Chapter Forty Joshua
Chapter Forty
Joshua
The air bit harder than usual when I stepped outside, the kind of cold that clung to your lungs. I just needed milk, five minutes max, and then back up to the warmth of my place, where Trouble was probably asleep next to the coffee machine again. Or it’s bed for once.
But halfway down the front steps, I stopped.
A shape on the pavement.
Small. Curled in on itself.
Aurora.
She was crouched low, fingers trembling as she wiped at her face. Even from a distance, I could see her shoulders shaking.
My chest tightened instantly.
I walked closer, slowly. “Aurora?”
Her head snapped up, eyes red, cheeks streaked wet. She froze when she saw me.
“Hey,” I said softly, crouching beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffled, shook her head as if it didn’t matter.
I tilted my head. “Why are you crying?”
Her lips parted slightly, small, stuttering words falling out. “H-Honey—gone.”
Honey.
My brain stuttered. “Honey?”
She nodded again, tears brimming fresh. “T-the kitten. I came to feed her, but she—she’s not here. S-she’s always here.”
My brain short-circuited as she spoke a full sentence… spoke. With her soft, posh British accent. She sounded the words out to me.
Not type, not text.
Spoke.
She said that—
Oh.
Oh, shit.
The kitten. Honey.
The same tiny fur ball that was right now probably sleeping, full belly and purring like it owned the place.
She named it Honey.
Of course she did.
For a moment, guilt knotted in my throat.
She came down to feed it, worrying over it, and I’d just taken it. Just scooped it up because I didn’t want it to freeze.
I reached out, gently brushing the dirt off her knees as I helped her stand.
“Come on,” I said quietly. “It’s freezing. You’ll catch a cold sitting out here.”
She hesitated, blinking up at me as if she wasn’t sure if she should trust me again. But then she nodded, small and tired.
I guided her through the lobby, pressing the elevator button. The ride up was silent, just the hum of the machine and her uneven breathing.
When the doors opened, I led her inside my place, the warm air hitting instantly.
And then—
Purr.
That familiar, low, smug purr from the top of the cat tree.
Aurora froze in the doorway.
Her eyes went wide, glassy and glimmering, as she slowly looked up.
Honey—Trouble—was perched on the cat tree like a damn queen, tail flicking, eyes bright, perfectly fine.
The sound she made then—half gasp, half laugh—made something in my chest unclench.
She ran forward, cast and all, standing by the tree as the kitten leapt straight into her arms. “H-Honey,” she whispered, voice trembling but lighter this time.
I leaned against the wall, watching the way she hugged that little furball like it was the last thing keeping her together.
The sight hit harder than I expected.
She sat down on the couch, careful with her cast, and Honey just… melted onto her. Body sprawled across her chest, tiny chin resting on her shoulder, tail swishing slowly, as if it were the most comfortable place in the world.
The same kitten that refused the stupid plush bed I bought for it. The one who insisted on sleeping in my hood, or on my pillow. Apparently, my thousand-dollar bed didn’t compare to Aurora’s heartbeat.
Figures.
I moved to the kitchen and leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching her stroke its back with her uninjured hand. Her touch was light, soft, and patient.
She whispered something, maybe its name, and Honey purred louder, moving down her body to rub its tiny head against the side of her cast as if it was trying to heal her itself.
And God, that image—Aurora, fragile and warm, smiling down at a ginger kitten that clearly has a favourite human—it hit me harder than anything ever should’ve.
Because that was her, wasn’t it?
She didn’t even know how to stop loving things that didn’t deserve it. Didn’t know how to stop giving, no matter how much it hurt her.
I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing quietly. “She likes you better,” I muttered.
A small smile tugged at her lips, faint, shy, but there. She looked up from the little ball of fluff still purring, resting its chin on her cast.
“How… how l-long?” Her voice was soft, still trembling from the crying earlier, but there was warmth in it now.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “A few days.”
Aurora blinked, then slowly turned her head, scanning the room, and I knew exactly what she was seeing.
The two cat trees.
The pile of toys.
The damn scratching post I swore I’d never buy.
