically she might faint.
He adds quickly, “NOT IN A WEIRD WAY—IT WAS JUST—YOU WERE KIND—AND—AND—”
She puts a hand over his mouth.
“Ten,” she says softly, too softly. “And you better answer this carefully.”
His eyes widen.
“How long,” she asks, voice trembling just a little, “did you… care about me? Like that? As a person. Not as your human snack dispenser.”
He swallows hard, her hand still on his lips.
She removes it slowly.
He looks her in the eye—no stuttering, no dodging, no excuses left.
“…since the first week.”
She blinks. “WHAT—”
“You carried me everywhere,” he says, face pink. “You talked to me even when you thought I couldn’t understand. You defended me from that pigeon. You warmed my paws with your hands. And you treated me like something you wanted… not something you were stuck with.”
Her mouth opens and closes.
He continues, quieter now:
“I fell for you before I even got my name back.”
She sits very still.
Then the delayed horror hits.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “I fell in love with my cat.”
He makes a small, strangled sound. “I WASN’T— I mean I was— BUT ALSO WASN’T—”
She holds up a finger. “Halftime. Time-out. I need to recalibrate.”
He buries his face in his hands.
“Can I ask a question now?” he mumbles.
She glares. “No. Interrogation resumes after I emotionally reboot.”
“ANSWER TRUTHFULLY OR I’M BREAKING OUT THE SPRAY BOTTLE.”
Yao inhales.
Exhales.
Claps her hands once like a kindergarten teacher about to assign homework.
“Okay. Round two.”
Sicheng looks like someone about to take the world’s worst pop quiz.
He nods miserably. “I deserve this.”
“Good,” she says. “First question.”
She leans in.
Dead serious.
“Did you ever watch me shower?”
His soul LEAVES his body.
“WHAT— NO— ABSOLUTELY NOT— I WOULD NEVER— I ALWAYS CLOSED MY EYES— I RESPECT PRIVACY—”
“You closed your eyes? Really?”
“Yes!!” he insists, horrified. “I curled into the sink and pretended to be a potato!”
She blinks.
“…a potato?”
“A very ashamed potato.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Next question.”
She leans EVEN CLOSER.
“Have you ever seen me naked. Even accidentally.”
He shakes his head so fast it looks like he’s trying to rattle his brain loose.
“No! I mean—mostly no! I tried not to! I looked away ninety-nine percent of the time!”
Her eyebrows lift. ”’‘Mostly’? ‘Tried’? What does that mean?”
He makes a strangled noise, hands waving helplessly.
“It was just—just glimpses, okay? You’d walk in while changing or drop a towel or something and I’d immediately turn around! Immediately! I practically sprained my neck doing it!”
Her eyes narrow. “…how many glimpses?”
He winces like she physically stepped on his soul. “One? Two? It’s hard to count when you’re panicking and trying to stare at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing on Earth.”
“And the ‘zero details’ part?” she pushes.
His shoulders slump. He looks miserable.
“Yao,” he begs softly, “please. I swear I didn’t look on purpose.”
She studies him—his horror, his mortification, his desperate earnestness.
“Fine,” she sighs, moving on, because he looks so pathetically apologetic she almost pities him.
Almost.
“Third question:
When you slept on my chest, did you KNOW that was my chest?”
He colors up to the tips of his ears.
“…yes.”
She slaps a hand over her face. “I let a man sleep on my boobs.”
He sputters. “NO— I MEAN— YES— BUT— NO— I WAS A CAT— IT WAS DIFFERENT— KIND OF— BUT—”
She lifts her head slowly, eyes narrow.
“Did you like it?”
“No,” he lies instantly.
Her entire aura says: Try again.
He wilts.
“…yes,” he whispers.
She groans into a pillow.
“Next question,” she says, muffled. “And think carefully before you answer this one.”
She lifts her head.
“Did you EVER cuddle me on purpose?”
He hesitates just long enough that she already knows.
“Yes,” he admits quietly. “Every time.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “EVERY time?”
“You’re warm,” he mutters.
She stares.
He stares.
Then—
“…and I liked being close to you.”
She freezes again. Her brain skips like a scratched CD.
“Sicheng.”
“Yes?”
“Did you purr on me ON PURPOSE?”
He makes a tiny, catastrophic noise.
“I—sometimes—maybe—occasionally—”
“SICHENG.”
“YES OKAY YES,” he explodes, face in hands. “I PURRED. AT YOU. BECAUSE YOU MADE ME HAPPY.”
Silence.
Then she says, in a tiny cracked voice:
“I’m going to pass away on the spot.”
