The Sacred Echo Room
A Kitchen Chronicles Story
©ESR 2025

Part 2 – The Drowned Aria II

_____
_____

The house was quiet except for the drip of the faucet that refused to be silenced.

Evening light pooled on the tile in pale gold patches, and the air still smelled faintly of soap and warmth of Flame’s shower, newly ended. Steam ghosted around the mirror, softening every edge into dream.

To Benny, this was not a bathroom.

It was a temple.

He padded in on careful paws, tail high, whiskers trembling. The tub loomed before him like a white canyon, smooth and mysterious. He could hear the faint, hollow thrum of his own steps echoing off porcelain. The acoustics were divine.

He tested a chirp.

The room gave it back to him—bigger, rounder, nobler.

Benny’s pupils dilated.

A second chirp became a mewl.

The mewl became an aria.

In seconds, the kitten discovered his destiny: he was an opera singer.

He leapt into the tub and the echo deepened, rich as cathedral bells.

He yowled once, purely to feel the sound bounce around him, and nearly fainted from joy.

“This,” he whispered reverently to no one, “is the sacred room of sound.”

_____

And then he noticed the water.

A single drop clung to the faucet’s mouth, trembling under its own weight.

He stared.

The drop fell.

It landed with a perfect, tiny plink that echoed like divine punctuation.

Benny stepped closer. His reflection wobbled in the metal. The faint warmth from earlier showers still clung to it. He stuck out his tongue and caught the next drop mid-fall.

It tasted like life and danger and his Queen’s favorite soap.

He was certain he had discovered the source of all water.

He licked again. And again. And again. Each time, the drop returned, as if the faucet itself approved of his devotion.

Outside the half-closed door, a deep voice rumbled low enough to blend with the plumbing.

“Kitten,” said the Jaguar, half amusement, half warning.

Benny froze, one paw still braced against the curved basin.

“Oh, hello,” he said, far too brightly. “I was just… meditating.”

The Jaguar appeared in the doorway, all smoke and quiet power, his galaxy-spotted coat catching the last scraps of hallway light. He blinked slowly, taking in the small orange shape inside the tub.

“On what subject?”

“Acoustics,” Benny answered. “And theology. This room has both.”

The Jaguar’s whiskers twitched. “It also has plumbing.”

“Yes! And the fountain!” Benny gestured at the faucet with a flourish of his tail. “I think it’s alive. It gives the Queen her magic. I can taste it.”

“You should not taste it.”

“I’m guarding it,” Benny said piously. “In case of intruders.”

The Jaguar sighed…a long, regal exhale that seemed to lower the air pressure.

“Little one, this is a shower. It is for cleansing. Not concerts. Not worship.”

Benny cocked his head, unbothered. “I’m cleansing my soul.”

“Your soul doesn’t leave pawprints.”

“Mine does.”

_____

For a moment the Jaguar simply stared at him, stars dimming in his fur. Then he turned his gaze ceilingward, muttered something ancient about patience, and padded two steps closer.

“Leave the fountain be. The Queen dislikes muddy water.”

Benny nodded solemnly. “Of course. Absolutely.”

The Jaguar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Only experimentally.”

A sound from the living room, Flame’s laugh, faint, warm. The Jaguar turned an ear toward it, his attention momentarily divided. Benny seized the opportunity.

He dipped one paw under the faucet and gave the handle the gentlest nudge.

A thin thread of water hissed to life.

Both cats froze.

The drip became a steady trickle. Steam curled upward, catching the amber light like incense in a temple. The sound filled the tiny space, a shimmering river of potential catastrophe.

Benny looked up at the Jaguar, wide-eyed with wonder. “It sings back.”

The Jaguar closed his eyes. “Turn it off.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Then stop touching it.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are standing in it.”

The Jaguar stepped forward, used one precise paw to flick the handle back into silence. The water ceased its hymn.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Benny’s breathing and the soft hum of the vent fan.

“I think it likes me,” Benny whispered.

“It does not.”

“Maybe it does.”

The Jaguar turned toward the doorway. “If it did, it would drown you to show affection.”

Benny blinked. “That sounds intense.”

“That is water.”

The larger cat left with that final pronouncement, tail flicking like a punctuation mark.

Benny waited. Counted to ten.

