And then—without even the courtesy of a second glance—she turns and trots straight to Max.
I blink.
Max looks just as surprised. Both of us watch in fascination as the kitten scales the bench like it’s a throne and his lap is the royal cushion.
She climbs up and promptly flops across his thighs like she’s lived there all her life, rumbling with a purr so deep it vibrates the wood beneath us.
“Excuse me?” I say, hands still hovering mid-air.
I pretend to be offended, but in reality the sight of him—tattooed, smug, completely besotted by a six-pound feline terrorist—is doing strange things to my insides. Dangerous things. Soft things.
Max sets the pasta bowl aside, one hand still hovering, like he’s unsure what to do next. “You sure you chose wisely, Miss Foldy-Ear? I could be the type who has kittens for breakfast.” He strokes her back. She arches, purr thrumming like a tiny lawn mower. Up close I see the folded ear is scarred, edges puckered, yet she carries it like a jaunty hat.
The kitten paces along Max’s thigh, sniffing at the cardboard bowls. She noses my cacio e pepe, then his rigatoni, and finally lets out a plaintive, rusty meow that vibrates against my shins.
“She’s starving,” I murmur, then shake my head when Max reaches for a stray noodle. “Pasta’s not exactly cat cuisine.”
“Right—no gluten for gremlins.” He withdraws his hand, brow furrowing with concern.
I scan the street. “There’s a drugstore on the corner—the kind with a tiny pet aisle. We can grab kitten food and a dish.”
“All right, hold on tight then.” Max cups the tortie against his chest, careful not to jostle her crooked ear.
The kitten answers with a curious chirrup but refrains from sampling any human carbs. Moments later we’re weaving through pedestrians toward the neon pharmacy sign, determined to serve something more feline-friendly than rigatoni.
Inside Madison Chem-Mart the lights hum with that particular hue only chain pharmacies manage—clinical, unforgiving. An automatic spritz of vanilla-disinfectant perfume tries and fails to conceal aisle-three mop water. The kitten pokes her head out of Max’s elbow, eyes darting.
We locate a shelf cluttered with dog biscuits shaped like fire hydrants and gourmet pâté tins featuring cats in bow ties. I snag a pouch labeled KITTEN BOOST—CHICKEN GRAVY and shake it.
Max’s eyebrows form peaks. “Turbo-charged kitten?”
“All the city’s mice will cower,” I declare.
He laughs under his breath, collects a collapsible silicone bowl and a cardboard litter tray.
The kitten’s raspy mew intensifies as though she’s reading the labels. I glance at the line for the front register—six deep, including a man muttering at his coupons—then nudge Max toward self-checkout.
Scanning the items is easy; wrestling the kitten’s curiosity is harder. She tries to sniff the red beam, recoils, hisses at the machine’s robotic voice. I cradle her while Max folds the litter tray into a bag.
“Good girl,” he soothes. “Laser beams are overrated.”
A teenager steps into the neighboring station—dye-black hair, neon earbuds, hoodie printed with a cartoon vampire. She drops a box of magenta hair color into her basket, but her eyes are glued to Max. Recognition ripples like heat mirage; her jaw lowers.
“Holy crap,” she breathes, removing one earbud. “You’re Max Donovan.”
Max gives her a polite, practiced smile I’ve only ever seen in headlines. “Hi there!”
She squeals—piercing. Heads turn. A clerk from aisle four lifts a brow. The girl’s phone materializes; she flips the camera. “One selfie? My friends will combust.”
He looks to me for permission. Saying no would escalate; saying yes costs five seconds. I nod. He crouches to her level, kitten balanced like a living scarf. The camera clicks. The flash seems to ignite the situation. A mother near cough medicine gasps, “Storm & Silence?”and fumbles with her phone. Another shopper calls to his girlfriend, “Babe, it’s the rehab guy!” Phones multiply like hydras.
Time to go.
Max lowers his voice. “Run?” He’s already backing toward the exit.
“Run,” I confirm, tucking the food pouch into my messenger bag.
And we bolt.
