The second cup of coffee went down easier than the first, and by the fourth pancake, I felt a fraction more human. My stomach settled, and the throbbing in my temples dialed down to a dull ache, an improvement I attributed to Ashton's unexpected culinary care package more than the ibuprofen.
Needing fresh air and sunlight to push the reset button on the day, I stepped out onto the front porch. The swing creaked slightly as I settled into its familiar curve,the gentle rocking motion soothing. I tilted my face up to the sky, letting the rays kiss my skin, coaxing life back into my veins.
The ibuprofen was working its quiet magic, and slowly, I could feel myself piecing together the strength to face whatever came next. For now, I'd sit here a little longer, suspended in this gentle sway, nursing the remnants of a night I wished I could erase.
The creak of the swing grew more persistent, a squeaky accompaniment to my thoughts. I stopped moving, expecting silence, but the sound persisted, a high-pitched mewling that definitely wasn't the product of rusty chains or weathered wood.
Curiosity piqued, I stood, my head still tender and cautious with each movement. The noise was coming from... somewhere close. I leaned over the railing, scanning the vicinity of the porch. Nothing.
The mewling continued, plaintive and repetitive. It tugged at me, drawing me in. I took measured steps, descending the porch stairs quietly. My bare feet touched the cool grass, dew clinging to my toes as I crept toward the source of the sounds.
It was coming from the side of the porch, where shadows clung to the underpinning like dark secrets. The closer I got, the louder and more insistent the tiny cries became. My heart picked up pace—not from embarrassment this time, but concern.
"Where are you?" I whispered, my voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves in the gentle morning breeze.
I crouched down, peering into the dim space beneath the porch. Eyes adjusting to the scant light, I spotted movement, a small, quivering form nestled against the foundation. Little meows reached out to me again, and I realized they were coming from a tiny, abandoned kitten hidden just out of reach.
Dirt caked my fingernails as I crawled under the porch, grateful for the two-foot crawl space. Cobwebs clung to my hair, and I grimaced at the thought of pulling them out later. The space beneath the porch grew more constricting with each inch forward, but then I saw a tiny black kitten huddled in the shadows.
"Hey there," I whispered, reaching out gently. It seemed to sense the offer of help because it didn't shy away when I scooped it up. With a quick glance I confirmed it was a little girl, she was light and fragile. One eye was crusted shut, and she sneezed, a tiny, heartbreaking sound, directly into my face. Pulling her close, her small body trembled as I crawled out from under the porch.
"Hello, little one," I cooed, brushing a thumb over her sleek black fur. "What should I call you?" I studied her, the way she nestled into my arms, seeking warmth, seeking safety. "You look like a Nyx to me."
Admiration for the tiny creature turned quickly to concern. Nyx needed help, more than I could give. With a heavy sigh, I took out my phone, still cradling the kitten against my chest. I hesitated, the mortification from last night flooding back. This wasn't about me; it was about Nyx.
I tapped out a message.
Are you busy?
Ashton:No, what's up?
I didn't have the words, so instead, I sent a picture of Nyx, all matted fur and vulnerability. His response was immediate.
Ashton: Be right there.
A wave of relief washed over me, followed swiftly by a fresh surge of embarrassment. It didn't matter. Nyx mattered. And Ashton would know what to do.
The roar of Ashton's motorcycle shattered the morning stillness, and for a moment, I contemplated hiding—anywhere. As he killed the engine and came up the steps, determination overtook my embarrassment.
"Found this little guy, huh?" Ashton reached out, gently taking Nyx from me.
"Under the porch," I said, "I just assumed it was a girl."
He turned Nyx over, inspecting her bottom with a clinical eye. "Good call, it's a girl."
"I named her Nyx." I watched his face for any sign of amusement or judgment.
He just continued looking at Nyx's little face. "Let's take her inside. I've got a bag that should have everything we need."
Despite being a room that I had decorated and cleaned many times, it was a place I'd imagined only in my daydreams since Ashton took up occupancy, yet here I was, trailing after him because a kitten needed help.
Ashton placed Nyx on his bed, and she was so small against the expanse of the quilt.
He retrieved an old-fashioned doctor's bag from the closet, its leather worn and comforting. With gentle hands, he examined Nyx—listening to her lungs, weighing her on a scale no bigger than my palm, and measuring her length. My heart twinged at her tiny mews, but Ashton seemed focused and professional.
"Without a blood test, I can't be sure." He applied ointment to her crusted eye. "She looks okay. This eye infection should clear up. I'm going to the veterinary office on Monday. I need to get things set up for my return to work. I can take Nyx in with me to get some blood samples."
"Thank you." The words were tight in my throat. He didn't know how much this meant, how much it softened the sting of last night. Watching him with Nyx, my mortification eased just a fraction. Maybe, just maybe, things could be okay.