When the sound of Jaguar’s steps had faded, he looked back at the faucet.

A single bead of water gathered again at the rim.

It caught the light, glowing like a star.

“Hello again,” Benny murmured. “You missed me.”

He licked it.

And somewhere down the hall, the Jaguar sighed without knowing why.

⸻

_____

The next morning, peace had technically returned to the household.

Flame moved through her quiet morning rituals: tea, sunlight, soft music, completely unaware that her bathroom had been claimed in the night by a small orange cultist.

Benny waited until she left for errands. Then, like a thief of holiness, he slunk back into the Sacred Echo Room.

The door creaked open just enough for his whiskers to clear the frame.

He sniffed the air. It still carried that faint perfume of soap and damp towel and the ghost of warm water. Perfection.

He leapt up onto the side of the tub, peered over the edge. The white basin gleamed back like a challenge.

“Good morning, Fountain,” he whispered reverently.

Nothing answered.

He tried a chirp. The chirp echoed. That was answer enough.

Benny climbed back inside. He turned a few circles, tail twitching, kneaded the bathmat folded over one corner as if preparing a stage.

“Rehearsal,” he told himself, as he began to hum low notes in the back of his throat.

The room rewarded him instantly, each vibration coming back honey-thick and hollow and perfect.

He was mid-mewl, preparing to enter what he imagined was his second movement (“Ballad of the Eternal Faucet”), when the light shifted behind him.

______

The Jaguar’s reflection appeared in the mirror like an omen.

He filled the doorway, galaxies dappling his fur in subtle silver.

The expression on his face said everything Benny didn’t want to hear.

“Not again,” the Jaguar muttered.

Benny straightened, trying to look dignified while standing in a bathtub. “I was guarding the relic.”

“I heard you singing to the relic.”

“Guarding comes in many forms.”

The Jaguar padded closer, tail like a dark comet’s trail. “You were told to leave it alone.”

“I was, and I did.” Benny blinked innocently. “Then I came back to make sure it stayed alone.”

“That is not what that means.”

Benny, determined to distract, sniffed toward the faucet. “I think the Queen’s spirit lives in here. I can hear her heartbeat when the water runs.”

The Jaguar’s ears twitched. “That’s the plumbing.”

“Sacred plumbing,” Benny corrected, utterly serious. “Maybe the humans call it ‘hot water,’ but that just means the divine burns brighter here.”

_____

The big cat took a slow breath through his nose,the kind he used when deciding whether patience was still an option.

He looked like the embodiment of the phrase discipline restrains claws.

“Listen, little one,” he said at last, voice low. “The Queen would not want you here. She dislikes mess. You bring mess.”

Benny pointedly looked down at his clean paws. “I see no mess.”

“You are a walking mess.”

“Then I belong here. To balance it.”

The Jaguar stared at him a moment longer, then…against his better judgment…sat beside the tub. His paws were larger than Benny’s head, his patience larger still.

“You remind me of the Storm,” he said quietly.

“I take that as a compliment.”

“It isn’t one.”

Silence fell. Drip. Drip. The faucet resumed its quiet, meditative rhythm. Benny stared at it, spellbound.

“I could stop it from dripping,” Jaguar offered. “If it bothers you.”

“It’s not a bother,” Benny said, eyes dreamy. “It’s a lullaby.”

“You don’t even sleep.”

“I rest in creative awareness.”

The Jaguar groaned softly. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Of course. The acoustics are excellent.”

_____

Benny raised his head and yowled again, long and glorious, letting the echo fill the small room like incense smoke. The Jaguar winced. Somewhere in another room, a frame rattled on the wall.

“Enough,” the big cat said.

Benny’s tail flicked, his eyes bright. “You don’t understand. This place amplifies the soul. You should try it.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“It made me want to leave.”

“Well, maybe your soul isn’t loud enough.”

The Jaguar stared at him for a long time, then, with the resignation of one who knows divine retribution will come anyway, turned to leave.

“Do what you will. But when the water bites back, remember that I warned you.”

“I will never forget your faith in me,” Benny called cheerfully as the larger cat walked away.

When the door shut, he waited a whole ten seconds before leaping up onto the rim of the tub again.

“Now,” he whispered, “where were we?”

