I woke up on the couch, my neck a little stiff from the awkward angle, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows in lazy beams that danced across the wooden floor, casting warm patterns across the living room. Miko was still napping on me, her head nestled comfortably on my chest, her cat-like ears occasionally flicking at some dream-induced twitch, her tail draped over my side like a living blanket that rose and fell with her breaths. Her warmth seeped through my shirt, a comforting weight that made me reluctant to move. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the Struma River outside and the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen. We'd dozed off after the movie last night, too content to bother with bed, and now the day felt like it was stretching out endlessly ahead of us—a rare, unhurried weekend.
After a bit, I couldn't resist—my hand drifted up to her cat-like ears, fingers gently playing with the soft, velvety fur, rubbing in slow, soothing circles the way I knew she loved. They were warm and sensitive, twitching under my touch, and she let out a tiny purr in her sleep, shifting closer without waking, her body molding even more snugly against mine. I kept at it for a few good minutes, lost in the simple intimacy, tracing the edges where fur met skin, feeling the subtle vibrations of her contentment. It was these little moments that grounded me, reminders of how far we'd come from the chaos of our past.
Eventually, her eyes fluttered open, golden slits focusing on me with a sleepy smile that revealed just a hint of her fangs. "Mmm... morning? Afternoon?" she murmured, stretching languidly but not moving off me, her claws lightly flexing against my shirt as she arched her back like a true feline.
"Afternoon," I chuckled, kissing her forehead, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with that unique hybrid musk that always lingered on her. "You sleep like the dead. Good dreams?"
She yawned widely, fangs peeking out more prominently, then her expression shifted—something hungry, almost urgent flashing in her eyes. "Speaking of... I'm starving. And I want something weird." She sat up a little, propping herself on her elbows, her hand instinctively drifting to her belly where the bump was just starting to show more under her loose top. "Like, a sandwich. Ham, peanut butter, pickles... and milk on the side. Cold milk, please."
I blinked, trying not to make a face, my eyebrow arching involuntarily. "Ham and peanut butter? With pickles? That's... creative. And a little gross, if I'm honest." The combination sounded like a nightmare, but I kept my tone light, not wanting to judge.
She shrugged, her tail flicking lazily behind her as she rolled off me with a grin. "Cravings. Blame the baby—it's finally starting. My body's like, 'Feed me the weirdest thing you can think of.'" She rubbed her belly affectionately, her ears perking up with excitement despite the odd request. It was adorable, seeing her embrace this phase, even if it meant I'd be playing chef to her bizarre whims.
I found it strange, but whatever; if it made her happy and kept the little one growing, I'd roll with it. I eased her off me gently and got up from the couch, stretching out the kinks in my back with a groan. "Coming right up, chef's special." I headed to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and pantry with a mix of amusement and curiosity. Thick slices of ham from the local market, slathered generously in creamy peanut butter that stuck to the knife, topped with crunchy dill pickles that crunched satisfyingly as I layered them on. For me, a simpler one with just ham, cheese, and mustard—something sane. I poured her a tall glass of cold milk and brought it all back to the coffee table on a tray, setting it down with a flourish.
We ate sitting close on the couch, her leaning into my side more than usual, her free hand resting possessively on my thigh, claws lightly tapping a rhythmic pattern that sent little tingles up my leg. She devoured her monstrosity of a sandwich like it was the finest gourmet meal, humming contentedly between bites, peanut butter smearing a bit at the corner of her mouth. I watched her, amused, wiping it away with my thumb, but noticed the clinginess—her tail wrapping around my arm like a vine, her body pressed flush against mine even as she chewed. "You okay?" I asked, setting my plate down after finishing my own. "What's wrong? You're extra clingy today—not that I'm complaining."
She paused mid-sip of milk, her ears flattening a touch in that cute, sheepish way before she smiled softly, setting the glass down and snuggling closer. "Nothing's wrong, really. I just... want to stay close. Feels right, you know? With everything going on out there—the news, the world—it makes me appreciate this more." Her voice was soft, vulnerable, her hand finding mine and intertwining our fingers. The war whispers had been creeping into our conversations lately, even if we tried to avoid them, and I could see the subtle worry in her eyes.
I nodded, pulling her into a proper side hug, my arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, I get it. We're good here—safe, together." I kissed the top of her head, letting the moment linger, her purring starting up again faintly.
After we finished, I cleared the plates, stacking them in the sink for later. "I'm heading to the store for groceries anyway. Need anything else for those weird cravings? Stock up while I can."
She thought for a second, licking the last traces of peanut butter off her lip with a satisfied sigh. "Marshmallows—the fluffy kind. Lemons, super tart ones. And jam—strawberry, maybe? Oh, and if they have that spicy cheese, grab some too."
"Got it," I said, jotting a mental list and grabbing my keys from the hook by the door. "Be back soon—don't eat the couch while I'm gone." She stuck her tongue out playfully as I headed out.