When her gaze landed back on me, it wasn’t judgemental. Just… knowing. Like she saw right through the walls I built around myself.
“Don’t give me that look,” I muttered, turning away. “She’s easier to deal with than people.”
I cleared my throat and pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. “You don’t need to feed her your food anymore, by the way. If you wanna feed her, just come up here. There’s real cat food in the pantry. Probably more than she’ll ever finish.”
Her lips curved slightly, barely a smile, but enough to make me feel it.
She nodded, stroking Honey’s head. “Th-thank you.”
Silence sat between us for a few seconds before she asked quietly, “You’re… not g-going home for Christmas?”
I shook my head. “Don’t celebrate it.”
Didn’t have a reason to.
“There’s a tree in the storage,” I added after a beat. “Brand new. Bought it a few years ago. Never opened it. It’s just sitting there.”
“Why?” she whispered.
I shrugged. “It doesn’t… excite me, never did.”
That made her sit up straighter, Honey still clinging to her cast like a small orange shadow. She tilted her head at me, just slightly, curious and something else.
“What?” I asked.
She turned her gaze away, murmuring so quietly I almost missed it. “I d-don’t…either.”
Something about the way she said alone, without actually saying it, hit harder than I wanted it to.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Well,” I muttered, trying to play it off, “if you’re not celebrating and I’m not celebrating… might as well do nothing together.”
She glanced at me again.
“I’ve got decorations somewhere in there,” I said, nodding toward the storage room in the corner. “Lights, ornaments, fake snow spray. We can… set it up if you want.”
Aurora blinked, clearly unsure if I was serious.
“Maybe Honey will like it,” I added quickly. “She looks like the type to climb a Christmas tree or whatever. Wreck the whole thing. That little thing.”
That earned me a tiny laugh, a real one this time. Barely a sound, but I caught it. And damn, if that didn’t feel more festive than any holiday ever could.
—
I don’t even know how it happened. One second, I was standing there trying to sound like I didn’t care, and the next… my living room looked like Santa’s storage room exploded.
Boxes everywhere. Tinsel, ornaments, garlands, hooks, and lights, half of which I didn’t even remember buying.
Aurora was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding Honey in one arm while the kitten batted at a strand of tinsel hanging off the box.
I looked around the chaos and exhaled through my nose. “You probably know better than I how to put all this together.”
She blinked up at me, then she looked at the open boxes around her, shrugged, and signed, God knows what she signed. I gave up on Jennie’s lesson a while ago.
“I hope you know Jennie didn’t teach me shit; I got nothing from that. Apart from I,” I said, making her blink up at me.
“Instructions or g-guess.”
…where the fuck did I get the I from…?
“Guess,” I repeated under my breath, shaking my head. “Yeah, that sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
I crouched down, pulled open the big box that had been sitting in the storage closet since, God, I don’t even know when.
Inside was the unopened Christmas tree, still wrapped in plastic. A faint smell of dust and fake pine hit me.
I ripped the box open, grabbed the instructions, and handed them to her before pulling the tree out.
She shifted Honey to her lap and unfolded the paper, brow furrowing in concentration as she scanned the diagrams.
I couldn’t help it; I smiled, just barely, watching her tilt her head at the directions like it was some grand puzzle to solve. Honey reached for the corner of the paper, and she gently pushed the kitten’s paw away, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
The sight, her soft focus, her quiet little movements—it made the cold apartment feel different.
Warm.
I set the tree base down on the floor and glanced up. “Alright, boss,” I muttered. “Tell me where to start.”
Aurora looked up from the instructions, eyes glinting, and mouthed, “Bottom.”
I nodded and started assembling the pieces, pretending not to notice the way she was watching me with that quiet amusement, as if for the first time, I wasn’t completely screwing things up.
And Honey? She just purred from her lap, watching us as if she already knew that this was going to be our tree.
I took a step back after assembling the basics.
It looked… nice. I didn’t expect it to turn out this good.
The fake pine branches were fuller than I thought they’d be, and the colour was nice. It was a nice, deep green.
Now it’s time to make it pretty.