He pawed at the handle, just enough to coax the faucet into its rhythmic drip.

He lapped once, twice, perfectly content.

Outside the door, the Jaguar paused mid-stride, eyes closing, head tilting slightly.

He could hear the drip resume.

A muscle twitched near his jaw.

If warnings fail, he thought, demonstrations follow.

He turned, tail swishing once in measured threat, and padded off to prepare his lesson.

⸻
_____

Morning stretched lazy and gold through the windows. The kind of morning that smelled like toast and peace.

The kind of morning that never, ever survived long in this household.

Benny had already forgotten his “agreement” with the Jaguar, though to be fair, the agreement only existed in the Jaguar’s imagination.

The Queen was gone to run errands. The Storm was still asleep, or pretending to be.

The house was Benny’s kingdom again.

He padded toward the bathroom with the quiet purpose of a thief returning to the scene of spiritual enlightenment.

The door was open just enough to tempt him.

The light was soft, the tiles gleaming from the last time Flame had cleaned.

And the air,  oh, the air still held the faintest echo of lavender soap.

He leapt onto the side of the tub, then down inside, tail waving like a flag of victory.

The echo greeted him like an old friend.

“Good morning, Fountain,” he purred. “Your chosen one returns.”

He looked around, scanning for witnesses. None.

Even the Jaguar’s scent had faded, that slow, smoky thing that always lingered too long.

He lifted a paw toward the handle. “Just one drop,” he promised no one. “Just one.”

Outside, in the hallway, a larger shadow paused.

Jaguar’s ear flicked.

He had been waiting.

Patience, he told himself, was the art of letting inevitability perform itself.

⸻

Inside the tub, Benny nuzzled the metal lever with the precision of a cat burglar defusing a trap.

One tiny turn.

A delicate squeak.

The faucet answered with a bead of water, followed by a second — bright and warm and full of promise.

Benny licked it. Heaven.

He nudged again. A trickle. Paradise.

He was mid-lap when the showerhead creaked.

He froze.

The pipe above him sighed, shifting slightly.

There was a sound, almost imperceptible,  like someone flicking the handle from the other side of the wall.

The next second, the world hissed.

_____

A fine spray of warm water burst to life, arching across the tub and baptizing Benny square in the chest.

The shriek that followed could have cracked glass.

“BETRAYAL!”

He tried to leap backward, slipped, and only succeeded in spinning like a wind-up toy across the slick porcelain. Water splattered up the sides.

He crashed into the back of the tub, scrambled, kicked off, hit the other side, and spun again,  a blur of orange and soap scent and existential despair.

The water stopped as suddenly as it started.

A droplet rolled down his nose and fell onto the tile with the quiet gravity of divine judgment.

Benny stood in the middle of the tub, dripping. His fur had exploded in every direction. He looked like a damp chrysanthemum.

From the doorway came a sound that was not quite a growl and not quite laughter.

“Congratulations,” said the Jaguar. “You found the second function.”

Benny whipped around, horrified. “YOU!”

“Me,” the big cat agreed, voice calm as thunderclouds.

“You did this!”

“I provided an education.”

“You tried to drown me!”

“I adjusted the handle.”

“It was an ambush!”

“It was gravity and water pressure.”

“You— you— sociopath!”

The Jaguar tilted his head, amused. “That’s a large word for someone who thinks faucets have emotions.”

Benny hissed, the sound bouncing off every tiled surface. It came back louder, angrier, bigger.

He stopped mid-hiss, eyes wide. “The acoustics are even better when you’re wet.”

The Jaguar closed his eyes. “I will count to three before I decide whether to leave you in there.”

But Benny had already leapt out, trailing droplets in his wake. He landed on the bathmat, shook himself violently, sending arcs of water everywhere.

Each droplet found a new surface to baptize, the mirror, the walls, the Jaguar’s front paw.

“Do you mind?”

“I mind everything!” Benny shouted, fluffing his tail to twice its normal size. “This is assault!”

The Jaguar wiped one paw against the floor, slow and deliberate. “Then let the record show you survived the first drop.”

“I hate you,” Benny seethed. “I hate water. I hate everything.”

“You’ll change your mind,” the Jaguar said, padding past him, unbothered. “You always do. Curiosity is stubborn.”

“Not this time.”

