Wick had claimed my favorite writing chair. He’d sit there for hours, regal and silent, watching me with the heavy-lidded gaze of someone who’d long ago seen everything worth seeing. If I dared reclaim the chair, he’d stretch, yawn, and settle deeper, tail curling neatly around him as if to say, I was here first. 

One evening, I came home from the grocery store to find him sprawled across my laptop keyboard. The screen glowed with a single line: “sssssssssssss.” Maybe it was his critique—or maybe he just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget who was in charge. 

Despite his gruff exterior, Wick had a quiet protectiveness that showed when no one was watching. On stormy nights, when thunder rattled the windows, he’d lie near Tigra and Quigley—close enough to keep an eye on them but far enough to preserve his dignity. 

Quigley would sigh contentedly, convinced it was love. Tigra would stretch, her white belly flashing in the firelight, pretending not to notice Wick’s quiet watchfulness. And Wick—ever the old king—tolerated them both, steadfast and calm, keeping the peace in his own silent way. 

And somehow, that made our mismatched little family feel perfectly complete.