Who Needs a Relationship When You Have a Cat?

Chapter 40

Out on the street you still see way more dogs than any other pet.

Dogs are a little more work: you have to walk them every day or they’ll bounce off the walls and redecorate the furniture with their teeth.

Cats, on the other hand, sleep most of the day and only go crazy for short bursts.

They do love vertical real estate, though, so even a tiny apartment works as long as there’s something to climb.

In Ai Qing’s bedroom, for example, Xiao Yu’s favorite route is: floor → bed → desk → teetering stack of books → the top of the wardrobe, from which she surveys her kingdom.

Because of that, cats can live indoors forever.

But then you run into the whole “cat-socialization” problem.

Raise a kitten indoors without ever taking it outside and, once its personality sets, the great outdoors becomes a war zone.

Crowds, cars, a single gust of wind—anything can trigger a meltdown, sometimes fatal.

That’s why you almost never see a house-cat out for a stroll.

Xiao Yu grew up inside; she’d never set paw past the front door.

If she hadn’t recently turned human—if she couldn’t tell Ai Qing what she wanted—he never would have risked it.

So far, so good.

The moment they left the complex, though, she scrambled onto his shoulder and refused to budge.

Whenever a car whooshed past she buried her face in his neck, then popped back out, jewel-bright eyes wide with curiosity.

“Xiao Yu, listen: when we’re almost home and you feel the change coming, meow three times, okay?”

They were nearing Grandpa and Grandma’s supermarket; Ai Qing tilted his head to look at her.

“Meow—meow—meow.”

She trilled the required three, then tilted her own head. “Meow?”

“Perfect.” He scratched her chin, proud. “Getting smarter every day.”

She purred, eyes slitting happily.

The instant they stepped into Aiying Supermarket, TikTok’s trademark jingle washed over them:

“When the night flips over—

a brand-new day appears—

after the tsunami fades—

it’s just the tide, ebb and flow—”

Grandpa Ai Lisong sat at the register. Hearing the door, he glanced up, saw his grandson, and quit pretending to work; thumb flicked, next video queued.

“Back already?” He greeted, then spotted the furry scarf around Ai Qing’s neck and straightened. “Why is Xiao Yu up there? Down, down—keep her off my counter!”

“Relax, she’s an angel.” Ai Qing stroked her head, secretly pleased.

Training a cat felt way harder than training a dog; any progress was a win.

“Still—don’t let her claw your neck.” Grandpa grimaced; cats were not his thing.

“Got it.” Ai Qing grabbed a Xiao Pudding popsicle from the freezer and headed toward the back.

As usual, Grandma Lang Xiangying was cooking.

He’d just torn the wrapper and stuck the popsicle in his mouth when her voice rang out:

“Ai Qing, bring Grandma the medicine on the table.”

“On it.” He fetched her daily pills and carried them to the kitchen. “Where’re Mom and Dad? Missing again?”

“Upstairs,” she whispered, pulling him close. “They had a fight yesterday. Don’t let on I told you—pretend you don’t know.”

“A fight?” That almost never happened. Ai Qing set Xiao Yu on the floor, unclipped her leash, and lowered his voice. “About what?”

The last quarrel he could remember was when he’d announced he wanted to move out and write full-time; Yao Qiang and Ai Zhongguo had disagreed, loudly. Grandma had slipped him the details afterward.

Lang Xiangying sighed. “That publishing house mess. Your father quit his job.”

“...Come again?” Ai Qing blinked. “When?”

“Apparently a while ago. Don’t dig—just know it happened.” She waved him off and turned back to the counter.

“Okay... okay.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Then let me help.”

“Help? You—out of my—”

“Grandma, listen,” he cut in, “I’m writing a scene set in a kitchen; I need real-life details. Art imitates life, right?”

She laughed despite herself, flicked flour at him, and handed him a cabbage. “Fine. Wash this.”

They chopped and chatted; Xiao Yu, shut outside, parked herself by the door. After a minute she realized Ai Qing wasn’t coming back soon, so she padded into the living-room to explore—staying good, staying close.

But as she prowled, an urgent truth struck: her inner “warm flow” was almost at capacity.

Cut off from Ai Qing, the trickle had slowed to a drip; now, with every heartbeat, the tank hit full.

She sprinted back and meowed frantically through the crack.

“What’s Xiao Yu on about?” Grandma wondered.

Ai Qing dropped his knife, wiped his hands, and yanked the door open. Scooping her up, he bolted for the stairs.

“Nature call—litter box in my room!” he called over his shoulder.

“Go on, then,” Lang Xiangying answered, already back to her stir-fry.

He didn’t know the exact trigger for her change.

The instant he pressed her to his chest, the thin stream of warmth became a fire-hose, flooding her tiny body from every angle.

Halfway across the courtyard—just past the balcony—her weight doubled: fur became skin, paws became hands.

He nearly dropped the suddenly human girl.

Footsteps thundered overhead; his father’s voice floated down:

“I said stay out of it—I know what I’m doing!”

Ai Qing’s heart jumped. He set Xiao Yu on her feet, scanned the yard, and zeroed in on the storage-room door beneath the stairs.

“Xiao Yu—with me!”