Aurora would’ve known instantly. She’d have picked the right one, no hesitation. Probably read the ingredients and told me which nutrients helped its brain development or something.
Me? I was standing in a corner store, researching cat diets at nine in the morning like a man who’d lost his mind. But when I looked down at the small rise and fall in my hoodie, I realised it wasn’t about the cat.
It was about holding on to something she cared about. Something soft. Something alive.
“Alright, trouble,” I muttered, grabbing a small bottle of milk substitute just in case. “You’re eating better than I am today.”
The cashier gave me a weird look when I dumped the pile of kitten food, milk substitute, and a pack of wet wipes on the counter.
“New pet?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I muttered, pulling out my card.
The whole walk back, I could feel the little heartbeat against me. Tiny thing, probably barely a month old. Every few seconds, it shifted, poked its head out, blinked up at the world as if it couldn’t believe it was still in it.
By the time I stepped into the lobby, my hoodie was a mess of fur and dirt. I ignored the look the doorman gave me, probably wondering why Lockhart had a lump moving under his clothes.
The elevator ride felt longer than usual.
When the door opened, I grabbed my keycard from my pocket, right under this troublemaker. Once I tapped my card on the door, I went straight through the living room and up the stairs.
Food dumped on the counter, and the kitten, asleep.
“Alright, trouble,” I muttered under my breath, pushing open the bathroom door. “You’re a mess and making a mess.”
The tiles were cold under my feet as I twisted the tap, running the water until it was warm, not hot, not cold.
Steam started to rise, curling through the air, and I crouched beside the tub, lowering the kitten in my hands.
It blinked awake, letting out a tiny, offended mewl when its paws hit the water.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I whispered, running my thumb gently over its head. “Just hang in there.”
It was ridiculous. Joshua Lockhart, captain of the team, son of a billionaire, crouched over a bathtub, washing a half-dead street cat.
But watching the dirt swirl away, watching that ginger fur start to show its real colour…
I felt something in my chest loosen.
“See? Not so bad,” I murmured as it blinked up at me, tiny and shivering.
I grabbed a towel, wrapping it up, rubbing gently until it squeaked again.
There. Warm, clean, alive.
I carried the tiny thing downstairs, still wrapped in the towel like some fragile piece of glass. It peeked its head out now andthen, blinking around my penthouse like it didn’t belong here, couldn’t believe all this polished space was real.
“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, setting it carefully on the kitchen counter. “Same.”
I grabbed a small plate, the kind I usually used for toast, and stood there for a second, staring at it like it was some kind of exam question I hadn’t studied for.
Phone in one hand, I typed again: How much food can a small kitten eat?
The screen flooded with numbers, tablespoons, grams, and ounces.
I frowned. “Grams? I don’t even own a scale.”
Trouble meowed from the counter, sitting up in its towel like a small burrito demanding service.
