Marvel: Shadow Monarch

Just for Word count, will remove after I organically reach the desired count

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

.....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

>...

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

.....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

....

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

..

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.

There was something undeniably strange about Jeff. No one could ever quite tell what he was supposed to be. Was he an animal? A mutated experiment? An alien? Maybe all three. But the truth was — the moment your eyes landed on him, no matter who you were — your first thought wasn't what is that? It was "aww."

He was about the size of a large housecat — small enough to curl up in your lap, but heavy enough to make you grunt when he pounced on your chest without warning. His body was lean and long like a ferret's, but more plush, almost like it was made of tightly-packed marshmallow. When he walked, he bounced slightly, as if gravity didn't apply to him the same way it did to other things.

His skin — or maybe it was fur? — was a smooth matte grey, like polished stone under moonlight, cool to the touch but soft like velvet. In patches across his body, especially along his spine and under his paws, faint streaks of bioluminescence glowed gently. They changed color with his mood: pale blue when he was sleepy, soft pink when he was happy, and a flickering orange when he was excited. If he was scared or angry, they dimmed completely, almost like he wanted to disappear.

Jeff had a tail too — long, prehensile, and curled like a lazy question mark most of the time. It helped him hang off Lucien's shoulders like a living scarf, gripping loosely like a baby monkey might cling to its mother. When he wasn't on Lucien, he'd drag it along the ground like a kid trailing a blanket.

But it was his face that truly sold it.

He had the wide-eyed innocence of a deer and the too-big-for-his-head energy of a puppy. His eyes were huge — disproportionately so — round, expressive, and a clear shade of glassy sea-green. They shimmered under light and always looked on the verge of tears, as if he'd just watched the saddest part of a Pixar movie. His pupils were vertical slits, giving him a vaguely reptilian air, but they narrowed and widened with cartoon-like exaggeration depending on his mood.

When he was curious, his head tilted so far to the side that his ears flopped. Yes, he had ears — somewhere between batlike and kitten-shaped — large, flexible, and always twitching. They responded instantly to sound, and if you cooed at him, they'd both flick straight up in attention like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

He didn't bark or meow or screech. No, Jeff made these soft little chirps and trills, almost like a bird trying to speak dolphin. It wasn't annoying. It was addictive. Every time he made a sound, Anna would instinctively smile, even when she was hurting. His noises were the audio equivalent of biting into a warm cookie — instant comfort.

And then there was his walk. He had this weird, wobbly toddle — a combination of slinking and bouncing that made it look like he was trying to sneak while being too excited to stay low. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon blur, legs moving so fast they blurred together like he was part Looney Tunes.

He also had tiny hands. Not paws, exactly — but somewhere between raccoon and lizard — with three soft fingers and a thumb. He could grab things with alarming precision. One time, Lucien dropped a protein bar and watched in awe as Jeff caught it midair with both hands like a mini acrobat, landed on all fours, and then sat up proudly, chittering in celebration.

Jeff loved head pats. But he also had standards. You had to earn them. He wouldn't just let you touch him. He had a system. He'd first circle you once — sniffing. Then he'd paw at your shoe. If you passed that test, he'd leap up into your lap, curl into a perfect ball, and squeak once — permission granted. At that point, he expected pats on the head, behind the ears, and maybe a scratch under the chin.

If you did it wrong, he'd just slide off you like a boneless noodle and glare at you judgmentally from under a couch.

And when he slept… oh God.

Jeff slept like a baby that had just come home from the world's longest birthday party. He'd sprawl out dramatically on his back, legs splayed in every direction, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His tail would curl over his belly like a protective belt, and every now and then, he'd let out a hiccup-like snore — just one. Then silence. Then another hiccup-snore.

Anna once tried to record it. She ended up just cooing at the camera for two straight minutes.

And if Lucien ever had to move while Jeff was sleeping on him, it was like trying to disarm a bomb. Jeff would stir, groan dramatically, and grip Lucien's shirt with his tiny hands like he was holding on to life itself. If you woke him up early, he'd let out the saddest, most betrayed chirp you've ever heard — something between a baby whining and a car running out of battery.

He was, in every way, ridiculous.

Ridiculous, adorable, and impossible not to love.

Jeff might not have been human. He might not have even been from this planet, or this dimension. But the moment you looked at him — really looked at him — you understood one thing:

Jeff wasn't just cute.

He was family.