Not even a dramatic one. Not even intentional in a romantic sense. Just you leaning down in your kitchen, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your cat’s head while it purrs loudly against your ankle like it pays rent here.
“You’re so cute,” you murmur automatically, scratching behind its ears.
From the living room, you hear a sound.
A pause.
Then a very quiet, very offended:
“…Did you just kiss it?”
You don’t even look up. “Yes.”
Silence.
Then shuffling footsteps.
And suddenly Yangyang is standing in the doorway like he’s just witnessed betrayal at the highest level of international importance.
The cat, unbothered, stretches dramatically.
Yangyang points at it. “You kissed it.”
“I always kiss her,” you say.
“You kissed it,” he repeats, slower, like maybe if he says it again reality will correct itself.
You finally look up at him. “It’s my cat.”
“I’m your boyfriend.”
“And she’s my cat.”
He blinks. Once. Twice.
The cat meows.
It sounds smug.
Yangyang looks personally insulted by the sound alone.
That’s the first time you notice something strange.
He’s jealous.
Not in a normal, joking way. Not in a “haha give me attention too” way.
In a deeply serious, emotionally competitive way.
It escalates quickly.
At first, it’s subtle.
He starts sitting closer to you on the couch when the cat is on your lap. Like physically trying to reclaim territory.
Then it becomes verbal.
“You’ve been petting her for ten minutes,” he says one night.
“She likes it.”
“So do I.”
You glance at him. “Do you want me to pet you?”
He hesitates.
“…Yes.”
You laugh and toss a pillow at him. “Yangyang, be serious.”
“I am serious,” he insists, immediately scooting closer anyway. “I have been replaced.”
“You have not been replaced.”
The cat chooses that exact moment to roll over and expose its stomach to you like royalty granting permission.
You oblige instantly.
Yangyang stares in disbelief.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
By the end of the week, he’s started keeping score.
You realize this because you find a sticky note on the fridge.
It says:
KISSES TODAY Cat: 14
Yangyang: 2 (one was accidental)
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
I sneezed. It doesn’t count as affection.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you turn slowly toward him, sitting at the dining table like a man waiting for jury verdict.
“Why are you tracking this?”
He shrugs. “It’s data.”
“It’s jealousy.”
“It’s research.”
The cat walks past him, tail flicking his arm like it owns him personally.
He flinches.
The sticky note is updated that night.
Cat: 18
Yangyang: 2
No explanation.
The breaking point happens on a Sunday.
You’re curled up on the sofa, blanket over your legs, the cat asleep on your stomach. It’s warm. Comfortable. Domestic in a way that makes your brain go quiet.
Yangyang is on the floor beside you, leaning against the couch, scrolling on his phone.
At least, he was.
Until you absentmindedly say, “She’s so soft when she sleeps like this.”
You don’t notice the pause at first.
Then his phone lowers slowly.
“She’s soft?”
“Mm-hm.”
He turns his head slightly. “And what am I?”
You don’t even think before answering. “Annoying.”
Silence.
The cat purrs louder.
Yangyang gasps like he’s been physically wounded.
“You called me annoying,” he says.
“You are annoying.”
“And the cat isn’t?”
You look down at the sleeping animal. “No.”
He looks like he might actually lose his mind.
“I can’t compete with this,” he says quietly.
You finally sit up a little. “Compete?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “I am competing.”
“With my cat.”
“With your cat,” he confirms solemnly.
The cat yawns.
Yangyang takes it personally.
After that, things get worse.
Not in a bad way.
Just… more absurd.
He starts trying to win affection strategically.
If you pet the cat, he immediately offers you snacks.
If you talk to the cat, he interrupts with stories.
If you kiss the cat’s head—
He physically leans in and waits.
Once, he even tries copying the cat’s behavior.
You walk into the room and find him lying on the floor in the exact same position as the cat, stretched out on his back, arms limp.
You pause.
“…What are you doing?”
He doesn’t look at you. “Blending in.”
“With the cat?”
“Yes.”
The cat walks over, sniffs him, then steps directly on his stomach.
He wheezes.
You lose it laughing.
Still, the jealousy doesn’t fade.
If anything, it gets more emotional.
One night, you’re brushing your teeth when you hear him talking in the living room.
Soft voice. Gentle tone.
