21. Sebastian
Sebastian
“Cat!” I cup my hands around my mouth, raising my voice against the morning drizzle. “Kitty, kitty! Cat!”
The wet pavement reflects the gray sky, puddles from last night’s storm still pooling in the uneven spots of Pine Island’s streets. I pause at the intersection of Harbor and Third, straining to hear anything beyond the distant foghorn and the splash of tires through water on the next block over.
Nothing. Just like the last three hours of searching. The kitten is nowhere to be found.
My chest tightens with each passing minute.
After spending most of the night scouring the neighborhood with Flick, I’d finally convinced her to get some rest around midnight.
The rain had been coming down in sheets, turning visibility to near zero.
Her hands had been shaking—from cold or exhaustion or both—and the way she kept blaming herself had carved something hollow in my gut.
“Cats know how to survive,” I’d told her, guiding her back inside, my arm around her trembling shoulders. “She’ll find somewhere safe to wait out the storm.”
The devastation on Flick’s face had nearly undone me. She’d kept repeating how it was her fault—the open window, the missing screen she’d meant to fix. Nothing I said seemed to penetrate her guilt until I promised to call out of work and search for her.
Now, trudging through the aftermath of the storm, I hope to God I was right about cats and their survival instincts. Cat might have her moments of attitude, but she’s still tiny. Still vulnerable.
Water seeps through the worn spot in my left boot as I navigate around a particularly deep puddle. “Cat?”
“Mew.”
The sound is so faint I almost miss it. My heart stutters to a stop, then kicks into overdrive. I spin in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source. “Cat?”
Another soft mew, barely audible over the drip of water from the eaves.
There—beneath the blue metal post office collection box on the corner. A small, bedraggled shape huddles against the concrete base. Wet fur plastered to her tiny frame, Cat blinks up at me with enormous eyes that seem to take up half her face.
Relief crashes through me like a physical force.
“Hey there, little troublemaker.” I crouch slowly, extending my hand toward her. She watches me with that particular feline wariness, as if calculating whether I’m trustworthy or if she should make a run for it.
“Come on, sweetheart. Your mom’s worried sick.”
Cat’s whiskers twitch. She glances left, then right, surveying the empty street like a tiny general planning her next move. Finally, apparently deciding the coast is clear, she creeps out from her makeshift shelter.
I scoop her up before she can change her mind, tucking her inside my windbreaker where it’s warm and dry. She’s soaked through, shivering against my chest.
“Never do that again,” I murmur, rubbing her damp head through the jacket. “You scared us half to death.”
Pulling out my phone one-handed, I manage to snap a photo of Cat’s face poking out of my jacket—ears flattened, expression thoroughly unimpressed with her adventure. I send it to Flick with a simple message:
Found her. She’s safe.
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. Is she okay??? Are YOU okay???
All good. Heading back to your place now to get her dry and fed.
The walk back to Flick’s condo feels shorter somehow, my steps lighter despite the soggy boots.
Cat burrows deeper into my jacket, her tiny purr vibrating against my ribs.
The morning's disasters waiting at the clinic—the surgery schedule I’m supposed to oversee, the staff meeting about the new intake protocols—fade into background static.
None of it matters. Not compared to the warm weight of this kitten or the joy that will bloom across Flick’s face when she can hold her again.
Back at the condo, I towel Cat dry while she complains about the indignity of it all.
Her meows are half-hearted protests though—she’s too exhausted to put up much fight.
Once she’s reasonably fluffy again, I set out fresh food and water, then do a thorough check of every window in the place. No more great escapes for Cat.
The kitten munches on her breakfast like she hasn’t eaten in days rather than hours, then promptly passes out on her favorite spot on the couch—right on top of Flick’s current knitting project.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tell her sleeping form.
Checking the time, I realize it’s barely past eleven. Flick won’t be home from her shift at Knit Happens until after six. Which gives me time to actually use this unexpected day off.
The grocery store is my first stop. Flick’s refrigerator isn’t empty, but it won’t hurt to stock up on a few things. Plus, I want to make enchiladas for dinner.