He whimpers softly. “Please don’t. I just got human legs back, I can’t carry you properly yet.”
She ignores that.
“Two more,” she says, straightening like an executioner.
He inhales sharply. Braces himself.
“Question: When I said ‘I love you’… did you know I meant it?”
He softens.
So gently it almost breaks the moment.
“I hoped you did,” he whispers. “But I wasn’t going to assume.”
That… sits heavy between them.
She swallows.
And then—
“Final question,” she whispers. “Now that your life is yours again… am I still part of it?”
For a moment, he just stares at her—like she’s asked whether gravity still works, or whether the sun is planning to retire.
Then he shakes his head.
Not in refusal—
In disbelief she even has to ask.
“Yao,” he breathes, stepping closer, voice breaking around the edges, “I came back because of you.”
He reaches for her hand—slowly, gently, like he’s afraid she’ll slip away.
“I came back because… somehow, the curse knew before I did. It kept pulling me toward you. Every time you touched me, every time you spoke to me, every time you refused to give up on me—it was like something inside the curse shifted. Like it recognized something. Someone.”
Her breath hitches.
Her fingers curl around his without meaning to… then uncurl just as fast.
Too much. Too close. Too real.
She clears her throat sharply and steps back.
“…okay. Interrogation paused. I need snacks.”
Yao steps into the kitchen, grabs her phone like it’s a stress ball, and hits Yue’s contact with the precision of someone experiencing an emotional stroke.
He answers instantly.
Behind her, there’s a thud.
Then another.
Then a gentle, confused whine.
She turns just in time to see Sicheng wobble into the doorway—long legs too new, balance questionable at best, arms slightly out like he’s ready to catch a fall he absolutely cannot prevent.
He looks like a newborn baby deer trying to cosplay as a human.
A very tall, very handsome, very unsteady deer.
“Yao—wait—hang on—my feet are doing things—” He takes one step, overcorrects with the enthusiasm of a man about to meet the floor, and pinwheels his arms until gravity takes pity on him.
He manages to stop upright. Barely.
Yao pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why are you FOLLOWING me?”
“Because,” he says, bracing himself on the counter like it’s life support, “you walked away after saying destiny stuff is ‘a lot,’ and I—would really appreciate it if you didn’t leave the room while my legs are still… negotiating their terms.”
He immediately stumbles into the fridge.
Hard.
“Yao? Everything okay? Did Snowball knock something over again?”
She inhales slowly. Very slowly.
“Yue.” A beat. “I may need help. My cat, Snowball… turned into a man. ”
Sicheng moans in pain, rubbing his knee and whispering to himself, “And I may need to be bubble-wrapped”
Silence.
Then after what seemed like an eternity. “Oh. Yeah. That tracks.”
Her eye twitches. “What do you mean ‘that tracks’?”
There’s a tiny, guilty cough. “So, uh… you know my older brother, Sicheng? The one who disappeared and was all over the news a few years ago?”
She blinks. “Yes. What about him?”
“Well.” A throat clearing that sounded like it was buying time. “That would be him.”
She freezes.
She looks at the blanket-wrapped man who had moved from the floor to currently kneeling on her chair like it’s a shrine, absolutely losing his mind over a plate of assorted food he dragged out of the fridge.
He’s going through it like a man possessed.
Pasta—he moans.
Garlic bread—he whimpers.
Chicken nugget—he sobs.
A leftover spring roll—he gasps like he’s tasted the divine.
She stares at her phone again.
“…I’m sorry,” she says, voice cracking, “WHAT in the freshly fried fuck did you just say to me?”
Yue winces audibly.
“Okay, okay — please don’t be mad — but yes. Snowball is Sicheng. My brother. The cursed one. The one who vanished. The one who—”
“THE ONE WHO HAS BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED?!”
Behind her, Sicheng inhales a dumpling and makes a noise that should honestly be illegal.
“Sorry!!” he calls, voice muffled through carbs.
“…yeah. Him.”
Yao sputters. “YUE! YOU KNEW. YOU KNEW THIS WHOLE TIME?!”
“Yes,” Yue replies instantly. No shame. No hesitation. Full surrender. “I knew.”
“You KNEW your cursed missing brother was living in my apartment, eating my tuna, sitting in my laundry basket, stealing my socks?”
“Correct.”
“YUE!”
Behind her, Sicheng discovers her leftover fried rice.
“Oh—OH this—this is CRIMINAL—it’s warm. It’s warm. Yao, you saint—Yao do you understand—my soul is weeping—mmph—”
She snaps, “Stop making… noises!”
