In a Burbank writers’ room, over deli sandwiches from down the street, someone asked, “What’s your one dating deal-breaker?” I didn’t hesitate. “He can’t have a cat.” A few eyebrows lifted. That’s the hill? I doubled down. I hate them. I’m scared of them. Instant swipe left.

Two years later, I met my Bumble date at a North Hollywood bar shaped like a whiskey barrel, and my heart dropped the moment I saw him. He was even more handsome than his profile suggested. Disarmingly real-life handsome. I scanned the room to make sure it wasn’t a prank, which had actually happened to a coworker, but the coast seemed clear.

We sipped Moscow mules and traded stories like we had known each other for longer than an hour. When a surprising burlesque performance erupted beside us, he didn’t so much as glance away. His eyes stayed on mine. The night felt magical.

I don’t usually romanticize first dates. Most of them make it easy. A quick drink, polite conversation, a mutual understanding that we tried. It’s simpler than confronting the parts of myself I’ve hidden for years, fearing no one would accept me. I perfected the art of staying just far enough away to never fully be seen.

Until now. This one felt different.

As I headed home, the hum of Lankershim and the neon blur of bars couldn’t drown out the quiet, unmistakable voice inside me whispering, “I think I just met my future husband.”

My phone buzzed.

“Have I mentioned I have a little black void named Aneksi?”

A black cat with enormous green eyes stared back at me. Oh no … no, no, no! How could my dream guy, my supposed future husband, have my biggest deal-breaker?

This couldn’t be happening.

Despite my cat trepidation, I saw him again, just to make sure my first-date magic wasn’t a fluke. But the second date was even better. Shoot.

Over the next few days, I did what any rational woman falling for a man with a cat she despised would do. I Googled how long cats live. Fifteen years. Sometimes 20. Could I outlast it? Could I ask my dream guy to give up his rescue cat, his pandemic buddy? No. That would be cruel. Or would it?

Cats weren’t something I could easily get used to. My whole life, they had been vilified by my mom’s side of the family. We half-joked that our family had a curse with cats. Maybe this alleged “curse” is why I fear cats, or maybe it’s because when I was 4 years old I was attacked by one.

It happened at a sleepover. My friend’s cat hid under the bed and wanted us to play with it, so I leaned over and uttered three words I’ll never, ever, say again: “Here, kitty kitty.”

The cat lunged, claws digging into my arms. I ran for the door. Jammed. I tried barricading myself in the closet. The feisty cat was faster. My screams finally drew my friend’s mom to intervene. I limped home looking like a scene out of “Carrie.” The family curse was alive and well.

Now I was standing at the intersection of fear and desire. And I couldn’t stop liking him.

For most of our early relationship, Aneksi hid. I rarely stayed the night, secretly loving the eight-minute buffer between his Valley Village place and mine in Sherman Oaks. The perfect distance physically … and emotionally.

I hadn’t been in love in more than a decade. I carried shame about parts of my body that I preferred no one examine too closely. I had an MBA in becoming invisible. And yet, despite the moat around my heart, I couldn’t deny I wanted love again.

Aneksi, it turned out, had his own trust issues. Once he realized I wasn’t leaving, he cautiously emerged from his hiding spot, keeping an arm’s length between us. Fine by me. My dream guy occasionally nudged me to pet him or offer a treat. I did, briefly, because it mattered to him. What unsettled me more than the cat was this man’s patience. His steadiness. The way he cared without asking for anything back.

And then he left town.

He asked if I could watch Aneksi. The first day, the cat stayed hidden. I fed him, cleaned the litter box and left. By day three, curiosity won. He poked his head out. I placed a treat on the cat tower. He accepted. I pet him for approximately 2½ seconds. He seemed to enjoy it. I seemed to enjoy it. Huh? By the end of the week, I was sending photo updates like a proud babysitter, documenting every cautious inch of progress.

Over the next year, Aneksi no longer bolted when I entered the room. Sometimes, though, I still wanted to. That was when my dream guy, known as Sergio, brought up living together. Every cell in my body screamed yes, but my mind spiraled. The litter box. The tuna. The early mornings. No more eight-minute buffer to retreat to.

Plus, the idea of one of us giving up our rent-controlled apartment felt like throwing a pot of gold into the Pacific. What if it didn’t work out? And yet, my growing love for him tipped the balance. OK, I thought, let’s give this a real try.

Cohabitation wasn’t seamless. The litter box was still disgusting. The tuna still smelled. We coexisted more than we bonded. I loved Sergio. I tolerated the cat.

Then I hurt my knee at a dance audition in Pasadena I had no business attending.

When I started limping, Aneksi exuded a sympathy limp. The vet confirmed nothing was wrong with him. As I lay on the living room floor in pain, he flopped beside me and blinked slowly. I instinctively blinked back as happy tears streamed down my cheek. For the first time, his presence didn’t heighten my nervous system. He steadied it.

Something shifted after that. The safer he felt, the more open I became.

Sergio knew about my insecurities. What he didn’t always see was how carefully I managed myself around them. Like the angles I chose in photos, the way I shrunk myself to go unnoticed, the relief of a closed door. Living together made hiding harder.

One night, with Aneksi wedged between us on the couch, I let him see the parts of me that still wanted to hide. He didn’t flinch. He stayed.

For someone who spent years outrunning love, I was surprised to learn that when I stopped spiraling in my mind, I could finally trust what my body already knew.

I’m now married to Sergio. The spare rent-controlled apartment is gone. The litter box remains. And Aneksi rarely leaves my side. I now have two loves of my life and I couldn’t imagine it any other way. Maybe the family curse was never about cats. Maybe it was about fear. And maybe, finally, it’s broken.

The author is a screenwriter whose upcoming Hallmark movie “A Season to Blossom” premieres April 4. Find her on Instagram: @itsjenwolf.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event are on sale now at the Next Fun Thing.