La petite chatte.

Some people just don’t make it through the night. It’s the sad reality of things. Dying in your sleep, a gun to your head, a malicious killer—a comfortable bed at night doesn’t protect you from stuff like that. You can lock all the doors, say your prayers, but if it’s your time to go, you haven’t got a say in the matter.

So it actually makes a lot of sense that you risk a heart attack when you see Jennie sitting on your windowsill.

Her eyeliner, smudged and messy, matches the black of the night sky spread behind her. She’s got those big, Twiggy lashes that make her look like an enigma from a beige-schemed television. The fact that she trespassed your home doesn’t seem to bother her. Your gawking doesn’t either. All Jennie’s focused on is stroking the cat in her lap.

Jennie looks up at you, flashes those perfect teeth. “Found her wandering around. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

The kitten sits on her jeans comfortably. She hasn’t got a top on; just a tiny Calvin Klein bra and a leather jacket. It’s making biscuits on her flat, supermodel midriff. Its claws dig deep into her flesh yet she doesn’t seem to mind. Hell, Jennie doesn’t even wince. She’s no stranger to pain. 

You’d know that, wouldn’t you?

So you don’t spare her the venom in the much-needed question that goes: “Jennie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

She handles it well. Doesn’t flinch at the volume of your voice, doesn’t tear her eyes away from the kitten. “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

You close the door behind you and lean on its back. Make the tiniest exhale through your nostrils to keep yourself zen. She was the one who taught you that. Jennie was a girl who got herself in a lot of trouble and struggled to keep up with said trouble.

She looks as beautiful as the last time you saw her. Probably even more. As usual, you’re captured by those eyes, those pretty lips. Her collarbone is ever sharp and you resist the urge to kiss the dent it makes on her pure skin. Cruel. There’s something so twisted about the fact that even after months, you could still map the exact coordinates of the scar under her chest. You’ve still got how she likes to be touched memorized like an anthem.

“I’m doing fine, thank you for the concern,” you tell her, dropping your keys on the table. Each step draws you closer to Jennie. You don’t know if you like that. “What about you? You don’t think it’s rude to come in here and act like you own the place?”

You’re in front of her now to get yourself a drink from the cupboard. A strong one. It takes a lot to handle Jennie. Not everybody can. Which is why she probably grew tired of running, hiding from you, finding you in some other guy who doesn’t know her like you do. You imagine she hasn’t had much luck. 

It’s natural for a man to want Jennie Kim. But once he’s pawed through her body and realizes he can’t tie her down—to one place, to a career, to his bed—he starts getting angry. 

“I do think it’s rude,” Jennie admits, watching you pull out a tall bottle of soju. She tilts her head when you scowl at her. “But you’re not one to hold grudges, are you?”

You don’t reply. Simply crack the bottle open and drink straight from its mouth. Should you finish it all in one go? You’ve had a long day, and seeing that Jennie has broken in is getting to you. You ought to be asleep by now.

But Jennie has a bad habit of keeping you up. In more ways than one. She once called you sobbing in the middle of the night. You had to pick her up at 3 a.m. from that airport and she collapsed in your arms exhaustedly. And when you still shared a bed, she made up for all that by keeping you inside her all night long.

A possessive streak runs through you just now. Jennie’s petting the kitten and making soft coos at it. Her own catlike eyes are sparkling.  You wonder if they’ve ever seen her like this. You wonder if they’ve thought of her as someone whose fragility is very real under those dark eyes and nude lipstick. You want to ask them if they’ve caught her wearing their hoodie or seen her sleep in the passenger seat, knees under her chin.

It’s an irrational thought. A pathetic one because it doesn’t fucking matter. Love doesn’t make you better than them. Jennie Kim still isn’t yours.

“Hold grudges? Baby, I can’t even hold you back from anything.”

Jennie’s little smile pulls at your heartstrings. “I love when you call me baby. Makes me feel like you can.”

She lifts the kitten up and places it by the pot of flowers. It’s purring softly. You think it really likes Jennie. Cats are either aloof or aggressive with you. This one rubs itself on the fabric of her jeans and vies for her attention.

It stretches a little on your table. You spot a golden collar glinting on its neck. It almost blinds you, a star dropped from the night sky.

Jennie runs her fingers behind its ears. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” she says, and manages a giggle at her own joke. “I tried to hide the collar, you know. I really wanted to keep her. But sweet little kitten here already belongs to someone else.”

The gold collar looks more real to you. The shine on that thing can’t be duplicated. You thought she’d picked the little thing from the streets but you see how soft its fur is. Only housecats get that kind of fur, with attentive, loving owners who aren’t hesitant to take care of it.

“Maybe you’ll get a big cash prize for giving it back,” you tell her, although Jennie’s never needed convincing to let go of things. People. Love. She’s already washing her hands at your sink.

Her shoulders, fine and pretty and impossible to take your eyes off from, drop. “She’s probably worth millions. Would she mind if I kept her?”

“You think it would want an owner who can’t keep herself warm?” 

It’s been bugging you since the moment you saw her. Jennie’s body is tight and perfect but god, she’s gonna catch a cold if she keeps that up. 

So you’re the Monroe who relieves that age-old itch of touching her, lifting Jennie off the counter and buttoning her jacket closed. Set her on her feet and try not to look her in the eye. But then you’re left with the rest of her body and it just becomes a complicated situation. 

Hide her for the audience that is the rest of the world outside the window. Keep her for yourself although you’ve no right to and it hurts to think about it each time.

You’re at the final button when you realize she’s smiling. 

“Oh,” Jennie says, eyes almost soft, “you do care.”

She can’t look at you like that when you have your fingers just below her chin. 

“Of course I care. Do you know how much I worry about you? When you pack up your things and leave for months without even…” You hiss. “I dunno, a text, maybe? Do you have any idea?”

“Hmm? I have an idea.” Jennie tilts her cheek up as if to ask for a kiss. “But I wouldn’t mind a recap.” 

“You’re crazy.” 

“Takes one to know one.” She watches the provoked tremble of your lip, before looking up at you. “Oh, sweetheart. Are you mad at me?” 

She’s coaxing you, for sure. She wants nothing more than for the anger to get the best of you so you can shove her up the door and start marking her. It’s how you work, you know. She winds you up a little, lets a bit of skin show from her jacket—that’s pretty much all it would take for you to fuck her.

And that fucking accent, Jesus. 

“Maybe you should keep the kitten.”

Jennie’s brows quirk at the sudden change of conversation. “Oh?”

“Why not. You’re a whole lot like each other.”

You skate your fingers over the dark threads of her hair. You’ve forgotten what it felt like to have it curled in your fist. You wonder if you should reminisce later on, when this ends how it always ends.

“You’re beautiful, Jennie.”

The curve of her ear turns a faint red, as if it’s something she hasn’t been told before.

“People look for beauty and want it for themselves. You told me that, right, baby? You’re the sort of girl someone would want to take home to their mom then their bed.”

Her skin is hot under your touch. Jennie’s face painted by the lamplight is made of soft, soft lines. You trace each one: her cheek, jawline, and her lips. 

“But you’re not a dog who can be kept on a leash. No one can keep you in one place. You can go around the world without looking back and they’ll have to deal with it. That kitten left her home because that’s what you do even if you already belong to someone.” 

Then your hand is on her neck, running along the veins and the ridges that stretch to her collarbone. You’re petting at her like you would a kitten. The collar still shimmers on its neck as it sleeps on your counter.

On Jennie’s, you find none.