“They’re involuntary!” he protests.
Yue groans. “He was always dramatic but this is a new low—”
Yao drags a hand down her face.
“So let me get this straight,” she says slowly, dangerously, “you let me live with your brother—your very CURSED BROTHER—for months, while I baby-talked him—”
“I loved it!” Sicheng says cheerfully, now chewing on a buttered roll like it’s a life mission.
“SICHENG, STOP CONFESSING THINGS.” Yue’s voice echoes through the speaker.
“—and carried him around like a sack of rice—”
“I’m sure he begged for it,” Yue mutters.
“—and let him sleep under my shirt like a baby kangaroo—”
“That part gives me emotional damage.”
“—AND YOU KNEW THE ENTIRE TIME?!”
“Yes,” Yue repeats, peaceful as a monk. “I. Knew. The. Entire. Time.”
Yao closes her eyes and contemplates homicide.
“I’m coming over,” Yue sighs. “This requires… I don’t know. Whiskey? Sage? Several printed charts?”
“You are NOT coming tonight,” she snaps. “I am at maximum Lu-family bullshit saturation.”
From the table, Sicheng calls: “Bring dessert!”
“SHUT UP,” both Yao and Yue scream.
She hangs up.
Sicheng beams at her, cheeks full of fried rice and garlic bread and absolute bliss.
“This is the happiest I’ve been in years,” he sighs, radiant.
Yao drops her head onto the counter with a groan.
“I’m going to scream into a pillow.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two years.
Two whole years since the curse broke.
Two years of being fully, undeniably human again.
Sicheng has rebuilt his life.
Reunited with his family.
Got his career back.
Got her.
Not once in all that time—not during stress, not during sleep, not during Yao teasing him—has even the faintest trace of the curse surfaced again.
At this point, he’s fully confident the cat reflexes are dead and buried.
He cooks.
He drives.
He pays taxes on time (mostly because Yao reminds him).
He even volunteers at the animal shelter sometimes, just to prove he can.
He hasn’t purred since the night the curse snapped off of him.
So tonight—
this should be normal, domestic, perfectly human.
They’re at home, curled up on the couch after a long day.
He’s lying sideways with his head on her lap, stretched out like a lazy prince demanding attention.
Yao is carding her fingers through his hair while reading her tablet.
It’s peaceful.
Comfortable.
Quiet.
And then—
Her nails slide gently through the hair behind his ear.
Not a cat ear.
A very boring human ear.
But the effect is instantaneous.
Like someone hit a switch.
Sicheng’s whole chest vibrates.
A warm, soft, unmistakable purr rolls out of him.
Not loud. But not exactly subtle.
Yao freezes.
Sicheng absolutely malfunctions.
His phone slides off his stomach and hits the floor with a pathetic thunk.
He bolts upright, eyes wide, mortified.
“NO,” he blurts. “No, absolutely not—did I—did I just—did I—??”
Yao blinks at him.
“Sicheng…”
He points at her like she’s a weapon of mass destruction.
“YOU DID SOMETHING. WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT BUTTON DID YOU PRESS?”
She tries not to laugh.
Fails.
Hard.
“I ran my fingers through your hair.”
“No,” he says, scandalized. “You did it exactly there—behind the ear—my weak spot—DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT—”
She scoots closer.
He scoots back.
“Come here,” she says gently.
“No.” He holds up a hand like a shield. “I’m a grown man. A professional. A functioning adult. I haven’t purred in YEARS. This is not—this is not scientifically possible—”
Yao lifts a hand.
His entire soul screams.
“Don’t,” he warns.
She touches the exact same spot behind his ear.
He purrs.
Louder.
He claps a hand over his mouth like he can physically shove it back in.
“I AM A HUMAN BEING—” he says, voice muffled. “THIS IS ILLEGAL—THIS IS CRUEL—YAO STOP LAUGHING—”
She giggles into her hand. “Oh my god… you still have it.”
“I DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING,” he insists, horrified. “My reflexes are NORMAL. My nervous system is NORMAL. My dignity is—”
She touches his hair again.
He purrs.
He stares at her like a betrayed Victorian heroine.
“Yao,” he whispers. “Please. I thought I was cured.”
She kisses his forehead, smiling softly.
“You are,” she says. “You just… kept a little bit of who you were.”
He groans and hides his face in her lap.
“Don’t tell Yue.”
“Are you kidding?” she says. “I’m absolutely telling Yue.”
“YAO—”
She strokes his hair again.
Another soft, helpless purr escapes him.
And he dies inside.