You step out carefully.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the cat perched on the couch armrest like a queen.
He’s looking directly at it.
“I don’t understand you,” he says seriously. “What do you have that I don’t?”
The cat blinks slowly.
You lean against the doorway, toothbrush still in your mouth, watching.
“I’m funny,” Yangyang continues. “I’m attentive. I can open cans. I can—”
The cat yawns again.
He goes quiet.
Then he whispers, “Is it because I don’t purr?”
You almost choke.
It comes to a head the day he tries to bribe the cat.
You come home to find him in the kitchen holding a can of tuna.
“Yangyang,” you say slowly, “why are you feeding my cat premium human-grade tuna.”
He doesn’t even look guilty. “She deserves it.”
“She gets regular cat food.”
“She deserves better.”
The cat is already on the counter like she owns the apartment.
He opens the tuna.
She watches him like a judge.
You lean on the doorway. “Are you trying to buy her love?”
“I am securing my position in the household hierarchy.”
“There is no hierarchy.”
“There is,” he says firmly. “And I am losing.”
The cat eats the tuna.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then walks away.
Without acknowledging him.
Yangyang stares into the middle distance.
“…She took my tuna and left.”
You cover your face with your hand.
This is your life now.
But the weirdest part is not the jealousy.
It’s what it turns into.
Because somewhere between the ridiculous competitions and the sticky notes and the tuna incident, something shifts.
He starts paying attention to everything.
Not just the cat.
You.
The way you automatically hum when you cook.
The way you talk to the cat like she’s a roommate with opinions.
The way you absentmindedly tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re focused.
He notices all of it like he’s studying you too.
One night, he says, “You talk to her more than you talk to me sometimes.”
You glance at him. “She doesn’t interrupt me.”
“I don’t interrupt you that much.”
“You literally just interrupted me.”
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
“…Fair.”
The cat jumps onto the table.
You gently push her down.
Yangyang watches closely.
Then, quietly, he says, “You touch her a lot.”
You pause. “Are we back to this?”
“I’m not jealous,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just observing.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m analytical.”
You walk over and stand between him and the cat.
“Do you want attention?” you ask.
He hesitates.
“Yes.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“Like this?” you ask, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
He freezes.
The cat immediately jumps up onto the counter like it’s offended by the concept.
You straighten.
“There,” you say. “Equal distribution.”
He doesn’t respond immediately.
Then he quietly says, “That was one kiss.”
“Yes.”
“She gets more.”
You sigh. “Do you want me to keep track?”
He thinks about it.
Then nods.
“…Yes.”
So now there are two charts.
One for the cat.
One for Yangyang.
Both on the fridge.
The numbers grow rapidly.
The competition intensifies.
But something else happens too.
Yangyang starts laughing more when the cat is around.
Starts talking to her like she understands him.
Starts sitting with you longer instead of leaving the room.
One night, you wake up to find him asleep on the couch.
The cat is curled up near his legs.
For once, she hasn’t moved away from him.
You stand there for a moment, watching.
He looks… peaceful.
Not competing.
Not counting.
Just there.
When you go back to bed, you don’t notice that the sticky notes on the fridge have changed.
Cat: 31
Yangyang: 30
And beneath it, a new line.
She blinked at me first today.
The final “incident” happens a few days later.
You’re sitting on the floor watching a movie.
The cat is in your lap.
Yangyang is beside you, leaning his head on your shoulder.
Everything is quiet.
For once, there is no competition.
Then you say, “She’s getting heavy.”
Yangyang immediately sits up. “I can sit on you too.”
You stare at him. “That’s not how weight works.”
“I can try.”
The cat lifts her head and looks at him.
He looks back.
There’s a long silence.
Then, very carefully, he reaches out and pets her head.
Once.
Twice.
The cat doesn’t move away.
He pauses.
Then whispers, “I think I’m winning her over.”
You smile slightly. “Finally.”
He glances at you. “Does this mean I win you over too?”
You tilt your head. “You already did.”
He blinks.
The cat yawns.
And this time, when she curls deeper into your lap, Yangyang doesn’t complain.
He just stays there.
Close.
Quiet.
Still slightly jealous.
But no longer competing.
Not really.
Because now, when he leans in and kisses your cheek again—just once—you don’t count it.
