Sarah came in through the bedroom window. The same window she’d fled from at the first knock on the front door. Moonlight illuminated her white fur. She paused—hair rising, tail fluffing. Something was wrong. A different odor. She heard two breaths. Two hearts. Then there was movement under the covers. 

Sarah hissed, but her human Aline didn’t respond. Sarah hissed louder, and still Aline ignored her. Sarah knocked to the floor the little wooden box where Aline stored her shiny things.

“What’s that?”

“My cat. Sarah’s not used to me having overnight guests,” Aline said.

“Oh, I get to stay the night?”

“I hope,” Aline said.

Sarah watched this other human stroke Aline, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, and Aline closed her eyes as fingers slid down her face and shoulder, gliding to her waist. No resistance, no pulling back. Aline moved closer, her arms reaching.

Sarah swiped Aline’s comb off the dresser. It bounced on the bamboo floor. Sarah arched her back—ears flat to the side.

She smelled the enemy mixing her musk with Aline’s.

Claws extended, Sarah leapt.

Chella Courington is a writer and teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in anthologies and journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, New World Writing, and Ghost Parachute. A 2020 Pushcart and Best Small Fictions Nominee, Courington (she/her) lives in California.