“Something’s wrong.” Her voice is tight with controlled panic. “She won’t eat, won’t drink, she’s burning up, and she keeps crying.”
I’m on my feet immediately, crossing to them. Misha looks terrible—lethargic, ears back, none of her usual fight.
“Call the vet. Tell them we’re coming now.”
Janice is already dialing, fingers shaking. I take Misha carefully while she speaks, feeling the heat radiating from the small body. Too hot. Dangerously hot.
“He said to bring her immediately,” Janice says, voice breaking. “Dimitri.”
“Get your coat. We’re leaving now.”
The drive to the vet clinic should take ten minutes. I make it in six, ignoring traffic laws and other drivers’ protests. Janice is silent in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the blanket covering Misha, her breathing too quick.
“She’ll be fine,” I say, not sure if I believe it.
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s survived worse. She’s a fighter.”
“She’s also tiny and sick and—” Janice’s voice breaks. “If something happens to her…”
“Nothing is going to happen to her.” I pull into the clinic parking lot with more force than necessary. “Come on.”
The vet examines Misha immediately while Janice and I hover. She’s vibrating with anxiety, hands clenched together to stop them shaking. I stand behind her, one hand on her lower back, feeling the tension radiating through her body.
“Mild infection,” the vet announces after several tense minutes. “Probably from the original injury site. The fever is her body fighting it off. We’ll give her antibiotics, keep her for observation a few hours, but she should be fine.”
The relief that crashes through Janice is physical. Her knees actually buckle, and I catch her automatically, pulling her against me.
“She’s okay?” Her voice is small, disbelieving.
“She’s okay. Cats are resilient. She just needs medication and rest.”
Janice nods, blinking rapidly. Then she turns and hugs me, really hugs me, arms wrapping tight around my waist, face buried in my chest. The embrace is desperate, grateful, completely unguarded.
For a moment, I just stand there, surprised by the spontaneous affection. Then my arms close around her, holding her while she processes fear and relief in equal measure.
I feel her tears soak through my shirt. Feel her shake against me. Feel the absolute trust in the way she lets herself fall apart, knowing I’ll hold her together.
This. This is what I’ve been working toward without knowing how to name it.
She realizes what she’s doing after a moment and steps back quickly, wiping at her eyes. “Sorry. I was so scared.”
“Don’t.” I cup her face, making her look at me. “Don’t apologize for that. You hugged me.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “You were scared and relieved and you turned to me without thinking about whether you should. Do you understand what that means?”
Her eyes search mine, uncertain. “What?”
“It means you trust me. Instinctively. Without calculation or performance.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “You reached for me because I was there and you needed comfort and your body knew I’d provide it. That’s—” I stop, throat tight.
“What?”
“Everything.” The admission costs me, but it’s true. “That’s everything I’ve been trying to build toward. You, turning to me without thinking. Trusting me with your fear and your relief and everything in between.”
She stares at me, understanding dawning. “I do trust you. Even when I shouldn’t, even when you give me reasons not to—I trust you anyway.”
The vet clears his throat diplomatically. “I’ll get Misha settled. You can pick her up in a few hours.”
We leave instructions and return to the car. Janice is quiet during the drive, processing. I let the silence sit, watching her from the corner of my eye.