The walk to the store was brisk, the town buzzing with weekend energy—hybrids haggling at colorful market stalls over fresh produce and handmade crafts, kids playing tag in the cobblestone square with laughter echoing off the stone walls, the air carrying scents of baking bread and blooming flowers from nearby gardens. I loaded up on basics: bread, eggs, veggies, milk for her inevitable next craving, and her requests—bags of fluffy white marshmallows that squished under my fingers, a net of bright yellow lemons that smelled citrusy sharp, and a jar of strawberry jam glistening red through the glass. The cashier, a fox-eared hybrid I'd seen around, chatted amiably in Bulgarian, and I managed a decent response, my language skills inching forward.
As I headed home, bag swinging at my side, I spotted a guy across the street who stopped me cold. He looked eerily similar to Trent—same sharp jawline, dark tousled hair, that cocky stance leaning against a lamppost, scanning the crowd like he owned the place. No way, I thought, heart skipping a beat, a surge of old adrenaline kicking in. How the hell could he have survived everything—the chases, the betrayals? My mind flashed back to those tense days, the anger bubbling up unbidden.
I veered toward him casually, ducking behind a nearby wall to peek without being obvious, my groceries crinkling softly as I shifted. Up closer, damn, it really looked like him—the build, the way he gestured while talking on his phone, even the faint scar on his hand. For fuck's sake, how did he survive? My mind raced with old grudges, the mess he'd caused back then, wondering if he'd tracked us here somehow. But as I edged nearer, pretending to check a shop window reflection, I realized—never mind, it wasn't Trent. Close, but not quite: softer eyes without that predatory glint, a missing tattoo on the neck, and a beard that Trent never sported. Probably his brother or a cousin—some family resemblance that fate decided to throw at me for a laugh.
Curiosity—and a bit of paranoia—won out. I approached, keeping it cool, hands in my pockets to hide any tension. "Hey, excuse me—do you know Trent?"
The guy turned, eyebrow raised in mild surprise, pocketing his phone. "What, like my brother Trent? Little guy with the big mouth and the attitude?"
Fuck, I thought, tensing inwardly, my grip on the grocery bag tightening. "Yeah, him. Knew him back in... well, another life."
He shrugged nonchalantly, sizing me up. "I'm his brother—Dimitar. Why? You a friend or something?" His tone was neutral, but there was a familiarity in his smirk that made me wary. I swear if he's the same kind of asshole as Trent...
My mind spun, debating how much to say. Awkward silence stretched as I fumbled for words, the street noise filling the gap—cars rumbling by, vendors calling out deals. "Uh, just... knew him once. Haven't seen him in ages. Anyway, take care." I nodded a quick goodbye and bolted, not wanting to dig into that past or risk any connections resurfacing. Relief washed over me as I turned the corner; close call, but nothing more.
Back home, Miko was lounging on the couch, legs tucked under her comfortably, absorbed in a book titled something like "Catgirl Pregnancies: What to Expect When You're Expecting Claws and Tails." The cover had cute, whimsical illustrations of hybrid moms with glowing bellies and tiny kittens, and she looked up with a bright smile as I unpacked the groceries onto the counter. "Thanks for the weird stuff—this jam looks perfect. And this book's fascinating—did you know hybrid babies sometimes develop tails in utero? Like, you can feel them swish around in there?"
I laughed, stowing the items in the pantry and fridge, the lemons rolling a bit as I set them down. "Cool, sounds magical. Anything else I should know about the pregnancy? Like, hybrid specifics I need to watch for?"
She set the book down on the coffee table, marking her page with a bookmark shaped like a paw print, and wandered into the kitchen, leaning on the counter with her elbows. "Not that I know of, really. Just the usual—rest when I can, eat well to keep the energy up, avoid too much stress from... you know, everything outside." She waved vaguely toward the window, alluding to the war news without naming it. "Though catgirls might get extra playful urges near the end—chasing shadows, nesting like crazy." She winked, her tail swishing behind her as she stole a marshmallow from the bag, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied hum.
We cooked together—or rather, I cooked a simple pasta with tomato sauce, garlic, and fresh herbs from the market, while she "helped" by sneaking tastes and wrapping her arms around me from behind, her bump brushing my back softly, her chin on my shoulder. The kitchen filled with savory aromas, steam rising from the pot as I stirred. Then we sat down to eat at the table, the pasta hearty and twirled on forks, conversation light and flowing—work stories from the bar and store, baby name ideas (she liked "Lila" for a girl, "Kai" for a boy), and laughs about her evolving cravings.
After dinner, dishes rinsed and stacked in the sink, Miko clung to me as we headed to bed, her body molding to mine like she couldn't bear an inch of space between us, her tail entwining my leg possessively. I thought about sex—it'd probably happen when she felt like it, no pressure with the pregnancy making her energy unpredictable. We slipped under the covers, the sheets cool and inviting, her head on my chest, claws lightly resting on my arm. Sleep came easy, her warmth lulling me into dreams, clinging tight like a promise against whatever twists fate threw next.