26. Jae
Chapter twenty-six
Jae
The kitten weighs almost nothing against my chest—a soft, hot press of orange fur and tiny, needle-sharp claws that snag on my scrubs every time she shifts.
Her heartbeat thrums against my palm through her ribs, fast and steady, which is the only reason I’m still standing here at ten to six on a Wednesday night instead of heading home to collapse.
The clinic is finally shutting down for the night.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum with that dry, relentless buzz that gives you a headache if you stand under it too long, illuminating stainless steel counters wiped down with bleach and a back room that perpetually smells like wet dog and antiseptic.
My feet ache through my sneakers, my lower back is locked up, and every muscle in my shoulders is screaming after ten hours on the floor.
My scrubs are wrinkled. My hair is a lost cause—the front half collapsed long ago into a dark, unruly mop.
I don’t care. No one’s here to see it except an eight-week-old tabby who barely hit the two-pound mark for her spay today, and is currently purring against my collarbone like a tiny, drugged-out engine.
I check the monitors. Heart rate stable. Respiration normal. The anesthesia is wearing off cleanly, which means my final patient of the day is safe to settle into her kennel before my shift officially ends at six.
The kitten stirs, her tiny pink nose twitching against my neck. I murmur something low and wordless, a soft, gravelly noise to keep her grounded. She settles, her head collapsing into the hollow of my throat.
The heavy front door swings open with a low screech of rubber.
Amiyah walks in.
She’s wearing a white flared dress scattered with small pink flowers, tied at the shoulders with ribbons, the hem falling just above mid-thigh. Pink sneakers. A delicate silver chain resting in the notch of her collarbone, her blonde hair falling loosely around her face in soft waves.
I know her schedule. Her Wednesday classes ended at three.
By three-thirty, she would’ve been back at her apartment across town.
Which means she went home, changed out of her lecture clothes, and made the twenty-minute walk back to the far east edge of campus just to stand in my clinic doorway at ten to six.
Her eyes catch mine. Something fast and raw flashes across her face before she slams the steel shutters down, her mouth setting into a line that fails at looking neutral by a mile.
I keep my expression deadpan. If I give her even a corner of a smirk right now, she’ll pivot on those pink soles and vanish into the evening. I’ve seen her execute that exact maneuver four times this week.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is far too level. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Right,” I say flatly. “Funny how 'the neighborhood' required a full outfit change since coffee this morning.”
Her mouth twitches, a micro-reaction she instantly fights to suppress as she shifts her weight from one pink sneaker to the other.
I glance at the kitten, then back at her.
“Here,” I say, stepping forward. “Take her for a second.”
She blinks, taking a quick step back. “What? No—I'm not touching it.”
“Hold her, Amiyah. I need to log her final vitals so I can clock out, and my hands are tied.”
It’s a complete lie. One hand is supporting the kitten’s hindquarters; the other is holding a plastic clipboard I could easily drop on the counter. She stares at the clipboard, then at my face, realizing the trap a second too late.
For three seconds, neither of us moves. Then she steps across the threshold, her hands hovering nervously in the air.
“She just had abdominal surgery today, so be gentle,” I instruct softly, stepping close enough that the scent of vanilla and rain off her skin cuts through the antiseptic. “Support her bottom with your left hand—don't press on her belly—and cup her head against your chest so she stays warm.”
Amiyah swallows, her usual razor-sharp posture instantly dissolving into pure concentration. She cups her palms precisely where I show her, scooping the tiny orange bundle with the hyper-focused caution of someone handling unexploded ordnance.
The tabby instantly sinks against the soft cotton of her dress.
Amiyah’s posture softens completely. Her elbows tuck in, cradling the kitten gently against her sternum, and her shoulders drop half an inch.
The hard, defensive set of her jaw melts.
Her thumb starts moving in a slow, subconscious stroke along the kitten’s spine—avoiding the shaved patch near her belly—and the room goes dead silent.
I can’t stop looking at her. The sharp, guarded edge she carries everywhere else just completely vanishes, replaced by this quiet, hyper-focused stillness. Under the harsh clinic fluorescents, the soft waves framing her face look almost silver.
I pretend to study the pulse ox reader. I’m not looking at the screen. I’m watching Amiyah Lane completely forget I exist because a two-pound stray is snoring against her chest.
Thirty seconds pass. Forty. She doesn't make a move to give her back.
