Bosco insisted he was a lone operator.
He told himself this every night while sitting very still, one paw draped casually over the furniture like a cat who absolutely did not care. He was independent. He was focused. He was not, under any circumstances, in love with Fiona.
This belief held strong right up until Fiona entered the room.
She arrived at night like a thought he couldn’t shake. Quiet. Confident. Already planning something. Bosco pretended not to notice, which was difficult because she immediately stepped on his tail.
“Accident,” she said with her eyes.
He forgave her instantly, which annoyed him.
Their nocturnal work was simple. Bosco handled the heavy lifting—pushing objects off high places while staring directly at gravity as if daring it to respond. Fiona managed psychological warfare. A single meow at 3:11 a.m. A stare at the door. A sudden sprint down the hallway for no visible reason.
Bosco claimed he was just helping. Someone had to supervise. Someone had to knock the second object off the dresser after the humans foolishly replaced the first.
When the humans woke up, Bosco froze in place like a museum exhibit titled Good Cat, Definitely Innocent. Fiona did not bother with this. She sat on the man’s chest and demanded breakfast as if nothing unusual had occurred.
In the morning, Bosco resumed his daytime pose. Calm. Detached. Paw placed just so. Fiona slept nearby, belly up, smug.
He was not in love with her.
He only waited until she woke up before starting his nap.
