The Meet-Cute Disaster

The apartment had rules, and the cryptid on the couch had broken every single one of them before breakfast. She’d eaten the last of the cereal — box included — rearranged the bookshelf by “vibe,” and left a constellation of glowing pawprints across the ceiling that no amount of scrubbing would remove.

“You’re staring,” Vega said, without opening her eyes. The stars scattered across her fur pulsed lazily, like she was breathing light. “It’s rude to stare at houseguests.”

“You’re not a houseguest. Houseguests are invited. And they leave.”

She grinned — all teeth, all starlight — and for one traitorous second he understood exactly why the pigeon had stayed. “Give it time,” she said. “I grow on people. Ask the plaster.”

Somewhere above them, a fresh crack spidered across the ceiling, and a single antler tine broke the surface like the first shoot of something that had decided, definitively, to stay.