“Especially this time.”

He disappeared down the hallway, leaving wet pawprints shaped like quiet smugness.

_____

Benny glared after him, trembling with righteous fury. Then, just to prove his independence, he stomped back toward the tub, looked up at the faucet, and declared:

“You and I are through.”

The faucet dripped once.

He glared harder.

The drop fell again, slower this time.

He licked it.

And sighed. “Fine. One last drink.”

⸻

Outside the door, the Jaguar listened to the familiar rhythm of dripping, lapping, and quiet muttering.

He exhaled, resigned.

“Patience,” he murmured. “And towels.”

⸻

⸻

Evening draped itself over the house like a tired blanket.

The kitchen hummed softly, Flame’s world of quiet motion, clinking dishes, simmering peace.

In the living room, the Storm sat cross-legged with a book open, reading but not really reading. His senses were attuned to the usual household music: the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock, and somewhere distantly… the sound of feline plotting.

The bathroom was empty, or so it seemed.

Inside, the Jaguar waited.

He had decided, after long contemplation, that words alone would not reach Benny. The kitten’s theology of faucets required experiential reform.

So the Jaguar prepared the lesson.

The tub filled halfway with water, neither warm nor cold, but the perfect temperature to make a small creature question his life choices. The surface shimmered beneath the overhead light, a mirror of mild menace.

He tested the depth with one paw. Just right. Enough to startle, not to harm.

This was a teaching bath, not an execution.

Then he stepped back to the bathmat, sat down, and began to wash his paw as though he had done nothing remarkable.

_____

The door creaked.

Tiny paws. Tiny breath. Tiny hubris.

Benny peeked in. His little head appeared at the corner like a thief casing a jewel shop.

He sniffed. All clear.

“Hymn of the Holy Drip, verse three,” he muttered to himself as he padded forward. “The fountain shall flow eternal.”

He didn’t even glance over the rim of the tub. The fool’s confidence was absolute.

He hopped up…tail high, whiskers gleaming with pride…and leapt inside.

Sploosh.

For one glorious, timeless heartbeat, there was silence.

Then—

“WHAAAAAAAT IS THIS???”

The scream could have rattled the hinges.

Water surged around him, up to his chest, lapping at his belly. His eyes went wide, then wider, until they could have seen alternate dimensions.

“It’s everywhere! It’s TOUCHING ME!”

He tried to flee. He discovered friction. The tub betrayed him.

His claws scrabbled against the slick porcelain; his tail, once proud and feathery, had collapsed into a soaked rope of indignation. He spun, slipped, spun again, an orange cyclone of despair.

Water sloshed out in tidal protest.

From the bathmat, the Jaguar regarded him with serene interest.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “That is water.”

“Make it stop! MAKE IT—”

He slipped again, sending another wave crashing against the wall.

“Lesson one,” said the Jaguar, as if reading from a manual, “the element you worship does not love you back.”

“You are a monster!”

“I am a realist.”

“You filled the ocean!”

“I filled a puddle.”

“It tried to drown me!”

“You jumped.”

“Entrapment!”

The Jaguar sighed, resting his chin on one paw. “Your suffering is self-inflicted.”

_____

Benny finally managed to claw his way up the edge and flop gracelessly onto the bathmat. He stood trembling, dripping, fur plastered to his tiny ribs.

The image was tragic. Heroic. Absurd.

He looked like an ugly-cute sea urchin.

“This is abuse,” he declared.

“This is education.”

“I’m filing a grievance with the Queen.”

“I’ll draft the paperwork.”

Benny’s lip trembled. “She will hear of this.”

The Jaguar gave a subtle shrug. “I expect she’ll laugh.”

_____
_____

There are cries that summon angels. 
There are cries that summon demons.

And then there was this…

Benny took a deep breath, puffed out what little fluff remained, and unleashed a sound somewhere between a banshee’s wail and a foghorn powered by moral outrage.

“MY COURT ABUSED ME!”

The call shot through the house like a lightning strike.

In the living room, Oro’s head jerked up from his book. The sound hit him in the same register as the Queen’s nightmares.

In an instant, he was on his feet, half in Storm, half in Warlord Prince, the air around him crackling with protective instinct.

He moved faster than thought, steps silent, shoulders squared as he reached the bathroom doorway, ready for blood, for shadow, for any threat.

