"Found them in the alley," I said, moving to crouch beside her. Our shoulders almost touched, and I could smell her again—that vanilla scent stronger now, mixed with salt from tears. "Someone left them in a trash bag to freeze."
"How long ago?"
"Four days. Maybe five." I reached into the box, scooping up Zmeya, who immediately started complaining about being woken. "This one tried to bite me when I picked him up. Barely had teeth, maybe three weeks old, but still tried to fight."
"Survivor," she murmured, holding out her hands.
I placed the orange kitten in her palms, watched her cradle him like he was made of spun glass. Zmeya settled immediately, apparently recognizing someone who knew how to hold fragile things without breaking them.
"I named him Zmeya," I said. "Snake. Because he strikes first, asks questions later."
A smile ghosted across her face—the first real one I'd seen from her. "And this one?"
I lifted Malysh, who blinked sleepily and went limp in my hands like a puppet with cut strings. "Malysh. Baby. He just gave up at first, went completely limp when I found him. Thought he was dead until I felt him breathing."
"Depression response," she said automatically, shifting into that clinical voice. "Common in abandoned neonates. Thenervous system shuts down to conserve energy." Her fingers stroked Zmeya's orange fur with practiced gentleness. "But he's better now?"
"He purrs now." I held Malysh up so she could see him better in the moonlight from the window. "Sleeps on his brother like he's finally safe. Eats like he's trying to make up for lost time."
She took Malysh from me, holding both kittens against her chest. They curled into her immediately, recognizing safety the way animals always did. Her face changed as they settled, something soft and wondering replacing the constant vigilance she wore like armor.
"You rescue strays," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning neither of us wanted to examine too closely. I watched her hands gentle on the kittens' fur, the way her body had unconsciously relaxed for the first time since I'd met her.
"I rescue things that fight to survive even when they shouldn't." The words came out without planning, rough and too honest. "Things that refuse to die even when death would be easier. Things that still try to bite when they've got no teeth left to bite with."
She looked up at me then, and in the dim light I could see understanding dawn in those exhausted hazel eyes. She knew I was talking about her. About the way she'd survived six months alone, about the way she'd built a practice in a basement to help people who couldn't help themselves, about the way she'd kept going even when everything had been taken from her.
Instead of pulling away like I expected, she leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth from her body, could see the individual tears still clinging to her lashes.
"The people at my clinic," she said, still stroking the kittens but looking at me. "What happens to them now?"
The question made something twist in my chest. Even now, even after everything, she was thinking about others. The immigrants and criminals and desperate people who came to her basement for help. Who'd find nothing but crime scene tape and questions they couldn't answer.
"We'll find a way to help them." The word slipped out before I could stop it. We. Like this was something we were doing together. Like she was already part of this, part of us, part of something bigger than just protection from Brand.
She caught it too—I saw her eyes widen slightly, saw her process the implication. But she didn't correct me. Didn't pull back. Just kept looking at me while the kittens purred against her chest and the world outside these walls kept turning without us.
"We," she repeated.
She was close enough now that I could smell her—vanilla beneath antiseptic, something warm underneath both that was just her. My hands ached to touch her, to brush the tear tracks from her cheeks, to pull her against me and promise things I had no right to promise.
I kept them flat on the floor instead, fingers spread wide, pressing into the wood like I could anchor myself to something solid.
"There's a clinic in Sunset Park," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Run by a woman who asks about as few questions as you do. We could arrange for your regulars to be redirected there. Make sure they know it's safe."
"How would you even know who my regulars are?"
"You tell us, of course. Names, conditions, treatment histories. Enough to track them down, let them know."
She shifted the kittens to one arm and reached out with her free hand, fingers barely grazing my knuckles where they pressed against the floor.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The touch burned through me like lightning, and the monster in my chest stirred—not with violence or hunger, but with something infinitely more dangerous. Want. Not just physical want, though that was there too, making my blood run hot despite the cool room. But wanting in a deeper way. Wanting to be the one who protected her. Wanting to be the reason she could finally sleep. Wanting to matter to someone who saw me feed kittens at three in the morning and didn't flinch at the contradiction.
I should leave.
