Steam billowed from the oven as my humans performed their evening ritual. The kitchen filled with a scent that made my whiskers quiver—yeast and warmth and possibility, all wrapped in a golden crust.
"Perfect rise on this one," said the tall human, running a finger along the bread's arc. "Your grandmother would be proud."
The short human laughed, the sound mixing with the bread's crackling song. "She'd say we needed more salt." Her knife sliced through the loaf, releasing another wave of aroma that set my tail twitching. A piece of crust tumbled to the counter's edge.
My muscles coiled. Three precise steps back, haunches lowered, and—
"Oh no you don't, little miss!" The tall human's hands swept beneath me mid-leap. "What's our rule about counter-surfing?"
The short human chuckled. "Look at those eyes. She's got your number, honey."
"Don't encourage her." But his voice carried the same warmth as the bread, and his hands were gentle as they set me down.
I retreated beneath the couch, where the dust bunnies formed a sympathetic audience. Through the forest of chair legs, I watched my humans settle into their evening. They carried their plates to the couch—my couch—and the familiar theme song of their favorite show filled the room.
The tall human patted his lap. "Come on out, Bagheera. We saved you some chicken."
I considered the offer. The dust bunnies counseled patience, but the chicken's aroma proved persuasive. I emerged with my tail held high—a queen graciously forgiving her subjects' transgressions. As I settled into the warm hollow between them, my paws found their rhythm against the tall human's thigh. Press, release, press, release. The short human reached over to scratch behind my ears, and a purr rumbled in my chest despite my best efforts at dignity.
Later, when their soft snores echoed from upstairs, I prowled the moonlit kitchen. Silver light spilled across the counter where they'd left traces of their breadmaking—scattered flour like fallen snow, drops of water catching starlight. My whiskers twitched at the memory of their hands working the dough, how their fingers pressed and turned with almost feline grace.
I made my leap. This time, no hands interrupted my ascent. My paws left delicate prints in the flour as I moved toward the water droplets. Something stirred in my blood, an echo of ancient memories. Before there were ovens, before there were counters, there were cats with clever paws teaching humans the secrets of kneading.