Instead, he found…

A dripping orange creature on the bathmat.

A Jaguar sitting calmly beside the half-filled tub.

And an expression of pure, cosmic exasperation creeping across his own face.

There was a pause long enough to recalibrate the laws of the universe.

_____

Then Oro exhaled, shoulders lowering, danger diffusing like mist.

“Explain,” he said simply.

The Jaguar didn’t blink. “He would not heed.”

Benny, pointing one paw dramatically: “He filled the ocean!”

“I filled a puddle.”

“It tried to drown me!”

“You jumped.”

Oro rubbed his temples. “Is this the same argument from the towel incident last month?”

“Yes,” said the Jaguar.

“No,” said Benny.

“Yes,” said the Jaguar again, louder.

Benny let out a miserable little chirp. “I thought the faucet missed me…”

“You thought wrong,” the Jaguar replied.

Oro looked between them, expression torn somewhere between fatherly patience and divine regret. “Do I even want to know how much water escaped this theological debate?”

“Minimal spillage,” the Jaguar said.

“Maximal trauma!” Benny added.

“Balance,” Jaguar concluded.

⸻

Flame appeared then, drawn by the racket and, perhaps, a sixth sense all Queens possess when their domains reach peak absurdity.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the scene:

the puddles, the wet floor, the dripping kitten, the proud Jaguar, and Oro standing there like a referee at the world’s strangest match.

Her voice was soft, the kind of calm that made both felines’ ears flatten.

“Which one of you trained him in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Even the faucet hesitated to drip.

Finally, Jaguar inclined his head. “It was a collaborative effort.”

Benny gasped. “LIES.”

_____

Oro coughed into his fist, half-smiling. “Technically, he’s not wrong. Gravity collaborated.”

Flame closed her eyes for one long breath. Then another.

When she opened them again, she was smiling…but the kind of smile that promised towels and consequences.

She crossed the floor, careful not to step in the puddles, and crouched beside Benny. Her tone softened instantly.

“Oh, my poor little drowned troubadour.”

Benny whimpered, tiny paws lifting. “He tried to drown the muse!”

“I see,” she murmured, wrapping him in a towel and lifting him against her chest. “Well, the muse should perhaps not sing to plumbing.”

He pressed his wet face against her shoulder, still trembling dramatically. “Persecution,” he muttered.

“Education,” the Jaguar repeated under his breath.

Oro leaned against the doorframe, chuckling now, all the fury gone. “You know,” he said, “this is almost the exact tone of voice she used with me after the honey incident.”

Flame’s eyes flicked toward him. “And yet you survived.”

“Barely.”

She turned back to the Jaguar. “You’re mopping this.”

“Of course.”

“And you,” she said to Oro, “are on distraction duty.”

He gestured toward the bundle of towel and indignation in her arms. “That seems impossible.”

“Then you’ll have company,” she replied, brushing past him.

Benny peeked from the folds of the towel, eyes wide and accusing. “You’re all accomplices.”

Flame kissed his damp forehead. “Yes, my love. But at least we’re consistent.”

_____
_____

Flame carried Benny away, murmuring reassurances and towel-muffled laughter.

Oro lingered for a moment, watching the Jaguar wipe the floor with steady, unbothered strokes.

“She’ll forgive you,” he said.

“I don’t require forgiveness,” the Jaguar replied. “Only silence.”

“You’ll get neither,” Oro said, turning to leave. “But dinner’s in an hour.”

When he was gone, the Jaguar looked at his reflection in the damp tile, stars shimmering faintly through his dark fur.

He smirked. “Lesson complete.”

Behind him, from the other room, came the faint, muffled protest of a kitten swaddled in warmth and self-pity:

“I STILL HEAR WATER IN MY SOUL!”

The Jaguar flicked his tail once.

“Good,” he murmured. “Let it echo.”

_____
_____

Flame had him bundled like contraband joy.

She’d settled on the couch with a big, thick towel from the linen cabinet—the good one, the one that smelled faintly of lavender and dryer warmth—and Benny was swaddled in it like a disgruntled burrito, only his damp ears and furious eyes peeking out. Every time she rubbed in small circles along his spine, he made that involuntary kitten-motor sound that betrayed him completely.

