We push through the door, leaving the excited chatter behind us. We keep running until my lungs hurt and we find a quiet corner, where noone is paying attention to us.
Max sets the litter tray down, breath clouding. “Emergency meal service.”
I crouch, rip the pouch. Chicken gravy splats into the silicone bowl. The kitten dives face-first, tail quivering with delight. She eats so fast I fear she’ll inhale her whiskers.
While she demolishes the food, I study Max. He’s leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard, hair damp with sweat. Yet his eyes track the kitten with soft wonder, as though she’s the first gentle thing he’s handled in years. For a moment I see not Max Donovan, headliner, nor Matt the faux-logistics guy, but a man whose heart is so big it terrifies him.
“She’s got you wrapped,” I tease.
“Dirty, wriggling ball of fur,” he mutters, but his hand pats her spine in tender rhythm. Chicken gravy coats her nose. He wipes it with the corner of his ruined T-shirt.
She finishes, licks the bowl, and—without ceremony—crawls up his chest. Her tiny claws find purchase in marinara spots. She nestles beneath his jaw, purr rumbling; her mismatched ears flick with dreams. Seconds later, she’s asleep.
“She trusts you,” I whisper. Saying it feels like risking a glass heart.
Max’s throat works. “Doesn’t know any better.”
“Or knows exactly what she sees.”
He props a sneaker heel on the wall, shifting kitten weight. “Let’s work on our owner-finding strategy.”
“If she even has one,” I supply.
Max nods, all business. “First, vet check for a microchip. Second, neighborhood flyers with that folded ear front and center—hard to miss.”
“My turn.” I tick items off on flour-speckled fingers. “I’ll post in the local lost-pet groups and call nearby shelters.”
The kitten purrs in her sleep as if approving the project plan.
“Who keeps her tonight? Your place?”
“I can try.” I reach out to lift her. Her eyes snap open; a soft hiss escapes as she tightens her grip on his shirt.
“She made her choice,” I sigh.
Max shifts her into the crook of one arm, then rubs the back of his neck as though bracing for a guitar solo gone wrong. “Hey, um—can I get your number?”
Heat slides up my throat. Why does he want my number? I mean, I know that’s what a rock-star charmer does: collects digits the way bookstores collect new editions. I’m hardly special; I’m just next in line. I open my mouth to deflect—something about professional boundaries, maybe even the charity contract—but he keeps talking.
“Strictly for the kitten.” He nods at the purring bundle against his chest. “Daily updates, vet news, that sort of thing.”
Oh. Just the kitten. The blush on my cheeks cools, then tips oddly toward disappointment. I’m not sure which reaction annoys me more—flattery at the thought he might be flirting, or resentment that he isn’t.
I cross my arms to hide both emotions. “You want to send me cat reports?”
His brows knit. “Is that… not okay? I figured you’d want to know how she’s doing.” He glances down; the cat’s crooked ear twitches, as if she’s worried about where this conversation is headed.
“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, embarrassed by my own flicker of vanity, fingers trembling as I type.
He taps SAVE. Then flips the screen toward me, revealingContact: Nora Bookworm. My cheeks burn, despite the gentle breeze cooling the alley.
He pockets the phone. “We need a name. I can’t keep calling her ‘cat.’”
We look down. The kitten sighs in her sleep, folded ear twitching. Her tail, kinked like a question mark, slips over his wrist.
“Melody,” I whisper, surprised at how quickly it feels right. “She purrs like a broken violin trying to tune itself.”
Max nods, more solemn than I expect. “Melody it is.”
