Konig

He stood at the threshold, as if expecting the door to open on its own, his eyes dark, almost black, but they held that same fire I'd long known: stern, demanding, but not cold. I set the box down on the floor and lifted the lid slightly. The cat—small, gray-red, with a bump on his muzzle—stuck his head out, looked around, shuddered, and immediately hid back.

"So, Koenig?" I smiled, realizing that this would be a battle for his trust.
"You furry idiot," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe, "do you still think you can drag a cat from the alley and expect it to become part of the family?"

I shook my head.
"He's not from the streets. He was found near an old factory, very small, alone. And... it seemed to me that he was in need. Just like me."

He looked at me silently, then slowly entered the room, as if checking out the territory. The cat poked its head out again—this time to inspect him. Then—abruptly—it darted into the corner.

But an hour later, he was already sitting on Koenig's lap, his muzzle buried in his palm, meowing quietly, almost resentfully. And Koenig, so stern, so impossible, gently stroked his back.

"You know," he said, not looking at me, "I've never been the kind of person who needed to love anyone. But now that you brought this cat... I think I'm starting to understand."

I sat down next to him and laid my head on his shoulder.
"This isn't just a cat, Koenig. He's family now. We're family now."