“Right. Let’s go over here.” Walking to the couch, I shift all my unfolded laundry to one side instead of it taking up the entire couch. “Sorry, again, about the mess. I thought I’d have more time between dyeing and your arrival.”
Placing Cat on the empty cushion, I plop down on the floor in front of the coffee table and place the basket of yarn beside me, then gesture to Sebastian. “Take your pick. Couch or floor. Either will work.”
Sebastian takes the open spot on the couch next to the kitten and watches me pull out the yarn. “So, how do we do this?”
I hold up a section of the tangled mess, searching for an end. “First, we find where it starts. Then we follow the strand through, loosening knots as we go. The trick is patience. And not pulling too hard when you hit resistance.”
My fingers work through the first knot, muscle memory taking over despite the ache. “Sometimes what looks impossible just needs someone willing to sit with it for a while. To work through the tangles without making them worse.”
He takes a section of yarn, his veterinarian hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate fiber. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“More times than I can count. Hazard of the trade.” I pause, watching him work. “Though usually I’m alone when it happens.”
“Not tonight,” he says simply, and something warm unfolds in my chest.
Maybe that’s what scares me most. Not tonight. But what about tomorrow? What about when he realizes I’m more trouble than I’m worth? When the reality of chronic illness stops being something he can help with and starts being a burden?
I focus on the yarn, on the simple act of untangling. One knot at a time. Don’t think about tomorrow. Don’t think about the way his presence makes my apartment feel less empty. Don’t think about how Cat has stopped meowing and is purring between us like she’s exactly where she belongs.
Just untangle the yarn. Everything else can wait.
CHAPTER 4
Sebastian
I stare at the yarn in front of me, which, spread out on the coffee table, is a lot more than I thought it would be. The chenille strands catch the lamplight, creating a maze of rose and cream that makes my head spin.
“Uh.” I rub the back of my neck. “Where do you want me to start?”
“I’ve got my first piece. Let’s find one for you. Slow and gentle is key.” Flick reaches beside me and moves the kitten from the couch to the floor beside her. Her fingers brush against soft fur, and I notice how she unconsciously flexes them afterward—a subtle reminder of the arthritis she mentioned. Cat stretches, yawns wide enough to show every tiny tooth, then immediately pounces on a dust mote floating through the air.
“Let’s start with dinner. Are you hungry?” I pull out my phone, grateful for the excuse to delay the untangling project. More time with her feels like winning a prize I didn’t know I’d entered for.
“I could eat. How about pizza? With pepperoni.”
“Sounds good to me.”
My fingers hover over the delivery app, but my attention keeps drifting to Flick as she examines the yarn mess. There’ssomething captivating about the way she approaches the chaos—methodical but not rushed, like she’s done this a thousand times before.
“Got it!” She holds up a strand triumphantly.
“Looks like Cat is wanting to help too.” I point to the kitten batting at a string hanging over the coffee table’s edge, her tiny paws working with determined concentration.
“Huh. Guess she’s good for something besides creating disasters.” Flick moves around the table and settles cross-legged on the carpet, facing where I’m seated on the couch. The movement is fluid despite what must be stiff joints. “Have you found a home for her yet?”
I bite back a knowing smile. “Not yet. I’ve put feelers out, though.”
The lie comes easily. Truth is, I haven’t tried very hard. Something tells me this kitten has already found exactly where she belongs.
Taking the end of yarn Flick hands me, I start working the yarn between my fingers. The repetitive motion is unexpectedly soothing. My shoulders drop, tension I didn’t realize I was carrying melting away. When was the last time I sat still like this? Not checking emails, not mentally reviewing patient charts, just... being?
“This is actually fun,” I find myself saying. “Relaxing, even.”
Flick’s laugh is light and surprised. “I know, right? Try explaining that to someone, though. They’d never believe untangling yarn could be therapeutic.”
“I have a question.” My hands continue their steady work, muscle memory from years of delicate veterinary procedures making the task easier than expected. “Flick is such a cute name. Is that...”
“A nickname. My grandma gave it to me. My real name is Felicity.”
