Isla Owens POV:

I was crouched on the floor, dangling a string for Apollo—the little orange cat I'd adopted from the shelter last week. The sound of a door opening behind me made my hand freeze.

I slowly turned my head. Christian stood in his bedroom doorway. He wore a pair of gray sweat shorts, his upper body bare, revealing the lean, powerful muscles of an athlete.

His hair was a mess, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. But when his gaze fell on Apollo, they instantly turned sharp and cold.

We stared at each other from across the room. Neither of us spoke first. The air was thick with awkwardness and the tense promise of a storm.

Apollo seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere. He stopped eating, gave Christian a wary look, and let out a soft "meow," shrinking back behind me.

"What is that?" Christian finally spoke, his voice raspy with an edge of displeasure.

I stood up, dusting off my hands, and answered calmly, "A cat. His name is Apollo."

"I know it's a cat," he said, taking two steps forward, looming over me. "My question is, why is it here?"

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze. "I adopted him. He lives here now."

He let out a short, contemptuous laugh. The faint scar above his eyebrow seemed more prominent in the morning light. It was a sneer I knew well, the one he used to dismiss anything or anyone he found beneath him. "Isla, our agreement was very clear. No pets."

"Your agreement, not ours," I corrected him. "That document was drafted by your lawyer. I just signed it. And it said 'not recommended,' not 'forbidden.'"

I remembered every single word. Signing that paper had felt like selling a piece of my soul.

Christian was clearly not expecting me to argue. He paused, his expression darkening. "I hate cats."

"I know," I said flatly. "But you're barely ever here, are you?"

The words hung in the air between us like a slap. I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten instantly.

He stared at me, his blue eyes churning with emotions I couldn't decipher. There was anger, but also something else.

"Get rid of it," he said, his tone a command. It was not a request.

"No." The word came out just as firm. It was the first time I had ever said a direct "no" to him.

As if cheering me on, Apollo meowed again, rubbing his head against my ankle.

Christian's gaze shifted from my face to the cat, his disgust unconcealed.

We stood in a standoff for a long minute. Finally, without another word, he turned and walked into the kitchen.

I heard him grabbing something from the fridge, then the ding of the microwave. He was probably heating up last night's leftovers. If there were any.

I ignored him and knelt to comfort Apollo, but I could feel his cold stare on my back.

For the next few days, we were locked in a cold war.

We lived under the same roof like two complete strangers. We'd pass in the hallway without making eye contact. In the living room, he'd watch his sports channels, and I'd put on my headphones to practice my music.

Apollo became the only thing we shared. Christian never touched him, but sometimes I'd catch him staring at the cat with a complicated look in his eyes.

One afternoon, I came home from class to a strangely quiet apartment. Christian wasn't there, and Apollo wasn't on his usual scratching post.

A knot of panic formed in my stomach. I started searching the apartment, calling his name. "Apollo? Apollo?"

I checked every room. Nothing. My heart began to sink. He wouldn't actually... get rid of him, would he?

Just as I was about to despair, I heard a faint "meow" from Christian's bedroom.

I froze. His bedroom door was always closed. It was a forbidden zone.

I hesitated for a few seconds, then walked over and knocked. "Christian?"

No response.

I took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked.

I pushed the door open and saw something that made my breath catch in my throat. Christian was asleep on his bed. And Apollo, the cat he claimed to hate, was curled up peacefully on his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths.