“Good boy, Muffin!” Sarah—as I’d come to know her—called from the other room, cheerful and completely unaware of the glowing text box that had just faded from view. “Look at you! Such a brave little hunter.”

  I glanced back at the rat, still limp under my paw. I hadn’t even processed what I’d done yet. One second I was slipping on a spoon, the next I was standing over a body with an XP reward like I’d completed some type of quest.

  The praise hit me weirdly hard. A flicker of pride? Embarrassment? I wasn’t sure. But her voice—warm, casual, unbothered by the fact that I had just committed rodenticide in her kitchen—made the weight in my chest ease.

  She entered the room a few moments later, wiping her hands on that ever-present apron. “Oof. That’s a big one.” She crouched beside me, gave the rat a brief, wrinkled-nose inspection, and then gently ruffled the fur between my ears. “What a fierce little muffin you are.”

  I mrrp’d, partly because it felt like the right thing to do, and partly because… I liked the way she said it.

  Sarah scooped the rat into a cloth bundle and tossed it out the back door like it was no more concerning than an old onion peel. Then she returned to the kitchen and resumed stirring a large, bubbling pot that smelled like heaven and herbs.

  Whatever was in there—it wasn’t for me.

  I was served in a chipped ceramic bowl marked “Muffin,” filled with something between wet food and gruel. It was… fine. Edible. A little fishy, maybe. But then Sarah sat down with her own dinner, and I caught a whiff of something entirely different.

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  Savory. Spiced. Meaty.

  My eyes snapped to her plate like they were being pulled by a gravitational force. Roast root vegetables glistening with oil. Something that looked suspiciously like slow-cooked lamb in a thick greenish gravy. A warm roll on the side. It wasn’t fair.

  “Oh no,” she said with a little laugh as she caught me staring. “You already ate. This is people food.”

  I meowed.

  I didn’t mean to. It just came out—sharp, pleading, and a little dramatic.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You are not eating lamb stew.”

  I pawed at her chair leg. Stared directly into her soul.

  She sighed. “Fine. Just a bite. But only this once.”

  Victory.

  She tore off a small shred of meat and lowered it to me on the tip of her finger. I devoured it like a starved goblin. The taste exploded in my mouth—tender, juicy, seasoned with something faintly citrusy. Real food. Human food. The first bite of my real second life.

  Another piece followed. And another. She ended up giving me little scraps throughout dinner, muttering to herself the whole time about how I was “already spoiled” and that I “better not turn up my nose at proper kibble tomorrow.”

  I didn’t care. I was in love.

  With the food. Probably.

  Afterward, I waddled to the hearth with a stomach that felt twice its usual size and curled up on the cushion she’d placed there just for me. The fire crackled gently. Sarah hummed as she cleaned up. I watched her, half-lidded, full of lamb and strange feelings.

  She hadn’t treated me like a partner or an equal. She still thought I was just a cat. But she’d shared her meal. Her home. Her attention.

  It was… nice.

  I wasn’t used to "nice."

  As I drifted off, belly warm, I realized something odd. I wasn’t just grateful for the food. I was grateful for her.

  Even if she still called me Muffin.