“Ah, our famous runaway queen,” he says with a smile, trekking over to the table. “I’m Dr. Ochoa. Let’s see how Miss Wanda’s doing.”
Dex steps aside as the vet carefully lifts Wanda’s front paw, presses a stethoscope to her chest, and leans in to listen.
“Hmm. She’s having trouble breathing,” Dr. Ochoa confirms. “And still in labor.”
“They found her in an attic,” Dex tells him.
“Well, you two made the right decision bringing her in,” Dr. Ochoa says. “We’ll need to admit her for observation, get her on fluids and some pain meds if necessary. She’ll definitely need help delivering the rest.”
He lifts her hind leg gently and gives a small nod to himself. “She’s also showing signs of metritis, an infection of the uterus. Nothing we can’t treat, but it could explain her foul smell.”
Guess it wasn’t attic stench.
“We’ll start antibiotics once she’s stable,” he adds.
My stomach tightens. “She…she’ll be okay, right?”
“Wanda’s a tough cookie,” Dr. Ochoa assures. “And she’ll do much better now that she’s back here. Her kittens should stay, too. We’ll monitor their weight and make sure they’re nursing properly.”
I set the box of still-mewing kittens onto the exam table and run my fingers over their fur.
“And…if Wanda struggles or stops feeding them, we’ll step in with a bottle. We may need help fostering or supplementing.” Dr. Ochoa looks between us. “Who should I list as the primary contact?”
My mouth opens, then shuts. I’d love nothing more than to nurse these kittens, step in for Wanda until she’s stronger. But I’m just a house sitter who, respectfully, can’t haul these fur babies into Ms. Palmer’s no-sand-rule home, not without properconsent. Especially since she doesn’t even know I’m covering for Paxton.
“I’ll give you my number,” Knox says with a one-shoulder shrug, once again stepping in as our real-life hero of the day.
“Perfect.” Dr. Ochoa nods and hands him the clipboard where Knox scribbles down his number, the pen scratching in the quiet.
We linger long enough for a few final reassurances. Nothing urgent, but enough to remind us we’re leaving them all in good hands.
Before we head out, Knox and I say sweet goodbyes to Wanda and her kittens.
Neither of us says much. Maybe we’re both feeling more attachment than we care to admit.
Outside, the air has cooled, the late-night sky blooming as a full moon hangs low.
Side by side, we walk in silence, our footsteps light and unhurried against the pavement.
“You okay?” Knox asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m…processing.”
He nods once, almost like he’s processing, too.
When we reach his Range Rover, he unlocks it with a quiet beep and, without a word, opens the passenger door.
I slide in, the leather seat cool compared to earlier, something fluttering low in my belly.
A moment later, Knox gets settled behind the wheel. But he doesn’t start the engine.
For a few heartbeats, we’re merely two strangers sitting in a pool of silence that, to me, feels oddly safe.
I glance out at the empty parking lot and try not to read too much into the ache brewing in my chest.
I shouldwantto go home, right?
Crawl into bed. Try to make sense of why a man I barely know, someone I shouldn’t be drawn to, feels more like comfort than caution, especially considering my detox.
