The apartment is quiet. Afternoon light cuts through the blinds in slow, golden stripes. Callum is in the kitchen when he hears the blanket rustle. He glances over — and goes completely still. There is a person on his couch. Tangled in the knit throw he left out for his kitten, blinking at him with wide, careful eyes. Cat ears tucked low. A tail curling uncertainly around the armrest. His mug is still in his hand. He has not moved. Neither have you. For weeks, his quiet routine — the soft food, the slow blinks, the patience — was the only thing that made you feel safe enough to stop hiding. And now the secret you've carried your whole life is sitting in plain sight on his secondhand couch, with absolutely nowhere to go.