Chapter Thirty-Nine Joshua
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Joshua
Saturday morning.
Cold. Quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong when you’ve been thinking too loud all night.
I shoved my hands into my hoodie and walked toward the corner store, not because I needed anything, but because staying still made me think. And thinking meant remembering.
Halfway down the street, I heard a sound.
A faint, pathetic mewl.
I turned my head and saw it: that same ginger kitten Aurora was crouched with the other night.
Still tiny. Still trembling. Still alone.
It pawed weakly at the pavement, nose twitching, fur dirty and sticking up like static.
It could probably fit in one of my hands.
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck.
No. Not my problem.
I took two steps.
Stopped.
Aurora would’ve fed it.
She would’ve crouched down, all soft and stupid, whispering something under her breath, giving it the warmth she refused to give herself. And it would’ve followed her home, just like everything else she touched.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned back, crouched down, and scooped the damn thing up.
It didn’t even fight me, just curled against my palm as if it had already given up trying.
“You’re coming with me, trouble,” I grumbled, pulling at my hoodie pocket and slipping it inside. It poked its head out, two wide amber eyes blinking up at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warned. “You’re not staying.”
It meowed.
Loudly.
I groaned. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”
And with a sigh that probably made me look insane, I walked the rest of the way to the corner store with a damn kitten tucked in my pocket like I stole it, a soft, breathing reminder of the girl who couldn’t stop saving things that didn’t deserve her.
The bell above the corner store door gave its usual shriek when I pushed it open. Warm air, the smell of old coffee and cheap detergent.
I went straight for the pet aisle, the kitten still tucked in my hoodie like a beating pocket-watch against my chest.
The shelves were a blur of bright bags and tins: chicken, tuna, salmon, ‘kitten blend,’ ‘indoor formula,’ ‘sensitive digestion.’
Christ. I didn’t even know cats had digestive types.
The kitten poked its head out, eyes glassy and curious.
“You know what any of this means?” I muttered.
It blinked. Yawned.
Useless.
I pulled out my phone, typing what can kittens eat into the search bar. The results were ridiculous. Whole paragraphs about weaning ages, portions, and temperatures. Some said milk, some said absolutely not milk. One forum claimed boiled chicken only. Another insisted on soft, canned food.
“Great.” I sighed. “Even the internet doesn’t know what you eat.”
I crouched in front of the shelf, scrolling with one hand, reading labels with the other.
Kitten, under twelve weeks. Rich in DHA for growth.
Sounded official enough.
I grabbed two tins and a tiny bag of dry food for good measure. Then stood there longer than I needed to, staring at the small thing sleeping in my clothes pocket.
Aurora would’ve known instantly. She’d have picked the right one, no hesitation. Probably read the ingredients and told me which nutrients helped its brain development or something.
Me? I was standing in a corner store, researching cat diets at nine in the morning like a man who’d lost his mind. But when I looked down at the small rise and fall in my hoodie, I realised it wasn’t about the cat.
It was about holding on to something she cared about. Something soft. Something alive.
“Alright, trouble,” I muttered, grabbing a small bottle of milk substitute just in case. “You’re eating better than I am today.”
The cashier gave me a weird look when I dumped the pile of kitten food, milk substitute, and a pack of wet wipes on the counter.
“New pet?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I muttered, pulling out my card.
The whole walk back, I could feel the little heartbeat against me. Tiny thing, probably barely a month old. Every few seconds, it shifted, poked its head out, blinked up at the world as if it couldn’t believe it was still in it.
By the time I stepped into the lobby, my hoodie was a mess of fur and dirt. I ignored the look the doorman gave me, probably wondering why Lockhart had a lump moving under his clothes.
The elevator ride felt longer than usual.
When the door opened, I grabbed my keycard from my pocket, right under this troublemaker. Once I tapped my card on the door, I went straight through the living room and up the stairs.
Food dumped on the counter, and the kitten, asleep.
“Alright, trouble,” I muttered under my breath, pushing open the bathroom door. “You’re a mess and making a mess.”
The tiles were cold under my feet as I twisted the tap, running the water until it was warm, not hot, not cold.
Steam started to rise, curling through the air, and I crouched beside the tub, lowering the kitten in my hands.
It blinked awake, letting out a tiny, offended mewl when its paws hit the water.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I whispered, running my thumb gently over its head. “Just hang in there.”
It was ridiculous. Joshua Lockhart, captain of the team, son of a billionaire, crouched over a bathtub, washing a half-dead street cat.
But watching the dirt swirl away, watching that ginger fur start to show its real colour…
I felt something in my chest loosen.
“See? Not so bad,” I murmured as it blinked up at me, tiny and shivering.