“You’re a real hardass, you know that?” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the lights.
Her eyes snap up—sharp and defensive—before her mouth twitches. She fights it, but a small, reluctant curve tugs at the corner of her lips. She looks back down at the cat like it just handed over classified intel.
“Shut up,” she murmurs.
“I’m just observing.”
“You’re smirking.”
“I’m stating facts. You’re good with her.”
A soft, quiet breath escapes her lips. The kitten burrows deeper into her warmth, pressing her tiny head against the floral fabric, and a sudden, heavy pressure tightens behind my ribs.
The clinic feels quieter now, the space between us closing down to the stainless steel counter separating us. Amiyah leans her hip against the edge, cradling the sleeping tabby against her dress, and for a few minutes, neither of us says a word.
“I have a cat back home,” I say, the confession slipping out before I can catch it.
Amiyah looks up from the kitten.”Really? I wouldn’t have guessed you as a cat dad.”
“Yea, I’ve had her since I was seventeen. She’s my world.”
Amiyah smiles and I go weak in my knees. Her smile is fucking lethal.
“That’s actually…sweet.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
I clear my throat, pushing off the counter. “Come on. Let’s put her to bed so I can clock out.”
She follows me back to the recovery kennel, holding the sleeping tabby against her chest like fragile glass. I prep the heating pad, leaning in to lay it down and crowding her slightly against the metal counter because the back room is too damn small for two people.
She doesn’t back up. She just tilts her chin up to clear my shoulder as she carefully lowers the orange heap into the fleece lining, moving with extreme care so she doesn't disturb the fresh incision.
When the kitten stirs and tries to scramble sideways, my hand goes right over hers to guide her palm flat against the fleece. Her skin is warm under mine, and she doesn't pull away—she just freezes, her breath hitching slightly against the side of my neck as we settle the cat together.
The kitten settles with a tiny sigh. The monitors beat a steady rhythm. There’s no reason for us to keep standing three inches apart in a room that smells like rubbing alcohol and warm wool, but neither of us makes a move for the exit.
Amiyah glances down at her watch. It’s a deliberate motion—the universal signal that the moment is ending. She lifts a hand to tuck a loose strand of gold behind her ear.
“I should let you finish up,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” I drop my clipboard onto the desk, clocking out on the wall monitor. “Hey—are you free tomorrow after your afternoon classes finish up? There’s a place on Sunset that does decent Korean. Around five?”
She stops, her hand lingering near her collarbone. Her eyes track over my face—that rapid, calculating scan she does whenever she’s trying to anticipate my angles. Then the edge of her mouth lifts.
“Maybe,” she says.
I know how her mind works now. Maybe means she isn't giving me the satisfaction of an instant yes. Maybe means she’s going to spend all night thinking about it, pick out that specific floral dress in the morning because she knows it drives me crazy, and then show up on Sunset like it was her idea all along.
“Cool,” I say, keeping my tone casual while my chest does a sudden, violent kick. “I’ll see you tomorrow at five.”
She gives me a single, sharp nod, turns on her heel, and heads for the door.
I lazily brush a hand through my hair and sigh. Kiho’s girlfriend may have been right all along.
I’m fucked.
Sunset Boulevard at five on a Thursday afternoon smells like charred brisket, hot fry oil, and stale beer spilling out of the open-front bar across the street. The heavy bass from the speakers vibrates right through the sidewalk as people push past in three different languages.
I spot her near the curb.
She’s wearing a pink Blackthorn hoodie with the sleeves pushed up her forearms, tiny denim shorts, and white sneakers with bright pink laces. Her blonde hair is pulled into a half updo, framing her face.
I raise a hand. Her eyes lock onto mine, and the tight, careful set of her jaw drops off completely.
“You’re late,” she says as I step up.
“Business class let out, then I had to drop by the clinic to check on the tabby and sprint home to shower,” I say, taking her in and glancing down at the denim. I’m wearing a black t-shirt and black wide-legged pants that catch the breeze off the street. “You look entirely too comfortable.”
She looks down at her legs, arching a dark brow. “Is that an observation or a complaint?”
“It’s an envy statement. I’ve been running all day.”
“Then stop talking and feed me,” she says, turning toward the stalls. “I’ve been running on iced coffee since noon.”
We wind through the crowd. Amiyah makes a dead-eyed beeline for the Korean corndog stall.