Chapter 2 Lucian
Lucian
Ipark far enough that the pain from my prosthetic makes itself known by the time I hit the curb.
It’s a small rebellion, but it’s times like these when I refuse to use my handicapped placard.
After today’s physical therapy session, the long walk leaves my leg aching and my pride a little more than shredded, but it’s better than hesitating at the door like a scared child.
I catch my reflection in the storefront and cringe.
With my long, messy hair, a five o’clock shadow that’s trying to become a beard, I already look like a ‘before’ photo.
I don’t need pity from a receptionist with cat stickers on her clipboard.
The sign over the shelter door is so aggressively cheerful it feels like it’s shouting at me, with its bright blue letters, cartoon pawprints, the whole thing radiating a level of optimism I’m not sure my nervous system can process yet.
The bell above the frame jingles when I step inside, a too-bright sound in a space that smells exactly the way every shelter smells: cleaner that never fully wins, warm fur, and… yeah. Definitely pee.
My brain twitches toward old cases, to the kennels we tore open, dogs we carried out, and the metallic tang of fear and ammonia clinging to my clothes for hours after. A whole reel of memories tries to spool up.
I shut it down. Not today. Not for this.
The receptionist looks up, her face covered in freckles, her smile is so bright I feel like I need some fucking sunglasses. I look down to not get blinded and notice her shirt has a pawprint heart and Who Rescued Who? printed on it.
Jesus.
I fight the need to roll my eyes.
“Hi there! Looking to adopt?”
“No,” I deadpan . “I’m just here to haunt the cages until someone calls security.”
She blinks as her smile dims.
I sigh. “That was sarcasm. Yes, I’m here to adopt.”
Her smile brightens once again. “Great! Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“No idea, but I’m thinking something big. The uglier the better. Possibly haunted if you have it,” I say. “I need a walking partner who won’t talk back.”
Her smile falters; guilt punches me in the chest. Catch it, Lucian. Not her fault.
“I’m kidding,” I say. Then pause. “Kind of.”
She recovers with a polite click of her keyboard. “Well, we have a few dogs who aren’t getting a lot of attention, mostly the bigger breeds. We also have a few older ones, a few with behavioral flags—”
“Perfect,” I say. Also me, but I’m not unpacking that today.
The girl squints at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m really here for the right reasons, which I’m not. “Are you sure?”
“I work for the Bureau,” I mutter. “Or at least–I used to. I promise you, I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Okay then,” she says. “Come with me.”
We bypass the cheerful puppy room. The one with bows, squeaky toys, and too much noise. Back here, it’s quieter with a heavier air.
She pauses at one of the crates and drops into a crouch.
“His full title is Sir Sassafras the Sassy Ass Cat, but we’ve shortened it to Sir Sassafras.
He’s been with us for a few weeks. His owner passed away, and he didn’t have any remaining family to take Sir Sassafras in.
He knew his time was running out, so when Sir Sassafras came to us from his neighbor, he came with a stack of handwritten notes about his favorite foods and which TV shows he liked best. His owner didn’t have much, but he left money behind specifically for Sir Sassafras. ”
I blink. “The cat has an inheritance?”
“Technically, we do, until he gets placed,” she replies. “But yeah, you should be able to take him home and get everything you need at the pet store without spending a dime of your money.”
Inside the crate is a massive ragdoll cat with cream and gray fur, big blue eyes that see way too much. He’s missing one back leg, sprawled in a way that says yeah, and? With a wide head, ridiculous mane, and a tail like a feather boa. Chonky doesn’t even cover it; he’s a pillow with whiskers.
I stare. “That’s a cat.”
“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” she notes, dryly. “Dogs are easy. He isn’t. He needs someone stubborn, and I think you two would make quite the pair.”
“I came for a dog.”
Sir Sassafras yawns, slow and deliberate, showing me a mouth full of teeth.
She unlatches the crate before I can protest.
“Wait—”
She’s already scooping up an armful of ridiculous fluff and shoves him at my chest. Reflex kicks in, and I catch him because dropping a three-legged cat feels like an express ticket to hell.
The second he’s placed in my arms, he starts to purr.
The vibration hits my ribs, and something weird happens: the tension I’ve been carrying around just…
disappears. He tilts his giant head up to rub his face against my jaw, and headbutts me so hard my teeth click.
I swear I can hear him say claim staked, human acquired.
I blink down at the cat in my arms. “I said I wanted a walking partner.”
“He likes walks,” the worker says brightly. “Put a harness and a leash on him, and he’ll strut right along beside you.”
I glance at the cat. He blinks back, smug as sin.
“Figures,” I mutter as the cat purrs louder.
And just like that, I know I’m not leaving with the big, scary dog I came for. I’m leaving with a rag doll cat.
