Who Needs a Relationship When You Have a Cat?

Chapter 47

Chapter 47It was another Sunday.

A knock came from outside.

Ai Qing had just finished typing and was about to get up when Xiao Yu, who’d been reading a picture book on the bed, hopped off. “I’ll go, I’ll go!”

She pushed the bedroom door open, padded to the entrance, and cracked it a finger’s width.

“Take-out delivery,” the guy outside said, slipping a plastic bag through the gap.

Xiao Yu took it, shut the door, and obediently carried the haul to the kitchen.

Ai Qing strolled out of the bedroom, suddenly reminded that having a cat-turned-roommate came with perks. All the headaches of the early days—teaching her the alphabet, basic sentences, how to act human—had become the foundation that let Xiao Yu pull her weight. At the very least, answering the door for take-out was now someone else’s job.

“I’ll make lunch. You go finish your book,” Ai Qing said, ruffling her hair. He stepped to the counter and started unpacking. Today’s shopping was simple: one cleaned crucian carp, two tomatoes, and the usual supporting cast of aromatics.

Ai Qing loved fish—had since childhood—but cooking it himself felt like a project. He rarely tried, and when he did he either under-cooked the skin or incinerated it. Still, watching Xiao Yu crunch dried fish every day had finally triggered a craving, so he’d clicked “order.” A braised carp to celebrate the fact that at two o’clock this afternoon his novel would hit Qidian’s Starry River Recommendation slot.

The thought put him in a great mood. Humming, he rinsed the carp, sliced ginger, dusted the fish with salt and cooking wine, and set it aside to marinate.

While that sat, he brought a pot of water to a boil, scored an X on each tomato, and dunked them for a quick skin-loosening bath. A minute later he fished them out and peeled the skins away in four easy flaps. He diced the flesh, cracked three eggs into a bowl, beat them smooth, and thinned the mixture with a splash of starch water—an old trick for silkier scrambled eggs.

With the prep bowls lined up, he didn’t start the tomatoes yet. Instead he set a wok over medium heat, poured in oil, and laid the carp down to fry. When both sides were golden he scattered scallion, ginger, garlic, and a few chili rings, letting the fragrance bloom. A measured pour of water followed, seasoned with light soy, dark soy, a glug of cooking wine, and a pinch of sugar. Lid on, timer set for ten minutes—he left the kitchen to refill Xiao Yu’s cat bowl.

The girl—still human—trailed after him, tail-less and therefore currently unemployable as a diner. After weeks of observation Ai Qing had drawn a firm conclusion: the two forms didn’t share a stomach. Kibble eaten as a cat stayed with the cat; dried fish snacked on as a girl stayed with the girl. Parallel systems.

The only puzzle left was hunger itself. Xiao Yu never felt it in human shape. She begged for dried fish out of pure greed; skip the treats and she stayed perfectly energetic. Whatever kept the human body running, it wasn’t regular metabolism. Then again, if science could explain a cat becoming a girl, it wouldn’t be a cat anymore.

The timer rang. Ai Qing lifted the lid—liquid still ample—re-lidded it, and let it burble. He fired up a second burner, medium-low, and slipped in the egg mixture, stirring slowly until just set but still custardy, then scooped it out. Next, high heat, fresh oil, tomatoes in. He crushed them with the spatula, splashed in a little water, a dash of light soy, lid on for two minutes until the tomatoes wept their juice. Sugar, salt, return the eggs, quick fold—done.

By then the carp was ready for its final blaze. He reduced the sauce, scattered chopped scallion over both dishes, and carried lunch to the dining table.

Usually Xiao Yu had either stayed a cat or reverted by now. Today she wandered out still on two legs, parked herself beside him, and rested her chin on folded arms.

“Haven’t shifted back yet?” Ai Qing glanced over. “No rush—when you do, your kibble will be waiting.”

“Mm...” She nodded, eyes fixed on the braised fish, head swiveling left and right as if weighing an impossible equation.

Ai Qing petted her once, then dug in. The carp flaked into sweet, silky chunks; the tomato-egg was exactly the comfort food he wanted. One bowl of rice disappeared; he went for a second.

Half-way through he noticed Xiao Yu staring at the fish like it owed her money.

“Right,” he muttered, “you can eat when you’re human.”

He patted his own stomach—already seventy percent full. He’d cooked for one hungry author, not two, but finishing everything would leave him comatose. Sharing suddenly made sense.

“Stay put.”

He fetched a clean bowl and chopsticks from the kitchen. “No idea if you can use these.” Grinning, he tucked the chopsticks between her lips. “Give it a shot—pinch, squeeze, lift.”

Xiao Yu held them awkwardly, eyes wide. “Me?” She glanced at the fish, then at him. “Allowed?”

Her memory was crystal-clear: the day she’d swiped a piece off the plate as a kitten, Ai Qing had scolded her for ten solid minutes. Plates were forbidden territory—house law.

“You’re not a cat right now. A little salt won’t kill you.” He shrugged. “Just taste; don’t make a meal of it.”

“Like this—fingers here, pivot there—yeah, okay, forget it. Baby steps.”

He plucked the chopsticks back. “I’ll feed you. Open up—ahh.”