By the time I return to the condo, arms full of grocery bags, Cat has relocated to the sunny spot by the sliding glass door. She cracks one eye open to ensure I’m not a threat to her nap, then promptly ignores me.
The familiar rhythm of cooking soothes something in me I didn’t realize needed soothing.
Dicing onions, browning meat, layering tortillas and cheese and sauce.
My hands remember the motions even after years of neglect.
There’s something deeply satisfying about creating something meant to nourish someone else.
The condo fills with the scent of cumin and chili powder. I find myself humming—actually humming—as I clean up the kitchen. When did I become this person? This guy who takes days off work to search for cats and make elaborate dinners?
The answer comes immediately: when Flick walked into my clinic with a kitten and called me Dr. Hot.
The enchiladas are ten minutes from done when I hear Flick’s key in the lock. Cat’s ears perk up, but she doesn’t move from her spot. Too much effort, apparently.
The door opens and Flick freezes, her gaze locked on the couch where Cat sprawls in feline majesty. For a heartbeat, Flick’s face cycles through several different emotions—relief, joy, something that might be tears threatening.
But then she’s crossing the room in quick strides. Not toward Cat, though. Straight to me.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her palms coming to rest against my chest. Through my shirt, I can feel the slight tremor in her hands.
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, catching a tear that’s escaped. “Of course.”
“Where was she?” Her voice is still hushed, like speaking too loudly might make Cat disappear again.
“Under the post office box on Harbor Street. Wet and grumpy but otherwise fine.”
She glances over her shoulder at the oblivious kitten. “Little stinker scared me to death.” Turning back to me, she bites her lower lip. “I’ve been thinking... I’d like to change her name.”
“Really?” Though I can’t hide my smile. We both know where this is going.
“Cat isn’t fair. It’s not dignified enough for her.”
“It’s kind of stuck at this point, though.”
“I know.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief now, the worry finally fading. “So I was thinking Catherine. Cat for short. But if anyone asks, her full name is Catherine.”
“Catherine it is.” The timer beeps from the kitchen. “Hungry? I made enchiladas.”
Her jaw drops. “Are you serious?” She sets her bag on the chair, shaking her head in wonder. “You’re amazing. When did you even have time?”
“Well, turns out when you’re not at work, you have all kinds of time for things like cooking.” I head for the oven, her arm sliding around my waist as we walk. “It’s been nice, actually. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.”
“Sebastian.” She stops me before I can grab the oven mitts, turning me to face her. “I mean it. Thank you. For Cat, for dinner, for... everything.”
The intensity in her gaze makes my chest tight. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“I like having you here.” Her fingers fidget with the hem of my shirt. “In my place, in my life. Actually, I was wondering...” She trails off, suddenly fascinated by a spot on my shoulder.
“What?”
“I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Would you—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. You’ll be at work. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Flick.” I tip her chin up gently, waiting until she meets my eyes. “Are you asking me to come with you?”
The hope that blooms across her face is answer enough, but she nods anyway.
“Then I’m there. What time?”
“But your patients?—”
“Will be expertly handled by my staff. They’ll let me know if there’s an emergency.
” The truth is, I’ll have to shuffle an entire day’s worth of appointments but I know that Flick asking me to go with her is a big step, and skipping out on my responsibilities is a small price to pay. “This is important. You’re important.”
Her smile could power the entire island. “Thank you. Again. I know I keep saying it, but this is all new for me.”
“The appreciating thing?”
“The letting someone in thing.” She stretches up on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my jaw. “The trusting someone enough to ask them to come to scary appointments thing.”
The words “I love you” crowd against my teeth, desperate to escape. But I swallow them down. Not yet. Not when she’s just learning to let me in. I can be patient. I can wait.
Because this—Flick in my arms, Cat safe on the couch, enchiladas in the oven, a life that suddenly extends beyond the clinic walls—this is worth waiting for.
“Anytime,” I whisper against her hair. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And for the first time in years, I actually mean it.