She hesitated, blinking up at me as if she wasn’t sure if she should trust me again. But then she nodded, small and tired.
I guided her through the lobby, pressing the elevator button. The ride up was silent, just the hum of the machine and her uneven breathing.
When the doors opened, I led her inside my place, the warm air hitting instantly.
And then—
Purr.
That familiar, low, smug purr from the top of the cat tree.
Aurora froze in the doorway.
Her eyes went wide, glassy and glimmering, as she slowly looked up.
Honey—Trouble—was perched on the cat tree like a damn queen, tail flicking, eyes bright, perfectly fine.
The sound she made then—half gasp, half laugh—made something in my chest unclench.
She ran forward, cast and all, standing by the tree as the kitten leapt straight into her arms. “H-Honey,” she whispered, voice trembling but lighter this time.
I leaned against the wall, watching the way she hugged that little furball like it was the last thing keeping her together.
The sight hit harder than I expected.
She sat down on the couch, careful with her cast, and Honey just… melted onto her. Body sprawled across her chest, tiny chin resting on her shoulder, tail swishing slowly, as if it were the most comfortable place in the world.
The same kitten that refused the stupid plush bed I bought for it. The one who insisted on sleeping in my hood, or on my pillow. Apparently, my thousand-dollar bed didn’t compare to Aurora’s heartbeat.
Figures.
I moved to the kitchen and leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching her stroke its back with her uninjured hand. Her touch was light, soft, and patient.
She whispered something, maybe its name, and Honey purred louder, moving down her body to rub its tiny head against the side of her cast as if it was trying to heal her itself.
And God, that image—Aurora, fragile and warm, smiling down at a ginger kitten that clearly has a favourite human—it hit me harder than anything ever should’ve.
Because that was her, wasn’t it?
She didn’t even know how to stop loving things that didn’t deserve it. Didn’t know how to stop giving, no matter how much it hurt her.
I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing quietly. “She likes you better,” I muttered.
A small smile tugged at her lips, faint, shy, but there. She looked up from the little ball of fluff still purring, resting its chin on her cast.
“How… how l-long?” Her voice was soft, still trembling from the crying earlier, but there was warmth in it now.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “A few days.”
Aurora blinked, then slowly turned her head, scanning the room, and I knew exactly what she was seeing.
The two cat trees.
The pile of toys.
The damn scratching post I swore I’d never buy.
When her gaze landed back on me, it wasn’t judgemental. Just… knowing. Like she saw right through the walls I built around myself.