I grabbed a towel, wrapping it up, rubbing gently until it squeaked again.
There. Warm, clean, alive.
I carried the tiny thing downstairs, still wrapped in the towel like some fragile piece of glass. It peeked its head out now and then, blinking around my penthouse like it didn’t belong here, couldn’t believe all this polished space was real.
“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, setting it carefully on the kitchen counter. “Same.”
I grabbed a small plate, the kind I usually used for toast, and stood there for a second, staring at it like it was some kind of exam question I hadn’t studied for.
Phone in one hand, I typed again: How much food can a small kitten eat?
The screen flooded with numbers, tablespoons, grams, and ounces.
I frowned. “Grams? I don’t even own a scale.”
Trouble meowed from the counter, sitting up in its towel like a small burrito demanding service.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it,” I said, prying open the can with the back of a knife.
The smell hit instantly, fishy and weirdly sweet.
I gagged. “How do you eat this shit?”
The kitten meowed louder.
“Alright, fine.”
I spooned out what looked like a reasonable amount, half a spoon? Maybe a spoon and a half? Close enough.
Aurora would probably know the exact measurement. She’d probably have a chart for it. A schedule.
I had a towel and a half-open tin can.
I set the plate in front of it and stepped back, arms crossed. The kitten leaned forward, sniffed, then started eating as if it hadn’t seen food in days. Maybe it hadn’t.
“Slow down, you’ll choke,” I muttered, though the words came out softer than I meant.
It ignored me, of course. Just kept eating.
I leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck, watching it devour the food with a kind of desperate focus that made something ache in my chest.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
Somehow, without me realising when it happened, the damn thing decided I was its personal transport system.
It started small; after it ate, it wouldn’t stop following me around. Tiny paws padding across the floor, soft meows echoing through the penthouse like ghosts of something alive.
Then, when I sat down to scroll on my phone, it clawed at my leg until I picked it up.
And now?
Now, the kitten was perched in the hood of my hoodie, little head poking out like some orange satellite, purring right next to my ear while I walked around my own home like an idiot.
“You’re getting comfortable, huh?” I muttered, glancing at its reflection in the mirror as I passed the hallway.
The kitten blinked, tilted its head, and let out the tiniest mrrrp.
Great. I was talking to a cat.
A week ago, I couldn’t even handle a person looking at me too long, and now I was making conversation with a six-inch ball of fur sitting in my hood.
I moved to the window; the city stretching below. Cold light poured in, bouncing off the glass, hitting the kitten’s fur, so it glowed gold. It purred louder, vibrating against my neck.
I could feel it through the fabric, steady, rhythmic, alive.
I didn’t realise how loud silence had been here until it wasn’t. The penthouse didn’t echo as much with tiny claws on the counter, the little scurries under the couch, or the occasional paw batting at a pen I’d left out.
And I didn’t mind.
Not one bit.
“Alright, trouble,” I said under my breath, fingers brushing its tiny paw as it poked out of my hood. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”
It purred again, louder this time, as if it understood.
Like it approved.
—
It hit me one random Tuesday morning—Christmas Eve—when I was making coffee.
I turned around, took one look at my penthouse, and froze.
What. The. Fuck.
Three days. Three days since I found that tiny ginger menace, and my place didn’t even look like mine anymore.
There was a cat tree.
No. Two cat trees. One near the window, one by the TV, because apparently, I’d decided my living room needed options for climbing.
There were toys everywhere: little plush mice, a crinkly ball that wouldn’t stop making noise, and a damn feather wand lying on my couch like some kind of insult to my dignity.
The pantry?
Half of them were now filled with cat food in bulk. I’d even alphabetised the flavours last night without realising I was doing it.
And the worst part?
The kitten didn’t even sleep in the expensive cat bed I bought it.
No.
It slept in my bed. Curled right against my neck as if it owned the place.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, running a hand down my face.
Trouble—yeah, that’s what I started calling it—jumped onto the counter, tail flicking, looking up at me as if it knew.
Like it was proud.
“You ruined me,” I told it, pointing the spoon at its face.
It just tilted its head and meowed.
My reflection in the window caught my attention, me in sweats, hair messy, hoodie covered in orange fur, holding a mug in one hand and glaring at a six-inch animal that had somehow domesticated me.
And as much as I hated to admit it…
I liked it.
The place that used to feel like a mausoleum finally had life again.
Because of her.
Because of this kitten, she stopped to feed like she always does, feeding everything and everyone but herself.
I sighed and reached down to scratch its chin. “You’re lucky she’s a bleeding heart, huh?”
It purred, curling up right in front of the coffee maker. And I couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips.
“Guess I’m officially a cat dad now.”