“Wyatt thought you might want the company.” Chris opens the carrier door. “Fair warning, she’s pissed about the car ride. She got me good when I was packing her up to bring her here.” He holds up one hand and I wince at the bright red pair of scratches that extend up the side of his palm from wrist to knuckles.
Nikita emerges with extreme dignity, tail swishing. She surveys my bedroom with the air of a health inspector finding multiple violations, then—to my delight—leaps onto the bed and headbutts my hand.
“Hello, gorgeous girl,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. She circles once, twice, then curls into the space between my hip and the mattress edge, purring loud enough to rattle windows.
“She’s decided you’re acceptable,” Chris observes.
“High praise.”
“The highest.” He watches me for a moment, something careful in his expression. “You doing okay? Really?”
“Really. Just sore.”
“The procedure went well. No complications.” He pauses. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
The way he says it—quiet, certain—tells me he’s not talking about the surgery. He’s talking about all of it. Every panic attack, every month of dread, the weight I’ve been carrying since I was old enough to understand what my body could do to me.
I swallow hard. “No. I don’t.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods once.
“How was the arraignment?”
“Quick. We got what we wanted.” His jaw tightens slightly. “She’s playing her part.”
There’s more there. More he’s not saying. But he looks exhausted, and I’m too fuzzy-headed to push.
“You hungry?” he asks, changing the subject. “Wyatt and I were about to make dinner.”
“Maybe? I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll bring you something anyway. You should eat.”
He stands, starts to leave, then pauses. Comes back. Leans down and kisses my forehead, lingering.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says against my skin.
“Me too.”
He straightens, then disappears into the hallway. Nikita opens one eye, confirms he’s gone, and goes back to purring.
I sink into the pillows, one hand on her warm fur, and let my eyes drift closed. Just for a minute.
The smell wakes me. Something savory and complex with an undercurrent of pure comfort, making my stomach wake up and take notice.
Nikita’s gone from beside me, probably investigating the kitchen situation. I push myself upright more carefully this time, testing my body’s response. Sore across my lower abdomen, like bad period cramps. But manageable.
I make my way to the bathroom, handle necessary business, then follow my nose toward the kitchen.
Chris and Wyatt stand at the stove, moving around each other with surprising coordination. Wyatt’s wiping up while Chris tends a frying pan. Their voices are low enough that I can’t make out words from the hallway.
Nikita sits on the counter—a place she’s absolutely not supposed to be—supervising.
“If you’re going to allow the cat on food prep surfaces,” I announce, “at least pretend you have standards.”
Both men turn. Wyatt grins. Chris has the grace to look slightly guilty.
“She’s very insistent,” Chris says.
