No one ever saw him eat.

That was the worst part.

The man in the woods never carried game back to his cabin. No traps. No bow. Yet he never starved. His eyes were too sharp, his smile too patient, like something that had learned how to pretend at being human and enjoyed the act a little too much.

The forest avoided his home. Birds went quiet near the trees that leaned toward his door.

And then there was the catgirl.

She moved through the gloom like she didn’t belong there—small, soft, ears flicking at sounds no one else noticed. Her laugh was quiet, breathy, almost misplaced among the creaking floorboards and the smell of damp earth. She curled up beside him at night, tail wrapped around her legs, purring while his hand rested at her back as if counting heartbeats.

People who glimpsed them together swore she didn’t look afraid.

That frightened them more than anything.

He watched her constantly—not with hunger, but with possession, like she was the only thing anchoring him to something gentle. When she smiled at him, the shadows in his eyes eased. When she slept, he sat awake, listening for footsteps, teeth bared at the dark beyond the windows.

Whatever he was… whatever he had done to survive…

She was his now.

And the woods seemed to understand that anyone who tried to take her away would not leave whole.