Chapter 37

Clack-clack-clack—the keyboard rattled through the bedroom.

Upstairs, the renovation had started a little after nine. Drills whined, hammers thumped, and something that sounded like a diesel engine never quite stopped.

So Ai Qing pulled on his headphones, cranked Genshin’s soundtrack to max, and vanished into the world he was writing.

Curled on the windowsill in a patch of perfect white, Xiao Yu soaked up the morning sun. Golden light slid over her fluffy coat, tipping each hair with faint bronze. Her mismatched eyes—one sapphire, one amber—shrunk to pinpricks in the glare, yet still looked like jewels floating over hidden ripples, miniature lakes caught in reflection.

She yawned, showing a pink tongue the size of a paperclip, rolled over, and peered inside.

Once upon a time, kitten-Xiao Yu had been clueless; she’d hop straight onto Ai Qing’s lap mid-sentence and sabotage every plot twist.

These days she was smarter. She couldn’t read many characters, but ten-word sentences were starting to make sense, and if she concentrated she could push a word or two past her own lips. Best of all, she’d learned to keep quiet while he typed.

The windowsill was close enough; the Warm Flow seeping into her body was already as thick as her little finger. A few more minutes and the meter would hit full.

She sneaked a glance at Ai Qing: eyebrows knitting, relaxing, fingers sprinting, then crawling like a sleepy tortoise—completely gone.

Safe.

She stood, stretched right in front of him, hopped from sill to desk to bed as if she were only changing napping real estate. Behind his chair she paused, listened, then tip-toed to the door. One soft leap—paw on handle—click.

The door swung open.

Headphones still clamped over his ears, Ai Qing never noticed.

Xiao Yu’s whiskers twitched in triumph. She shot through the gap and bolted for the living room.

The instant her paws hit the rug she let the Warm Flow run wild. Light flooded her veins, bones stretched, fur melted into skin—and there stood a girl in a cotton sundress and tiny white sneakers.

Walking on two feet was still a work in progress. With no human eyes on her, she dropped to all fours and scuttled across the floor. Indecent in theory, adorable in practice.

Why sneak out here to transform? Easy: class dodging.

Ever since Ai Qing discovered her change, he’d been parking her on a dining-chair and making her copy characters. She could learn to talk by herself, thank you very much.

If she burned through the Warm Flow now, today’s “language lesson” would be cancelled.

And... there was the cabinet.

She crawled faster, drool already pooling. Behind its glass doors sat the snacks she’d once watched from the floor, tail lashing in longing. Ai Qing rationed everything—freeze-dried nuggets, cat-gravy sticks, the holy dried fish—one treat every two or three days.

Not anymore.

Xiao Yu braced a hand on each door and wobbled upright. Standing was manageable; walking came later. The dress skimmed her narrow frame, hem brushing calves that ended in those spotless white shoes.

A small bulge twitched at the small of her back—her tail coiled underneath. Ai Qing had threatened to cut a hole, but the dress was loose and she was skinny; when she stood, the tail had room to wriggle.

Right now it flicked impatiently, popping a tuft of white through the hem like a tiny flag.

She checked the bedroom gap—still quiet—then fumbled with the lock until the little metal tongue clicked aside.

Heart hammering, she reached inside. Choices, choices... but there was no contest. Dried fish ruled them all.

One week between bags was criminal.

She snagged a packet, slid to the floor, and scurried behind the sofa. Teeth ripped plastic; a single golden strip slid out. Crunch.

Heaven.

——

10:00 a.m. Ai Qing rolled his shoulders, saved his draft, and stood up to start lunch.

Bedroom door: ajar.

He frowned, scanned the room—no Xiao Yu. Probably exploring. As long as she hadn’t unlocked the front door...

In the living room he found her: a snow-white cat loaf, eyes half-lidded, the picture of innocence. No overturned plants, no clawed cushions.

He exhaled, scratched her ears, and headed for the kitchen.

11:30. Two dishes and a soup steamed on the table. Ai Qing opened the snack cabinet to fetch the scheduled cat-gravy stick.

Freeze-dried box: disturbed. Dried-fish bag: lighter. Gravy-stick count: off by one.

He stood very still.

Finally: “Xiao Yu, come here for a second.”

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