I hugged Tilly, promised we’d do pancakes in the morning, and headed back to my place with the strange, unfamiliar freedom of an evening alone stretching ahead of me.
The house felt too quiet. I put away the clean dishes that had been sitting in the rack for two days, started a load of laundry, and made a grocery list that included everything from bananas to light bulbs to whatever healthy cereal Tilly had decided was suddenly “yucky”.
After stuffing the laundry into the dryer, I tugged on my running shoes and pulled a hoodie over my head. The sky outside had dipped into that deep blue of evening, and the air held the kind of cold that bit just enough to keep you moving.
Running through Honeybrook Hollow always made me feel like I belonged here. Familiar streets, friendly porch lights, the smell of fireplace fires, and pine. I took the long way through town, cutting past the library and slowing near the corner lot where the renovation was almost complete on Graham’s new restaurant.
It made my stomach twist in a way I hated. My mind was loose in that way it only got when my feet hit the pavement. The restaurant was all glass and glow—polished, posed, trying a little too hard to be impressive. I didn’t feel jealous. Not even curious. Just… alert.
The kind of alert you get when something looks right on the surface but doesn’t sit right in your gut. I’d learned to trust that feeling a long time ago—in courtrooms, in negotiations, in rooms where charm was used like leverage. Graham had that same energy. All sharp edges wrapped in confidence; eyes that measured instead of met. I lengthened my stride and kept going. Whatever Graham was selling, I knew one thing for sure—I didn’t like the way it felt to be anywhere near it.
I kept jogging until I reached the park. The gazebo stood quiet and empty, the benches dusted with frost, and the treesstill bare except for a few stubborn brown leaves clinging to branches.
I was halfway through my usual loop when I spotted Eliza up ahead and nearly tripped over my own feet.
She stood on the path like this was the most normal thing in the world, bundled in a light jacket, holding two leashes that led to cats. Actual cats. One, a brown tabby, moved with deliberate purpose, surveying the ground like he was mapping it for later reference. The other—an orange tabby with far more enthusiasm than coordination—had already wrapped his leash once around a signpost and was blinking up at it in confusion, clearly surprised by the consequences of his own curiosity.
I slowed to a stop, catching my breath as I tugged one earbud free.
“Are you moonlighting as a professional cat-walker,” I asked, nodding at the leashes, “or is this a very niche fitness trend I missed?”
“They’re mine,” she lifted her chin as if that settled it. “They needed enrichment,” she said calmly. “They’re not thrilled.”
The orange cat chose that moment to flop onto his side, leash tangled around one leg, as if staging a protest.
I laughed, real and unguarded. She tugged gently on the leashes, murmuring to them with quiet patience, like this kind of chaos was just another thing she knew how to handle. It was unfair how cute she looked doing it—hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold, completely unembarrassed. The kind of person who didn’t try to be charming and somehow managed it anyway.
She smiled, but there was a sadness threaded through it, subtle enough that most people would miss it. I didn’t. It stirred something protective and reckless in me—the need to ease her burden, even for a moment. I wanted to make her laugh so badly it felt like a promise forming in my chest. Not because I thoughtI could fix her, but because I found myself wanting to be the one who made her smile for real.
“Of course.” I crouched a little, hands on my knees. “I’ve never seen anyone walk cats like this. Is this a daily act of bravery, or did they unionize and demand fresh air?”
“Not daily, but enough to make people think I’m an oddity,” she said. “When they start looking at the windows like inmates planning an escape, then I have to take them out.”
The brown tortoiseshell—sleek, alert, all coiled muscle—fixed me with bright, assessing eyes, tail flicking like he might actually launch himself at a squirrel just to prove a point. The orange tabby sat squarely on the path, round and unimpressed, paws tucked under his chest like a grumpy loaf of bread, glaring at me like I’d personally offended him by existing.
“That one hates me,” I said.
“He hates everyone,” she replied. “It’s his brand.”
I smiled despite myself. “And the other?”
“He thinks he’s in charge.”
“Ah,” I said solemnly. “Like Lois—and Tilly. Relatable.”
She snorted into her coffee cup, then tried—and failed—to look annoyed. The knit hat pulled low over her hair made her eyes stand out, dark and warm, and the long coat wrapped around her in a way that made my chest do something inconvenient.
I straightened, suddenly aware of my heartbeat for reasons unrelated to jogging. “So,” I said lightly, “do they bite, or should I risk a hello?”
“They don’t bite,” she said. Then, after a beat, “Usually.”
The brown one leaned forward, curious. The orange tabby turned his head away in clear disdain.
“Good to know,” I murmured. “I’d hate for my legacy in this town to be the guy taken down by a leashed cat in a park.”
Her mouth curved, soft and real this time. “You’d recover. People here are very forgiving.”
“Depends on who’s telling the story,” I said, meeting her gaze. “You look… nice.”