He was trying to be outraged.

Unfortunately, the towel was winning.

“See?” she murmured, kissing the top of his wet head. “Not drowned. Not even soggy anymore. Just dramatic.”

Benny slow-blinked at her, the slow, reverent blink of the devoted. The towel moved again, careful around his whiskers. He sighed, deep and kittenly, and let his weight sink into her hands.

Across from them, Oro stood in that way that said I am relaxed but also on alert—one shoulder propped against the back of the couch, eyes tracking every small movement. He did the thing he always did after a scare: eyes to her hands, eyes to her knees, eyes to her ankles. A quick once-over, subtle but thorough, making sure there were no invisible claw tracks, no glass slivers, no scraped skin.

Satisfied, he let the last of the Warlord Prince coil slide away from his shoulders.

“Not even a nick,” he said, mostly to himself.

“It was water,” the Jaguar said from the armchair, sounding so dignified it was almost funny. “Not an ambush.”

Flame arched an eyebrow at him. “You filled a tub, guardian.”

“I filled a lesson,” he corrected, tail tip flicking once. “He ignored verbal correction.”

Oro’s mouth twitched. “He will ignore verbal correction for two years,” he said, utterly certain. “Possibly three.”

Benny opened his mouth from inside the towel. “I can hear you.”

“We know, bud,” Oro said, ruffling the towel over his ears. “We are speaking for your future self.”

Flame finished drying his back legs and brought him up higher against her chest, so he could half-sit in the crook of her arm, kitten burrito style. He immediately hooked one damp paw into the collar of her shirt, as if to stake claim and keep her from wandering off to unsafe water sources.

She looked over at the Jaguar, her expression softer now but still very-much-the-Queen. “You cannot dunk the kitten every time he sings.”

The Jaguar met her gaze without flinching. He wasn’t defensive, just precise. “He was informed. He proceeded. I escalated.”

“He’s a baby,” she said, tilting her head toward Benny’s round, towel-framed face.

“He is a male,” the Jaguar countered, as if that answered everything. “And he has already proven he will test every boundary of the den.”

Oro coughed into his fist, amused. “He’s not wrong.”

Flame shot him a look: you are not helping.

Oro held up both hands in surrender, eyes warm. “I agree with you. We train slowly. We correct softly. She does not like to see anyone shaken.” His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the towel; to the memory; to another scene altogether. “Especially not since the blanket incident.”

That made the room go quiet for a breath.

Because they all remembered: the first real oops, the triple-scratch high on her thigh, the way Oro had gone storm-still, the way Jaguar had signed himself responsible for future training right then. It had been forgiven, but it had marked them all.

Benny looked up between them, eyes big. He knew that tone. That was the we remember when you hurt the Queen even though it was an accident tone. His ears flattened.

Flame felt it and stroked the towel over his head. “Hey. No, no. You did good today, little bard. You shouted for help. That’s what we want.”

“Even when I shouted about persecution?”

“Especially then,” Oro said, deadpan.

The Jaguar exhaled—a slow, conceding breath. “Very well,” he said. “I accept alignment.”

Flame’s mouth curved. “Not scolding,” she said gently. “Alignment.”

“That is what I said.”

“Your tone said ‘military tribunal,’” Oro murmured.

The Jaguar pretended not to hear.

Oro sat down on the coffee table in front of them so he was at Benny’s eye level. His expression was amused but serious, the way it always was when he taught.

“Listen, trouble,” he said. “You cannot drink from every water you find. Some things are for washing, not worship.”

Benny blinked at him, slow and owlish. “But it tastes like her.”

That stopped all three of them.

Because of course it did.

Because of course that was why he kept sneaking back here.

Because to him, this wasn’t disobedience; it was proximity.

Flame’s face softened in that way it only did for her Court. Her thumb traced under his chin. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. 

Oro sighed, “You were chasing her scent.”. 
Benny nodded fiercely from the towel. “It’s like warm and soap and safe.”

Oro’s eyes flicked up, heat-and-tender at the same time. “Can’t argue with his motive.”

“Then we don’t,” Flame said. “We just make it safer.”

She looked to the Jaguar. “Can you help him find a water that’s his? Not mine.”

“I can,” the Jaguar said at once. “I will filter it. Keep it fresh. Make sure it does not overflow.”