After more paperwork than necessary, I take Sir Sassafras out to my SUV, where he rides shotgun in a borrowed carrier that smells like wet fur and despair.
The entire drive to the pet store, he stares at me like he’s assessing whether I’m worth the emotional labor of retraining.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “You’re not exactly low-maintenance yourself.”
This time, when I get to the pet store, I use the handicapped placard. I don’t want to, but between the discomfort and the fact that I’m going to be carrying a big ass cat makes me pick the easiest option I have available.
The second we’re through the sliding doors, I make the mistake of setting the carrier down to open it.
He bolts.
He doesn’t go far, just a few aisles down, moving with that weird three-legged hop-and-glide gait that somehow still manages to look graceful.
A teenage employee rushes over, eyes wide. “Sir, your cat—”
“He’s recovering from trauma,” I say flatly. “We’re here for retail therapy. Let him process.”
Sir Sass completely ignores the toys. He walks past the fake mice and sniffs at a laser pointer with what I can only assume is mild disgust. He pauses at the scratching posts, gives one a disdainful sniff, then moves on with the slow certainty of a king inspecting his domain.
He stops dead in front of a rack of clothes full of tiny sweaters, costumes, and jackets.
I freeze.
“No,” I say as if he can understand me. “Absolutely not.”
He looks up at me, maintaining unblinking direct eye contact, then headbutts a miniature leather jacket covered in silver studs.
“I’m not that kind of man,” I insist. “I’m not—”
He shoves the jacket off the hook with his one front paw and stares at me like you are now.
I rub my jaw and look around to make sure no one’s watching.
“Pick a damn toy,” I hiss.
He doesn’t move.
Ten minutes later, I’m at the checkout with a laser pointer, a plush raccoon, some cat necessities, and absolutely no cat jacket. He’s back in the carrier, sitting like a disappointed mentor whose pupil failed the test.
I lift the carrier into the passenger seat and buckle the seatbelt around it, out of habit.
“You were supposed to be a dog,” I mutter as I pull onto the road.
A deep, rumbling purr rolls out of the carrier.
I glance over at him. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t gloat.”
He blinks up at me like he’s saying too late.
I sigh. “Therapy didn’t cover this.”
And somehow, despite myself, I’m smiling.
Just a little.
It doesn’t take us long to get home, and the moment I unlock the door, Sir Sassafras makes a sound like he’s trying to announce our arrival to the world.
I set the carrier down in the living room, open the door, and step back like I’m releasing a wild animal—which, honestly, I might be.
He emerges like royalty disembarking from a private jet, moving with a cocky rhythm that says missing a limb doesn’t mean missing authority.
I sigh and lower myself onto the couch, easing the weight off my prosthetic until the socket bites less. My therapist would say to “acknowledge, not judge.”
I acknowledge that it sucks. There. Growth.
He pads over to the couch next to me, and with the casual contempt of a monarch, hops up beside me and stares at me like I’ve become his most interesting subject.
Did I miss some new cat-owner etiquette? I’ve never had a pet before. Is there a protocol I am supposed to be following?
“Umm, do you want the house tour?” I ask, the sentence sounding ridiculous in my own ears. “We’re sitting on my couch, this is where we will watch trashy reality TV that we will never tell anyone we watch.”
We move through the apartment, stopping in every doorway, where I give him a few minutes to inspect each room.
At the end of the circuit, I take my spot on the couch, and he plants himself beside me and settles into the sunbeam where he’s hopefully decided his new home is acceptable.
“By the way, we’re changing your name,” I warn him. “I am not going to call you Sir Sasafrass the Sassy Ass Cat, that’s a mouthful.”
He flicks his tail at me like he’s annoyed I’m interrupting him while he’s sunbathing.
“Maybe we could do Captain Tripod, there’s also Lord Hop-a-Lot. If you don’t like either of those, we can also do Sir Missing-But-Mighty.”
I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch. I can almost hear him saying, try harder, human.
“Okay, how about Lieutenant Lopsided?” I go to pet his insanely soft fur. “Final offer.”
He shifts, pressing all twenty pounds of him into my thigh, and my chest loosens.
When I left my apartment this morning, I never imagined I’d be coming back with a cat.
The first few months after the accident, and after the way I ended things with Celeste, this place felt like a museum of half-lived moments.
I’ve been moving through the rooms like a guest in my own life, careful not to disturb anything that might erase her memory.
The apartment is less like a place to remember her by, and more of a place I can make new memories.
“Yeah, okay,” I let out a breath as I put my hands up in surrender. “You win, Sir Sassafrass.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a purr and a snort. Which, in my brief time of knowing him, probably means obviously.