It could probably fit in one of my hands.
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck.
No. Not my problem.
I took two steps.
Stopped.
Aurora would’ve fed it.
She would’ve crouched down, all soft and stupid, whispering something under her breath, giving it the warmth she refusedto give herself. And it would’ve followed her home, just like everything else she touched.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned back, crouched down, and scooped the damn thing up.
It didn’t even fight me, just curled against my palm as if it had already given up trying.
“You’re coming with me, trouble,” I grumbled, pulling at my hoodie pocket and slipping it inside. It poked its head out, two wide amber eyes blinking up at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warned. “You’re not staying.”
It meowed.
Loudly.
I groaned. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”
And with a sigh that probably made me look insane, I walked the rest of the way to the corner store with a damn kitten tucked in my pocket like I stole it, a soft, breathing reminder of the girl who couldn’t stop saving things that didn’t deserve her.
The bell above the corner store door gave its usual shriek when I pushed it open. Warm air, the smell of old coffee and cheap detergent.
I went straight for the pet aisle, the kitten still tucked in my hoodie like a beating pocket-watch against my chest.
The shelves were a blur of bright bags and tins: chicken, tuna, salmon, ‘kitten blend,’ ‘indoor formula,’ ‘sensitive digestion.’
Christ. I didn’t even know cats had digestive types.
The kitten poked its head out, eyes glassy and curious.
“You know what any of this means?” I muttered.
It blinked. Yawned.
Useless.
I pulled out my phone, typing what can kittens eat into the search bar. The results were ridiculous. Whole paragraphsabout weaning ages, portions, and temperatures. Some said milk, some said absolutely not milk. One forum claimed boiled chicken only. Another insisted on soft, canned food.
“Great.” I sighed. “Even the internet doesn’t know what you eat.”
I crouched in front of the shelf, scrolling with one hand, reading labels with the other.
Kitten, under twelve weeks. Rich in DHA for growth.
Sounded official enough.
I grabbed two tins and a tiny bag of dry food for good measure. Then stood there longer than I needed to, staring at the small thing sleeping in my clothes pocket.
