Lion.

You had wanted a cat for almost two years—not out of a whim, but because the house lacked a living presence:

Something warm, something that breaks the perfect order and makes life feel real.

Lev was against it. A true "grumbling organism," finding arguments for everything.

"A pet is a responsibility. And guess who that responsibility will fall on?"
"Me."

And it always sounded like "No."

But one day, you brought a kitten home anyway—small, grey, and far too confident for his size.

"He's weird," Lev said.

But the cat chose him.

He slept on the laptop, waited by the door, followed him everywhere.

"He's stalking me," Lev would grumble.
"He loves you," you'd reply.
"This is manipulation."

But he gave in: he didn't shoo the cat away when he fell asleep on him, and he petted him longer than just "simply removing the fur."

When the cat got sick, Lev said shortly:

"We're going."

At the clinic, he held him, never taking his eyes off him.

And he was still grumbling, but softer now.

One day, you returned home early. The door was ajar.

Lev's voice came from the room. He was petting the cat and asking:

"What is it about you that's so special and supernatural?"

The cat purred.

"You're unbearable... complete chaos."

A pause.

"And she adores you anyway."

He didn't stop his hand.
And quietly added:

"I think I'm starting to understand."