“You look like a clod of dirt,” Tate said dryly.
In response, the kitten dug its claws into his thigh.
Tate snorted, half a laugh breaking free despite himself. “Yeah. Real charming and adorable, you wet piece of mulch infested with fleas.”
At home, Tate wrestled the haul inside in multiple trips, one-armed, the kitten tucked in against his chest. He finally dug out the sensitive-skin shampoo and filled the kitchen sink with three inches of warm water. Testing it with his hand, he grimaced. This was absurd.
It was a cat, not a baby.
A kitten, he hesitated and sighed, which was a baby cat.
“All right, dirtball. Let’s see if we both survive this. You shred me with those little daggers, and I’ll fling you into next week – got me?”
He lowered the kitten into the sink. And, unbelievably, it didn’t fight. Didn’t hiss. Didn’t so much as squeak. It just stood there shivering, blue eyes locked on his, trusting in a way that made Tate’s throat tighten.
“Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, his voice softer than he intended. “You’ll probably give us both parvo with all that grime.”
But those eyes—too big for its tiny head—kept staring at him like he was the safest thing in the world.
“You know I’m cleaning you—don’t you?” he said more gently this time, surprising himself. His hand hovered over the sink for a beat, his fingers flexing as if reluctant to touch the scrawny creature. “You know, when you spit, hiss, or claw me… it’s cute, but this?” He shook his head, a reluctant grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “This is beyond devious. Using the wholecute-tactics aspect? I had no idea you’d be filthyandplay dirty with my emotions…”
The kitten answered with a squeaky mewl, like a rebuttal—and dang it, something inside Tate caved right then and there. His chest felt too tight, his throat too warm.
“Craaaap,” he groaned openly, letting his head tip back for a second before staring down at his opponent—the scraggly kitten who was clearly winning this fight without even trying. With a resigned sigh, he slid the faucet on and rinsed the little body under lukewarm water, grimacing at the streaks of brown and gray swirling down the drain. The kitten squirmed but didn’t scratch, which made Tate’s heart pinch harder than he wanted to admit.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, wrapping the tiny creature in one of his kitchen towels—hisgoodtowels, no less—and carefully tucking the bundle against his chest. The towel was way too big, swallowing the kitten whole, but it worked. Tate cradled him closer, feeling the fragile heartbeat against his ribs. “You cannot tell anyone about this—okay? It really pisses me off that Emil thinks he’s so smart about everything. I need this to be just our thing.”
As if in agreement, a damp paw emerged from the towel and batted gently at his chin. Tate froze, his throat working against the sudden rush of tenderness threatening to give him away.
“You need a name because I cannot call you ‘it’, ‘thing’, or ‘furball’… you filthy little beast.” His voice softened despite himself, like velvet over gravel. He paused, weighing the possibilities, and then a memory surfaced unbidden—his mother’s voice, soft and warm, reading to him under a blanket fort when he was no taller than the kitchen table. He remembered the cadence of her words, the laughter in her throat when she got to the silly parts.
“How about…” Tate hesitated, then let the smile bloom despite his best efforts. “Mulligan,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the damp little head. “Your name is Mulligan, from my favorite story that my Mom used to read me when I was a boy. It’s about a steam shovel and his friend, who could do anything they put their minds to—including digging this massive hole in the dirt where they became friends…”
Mulligan, apparently, approved. The kitten let out a purr so strong it vibrated through the towel, rattling against Tate’s chest like a tiny motor trying to restart. The sound burrowed into him, settling somewhere deep he hadn’t let anyone touch in a long time.
“Yeah,” he said softly, stroking the tiny head with one calloused finger. “Big name, little brat. We’re gonna be friends, I think—you and me, Mulligan. But you’ve gotta do me a favor, okay?”
There was, of course, no answer but another loud rumble of purring.
“Just pretend that we don’t like each other when Emil calls—okay? This can be our secret.”
Mulligan meowed once, sharp and decisive, before butting his tiny head against Tate’s chin. Tate huffed out a laugh, one he tried to smother but failed.
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, tightening his arms around the bundle. “Secret’s safe. But you better not rat me out, furball.”
Several hours later, Tate found himself stretched out on the worn leather couch, the muted glow from the lamp beside him painting the living room in soft amber light. The day hadbled into evening, though he’d barely noticed. What hehad noticed was the tiny, purring ball of fur pressed firmly against his chest. Mulligan—the scrawny little kitten he hadn’t meant to adopt but somehow couldn’t imagine life without—was sprawled across him like he owned the place.
The kitten’s small body rose and fell with Tate’s breaths, his paws flexing rhythmically as though working invisible dough. Tiny claws snagged his T-shirt with just enough pressure to make Tate wince every now and then, but he couldn’t bring himself to shift the little guy. Instead, he smiled faintly, one hand stroking down Mulligan’s soft back in slow passes. The sound of the purring was hypnotic, like a tiny engine vibrating against his ribs, and it soothed a part of him that had been restless all week.
Mulligan had eaten his fill earlier, stumbled awkwardly into the litterbox for his business, and then marched right back to Tate’s chest as though there was never any other option. Now he was a warm weight, a steady heartbeat, a new shadow Tate hadn’t expected but somehow needed.
Tate let out a wide yawn, his jaw popping. His gaze drifted toward the end table where his phone lay face down. As though on cue, the screen lit up, a square of sharp white against the dim room. He reached for it lazily, careful not to disturb the kitten—only to freeze when he saw the words across the screen.
An unknown number.
And beneath it, a message.
Thank you for the yarn.