“Overflows are bad,” Benny muttered, deeply aggrieved.

“Yes,” Oro said, lips twitching. “Overflows are bad.”

Flame kissed his damp head again. “We will give you a safer water to love.”

Benny made a pleased little warble and, because he was already halfway dry and wholly comforted, he started to purr. Loudly. The kind of purr that vibrated through the towel into her ribs.

The Jaguar watched, satisfied but faintly perplexed. “So,” he said after a moment, “no more surprise baths.”

“No more surprise baths,” Flame confirmed.

Oro added, pointedly, “Without telling us first.”

The Jaguar inclined his head. “I will notify the Court before future demonstrations.”

“Good,” Oro said. “Write it down.”

Benny yawned, enormous and kittenly. “I agree to nothing,” he mumbled, eyes sliding shut. “But I like the towel.”

All three of them smiled.

The Court, temporarily, was at peace.

_____
_____

The next morning smelled like coffee and amnesty.

Oro came in from the garage carrying a box. Not a big one, one of those “I’ve had this for years but was waiting for the right chaos” boxes. He put it on the kitchen counter, opened it, and pulled out a small, quietly elegant circulating pet fountain, brushed steel, simple, no silly paw-print branding.

Flame looked over from her mug. “You had that just… in storage?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I live with a Queen, a Jaguar, and a water cultist. It seemed… inevitable.”

On the floor, Benny’s ears perked. “Water what?”

Oro knelt and placed the fountain on the kitchen mat near the wall. He filled it, plugged it in. The soft, continuous stream began, a gentle, burbling waterfall that smelled only of clean water and not of soap and not of the Queen’s skin.

He crooked a finger. “Come on, troubadour. Court decree: this one is yours.”

Benny approached like it might be a trap. He sniffed. Circled. Sniffed the cord. Sniffed Oro’s hand. Sniffed the water again.

“It’s quiet,” he whispered, slightly in awe.

“Mm.” Oro tapped the top. “Filtered. Fresh. No surprise sky-water.”

From the doorway, the Jaguar padded in, assessing. He gave the fountain a full bodyguard scan, sound, scent, flow, splash radius. He flicked an ear. “Acceptable.”

Benny looked up at him. “You won’t fill this one to drown me?”

“This is your bowl,” the Jaguar said. “Not your lesson.”

That was all Benny needed. He leaned in and lapped.

The moment he tasted it, his whole body relaxed. It wasn’t as intoxicating as the Queen-scented tub. But it was his. His waterfall. His relic.

He drank again, more confidently. Then he looked up at Oro, eyes shining.

“It’s good,” he announced. “It’s very good.”

“Good,” Oro said, ruffling his head. “This one is yours. The shower belongs to her.”

Benny, businesslike now: “And the tub.”

“Yes,” Oro said patiently. “And the tub.”

“And the sink,” Benny added, because he was, after all, Benny.

Oro took a deep breath he absolutely did not need and smiled. “We will make a list.”

Flame laughed into her coffee.

The Jaguar, because he was above such things, stepped forward with regal disdain… and took a drink too.

Flame pointed. “Aha.”

“It is acceptable,” he said, lifting his head, droplets on his whiskers like tiny stars. “And it will keep him away from the plumbing.”

“That’s what you said about the towel basket,” Oro murmured.

The Jaguar ignored him.

For a little while, the kitchen was just the soft sound of water and three beings who loved the same Queen learning to share it.

⸻

That night, as rain tapped the windows and the house eased toward sleep, Flame paused in the hallway.

From behind the bathroom door came faint, unmistakable kitten yowls.

Not distressed.

Not furious.

Just… performative.

She looked at Oro where he leaned in the doorway of their room, arms crossed, hair loose, smile already forming.

“He’s back in there?” she whispered.

“Mm,” Oro said, low and amused. “He’s singing to the right water this time.”

From farther down the hall, the Jaguar’s voice drifted, dry as winter leaves:

“At least this water does not splash.”

Flame chuckled, the sound soft and full.

“Then let him sing,” she said. “The Court is learning.”

And in the bathroom, before the little fountain that had become his personal river, Benny lifted his head and let his hymn echo beautifully off tile, holy, ridiculous, fully loved.