Aurora and I moved in a quiet rhythm, circling opposite sides of the tree. She had Honey perched on her shoulder like a tiny orange parrot, batting at every glittering bauble she dared to hang.
Every time I reached to hook another ornament, I’d catch a glimpse of her through the branches, her focused face, her hair falling forward, her lips pressed tight in concentration.
She’d look up too sometimes. Our eyes would meet between the needles and gold ribbons, and she’d quickly glance away as if she hadn’t been staring.
And yet, every few minutes, it happened again.
Both of us pretending we weren’t doing it.
Both failing miserably.
I moved the strand of lights higher, watching her from the corner of my eye as she stepped back to examine her side. She nodded once, satisfied, then turned and caught me staring outright this time.
She blinked, then looked away again before placing another ornament.
I smirked to myself. “It’s uneven,” I said quietly, just to mess with her.
Aurora looked up, suspicious. “Where?”
“Everywhere,” I teased.
She groaned—actually groaned—and walked around the tree to my side, pointing at my cluster of ornaments that were, admittedly, a little too close together.
“Okay, fine,” I muttered, reaching up to fix it. “Perfectionist.”
She smiled, soft, small, and fleeting. But it was there. And it was beautiful.
By the time we plugged the lights in and stepped back, the entire penthouse glowed with warm golden light. Honey darted in circles around the base, tail flicking in excitement.
I reached into the last box, brushing through stray tinsel until my fingers hit something hard. The gold star. Smooth, metallic, faintly reflective in the Christmas lights.
“The final touch,” I muttered, holding it up.
Aurora looked over; the glow of the tree painted her cheeks in gold. I pointed to the top of the tree, then to the star, and raised a brow.
She shook her head, smiling a little. “You’re t-tall,” she said.
“Yeah, but you’re the one who actually made it look good,” I said, stepping closer. “You do it.”
She started shaking her head again, mouthing, No, no way, I can’t reach—
Before she could finish, I stepped forward, hands instinctively finding her waist. She froze, eyes wide, hands halfway raised, and before either of us could process it, I’d already lifted her up.
“Go on,” I said, voice low. “You said this was the best part.”
Her small gasp melted into a nervous laugh, and then she reached up carefully, trembling just a little as she steadied the star. Her fingers brushed the top of the tree, sleeves rolling back a bit.
I held her steady, fingers firm at her waist but careful, as if she might break if I held her too tight.
The golden light shimmered across her face, and I swear for a second, I forgot to breathe.
“There,” I murmured, eyes still on her, “perfect.”
She turned her head down at me, cheeks flushed from the heat of the lights or maybe from me holding her, and whispered, almost soundless, “D-done.”
I slowly lowered her back down. When her feet touched the floor, she turned to face me, not realising the micro space between us until she was already facing me.
For a second, she didn’t move away; neither of us did.
But Honey—
Fucking trouble meowed from under the tree, tail swishing, breaking the silence, making her take a step back.
God, this furball.
She was staring up at the tree, arms crossed gently over her cast, with a satisfied look on her face. And I just stood behind her, studying her profile, the way the lights beamed in her eyes, making her absolutely unreal.
I cleared my throat softly, rubbing the back of my neck before saying, “Come. For Christmas.”
She blinked and looked over, confused.
I shrugged, forcing it out before I changed my mind. “Since Honey’s up here anyway, and—” I hesitated, glancing at her. “We’d both be alone.”
Her lips parted a little, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
“I’ll cook,” I added quickly, tone lighter, teasing almost. “It’ll be good, I promise. You’ll want to keep coming back for more.”
Her brows lifted at that. “M-more?”
“I’m quite a good cook, I’m sure you know by now,” I muttered, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
She looked down at the kitten that was now tangled in a strand of tinsel, then back at me. For a moment, she just stood there, thinking.
Then she nodded. Once. Small but sure.
And that simple motion did something to me I couldn’t explain.
Not forgiveness.
But something.
Something that I’ll take because it was from her.
“Alright then,” I said quietly. “Christmas it is.”
Aurora brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding again. “Just until my arm heals,” she whispered, voice small but real.
“Yeah,” I lied, nodding once. “Just until then.”