Chapter 4: Ally - Purrfect Valentine

Corbin stomped into the clinic behind me like a child who didn’t get his way. The bell above the door chimed, and I bit back a grin. Most stubborn animals performed exactly as asked when food was involved. Dogs would backflip off buildings for bacon. Cats would balance on balls for tuna. And apparently, grumpy grown-ass men would follow veterinarians into clinics for pad thai.

“Like I said, this is kidnapping,” he muttered, hovering just inside the doorway.

I rolled my eyes and flicked on the lights. “Relax, Superman. You’re not being held against your will. The door’s right there if you change your mind. And hey, more fried rice for me.”

The clinic smelled of disinfectant and the faint honey air freshener I’d plugged in last week. Everything was quiet. The exam rooms were dark. The kennels in the back were silent except for the soft hum of heating pads.

“Come on.” I led him down the hall toward my office, our footsteps echoing on the linoleum. “We can eat in here.”

He followed, though I could practically feel his reluctance radiating off him in waves. My office wasn’t much—a desk drowning in paperwork, two mismatched chairs I’d rescued from a garage sale, and a wall of framed photos featuring every animal I’d ever failed to find homes for and ended up keeping myself. Five cats, six dogs, and a one-eyed rabbit named Nutter Butter. There was also a picture of Jamie and I at Six Flags when we were fourteen (me) and eleven (him).

I set the takeout bags on my desk and gestured to the chair across from it. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sat like the chair might bite him. I didn’t bother to tell him that there used to be a rat that might’ve bitten him that lived in that very chair until I got it reupholstered.

“I need to grab something,” I said, already backing toward the door. “You can start without me if you want.”

“Where are you⁠—”

“Two minutes.”

I left before he could protest, though I heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “This is insane” as I headed for the recovery room.

The kitten was exactly where I’d left her—curled in the smallest heated kennel. Her stomach was saggy, but no longer distended since I’d drained the fluid from it yesterday. It’d been twenty-four hours of hell for the sweet baby. Twenty-four hours since she’d last seen Corbin. The fluid drain alone had been traumatic enough, and she’d fought me the entire time despite her weakness.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I whispered, unlatching the kennel.

Her head snapped up. Those enormous eyes—clearer now after treatment but still weeping—locked onto mine. She tensed and gave a little pathetic hiss.

“It’s okay. I have a surprise for you.”

I scooped her up gently, and she went rigid in my hands. But she didn’t cry. Not yet. Progress, maybe, or just exhaustion. Hard to tell with sick kittens.

The walk back to my office felt longer than it should have. She trembled against my chest, a barely-there weight that broke my heart a little more with each step.

I pushed open my office door⁠—

The kitten exploded.

One second she was a limp bundle of fur. The next, she was all claws and desperation, scaling my jacket with a sound that wasn’t quite a meow and wasn’t quite a scream.

“Ow—shit⁠—”

Her claws caught my neck, my jaw, drawing blood as she launched herself off me like I was a diving board. She hit Corbin’s chest with enough force that he grunted, his hands coming up automatically to catch her.

She scrambled up him—coat, shirt, tie—until she pressed against the hollow of his throat, shaking so hard I could see it from across the room. Her purr kicked in immediately, loud and desperate, like she was trying to vibrate herself into his skin.

Corbin sat frozen, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides.

“I—what⁠—”

“Told you she bonded with you,” I said, pressing my fingers to the scratch on my neck. They came away stained pink. Great.

The kitten rubbed her face against his jaw, over and over, marking him with the scent glands in her cheeks. Mine, the gesture said. Mine, mine, mine.

“She’s, uh...” He swallowed. “She’s purring really loud.”

“That’s what happens when you’re someone’s favorite person.”

“I’m not—” He stopped. Started again. “We spent maybe two hours together. Maximum.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.” I grabbed a paper towel and pressed it to my neck. “Animals don’t have the same hang-ups about attachment that people do. They know what they know.”

“And what does she know?”

“That you’re safe. I guess she didn’t get the part where you’re also a grumpy ass.” In any other situation, I never—god, shit—I’d never call a potential client an ass. But I couldn’t stop the dig before it was out of my mouth.

He just glared at me.

I tossed the paper towel in the trash and leaned against my desk, studying the two of them. The Clark Kent wannabe in the too-nice coat, the tiny kitten clinging to him like a life raft. “That’s rare, by the way. She spent the last twenty-four hours hissing at everyone who came near her. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Bit Denise—that’s one of my techs—hard enough to draw blood. And now look at her.”

He looked. The kitten had gone boneless against his chest, eyes closed, purr rumbling better than the engine in Corbin’s Mustang. Her paws kneaded the fabric of his shirt in slow, rhythmic movements.

“She’s making biscuits,” I said.

“What?”

“Kneading. Cats do it when they’re happy. It’s a comfort thing from nursing.”

“Oh.” His free hand drifted up—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed—and settled on her back. She purred louder. “So. You said you needed to talk to me about something.”

Right. The hard part.

I grabbed my own food container and sat in the chair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me. “Eat first. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hands are shaking. Eat.”

He scooped up some noodles and took a bite while obviously trying not to disturb the loaf of fluff on his chest. His eyes closed briefly—the universal expression of a starving person encountering actual food.

I took a bite of my dumplings and let the silence stretch while he ate. In the few minutes it took to start eating, the kitten had fallen asleep. Genuinely asleep, not the tense half-rest she’d been doing in the recovery kennel. Her breathing had evened out; her body completely relaxed. Every few seconds, her paws would twitch, chasing dream mice.

Corbin ate without making eye contact with me, but I caught him glancing down at the kitten every few bites. His thumb kept moving on her back, stroking the fur in absent patterns. I didn’t think he noticed he was doing it.

When he’d made it through half the container, I set down my chopsticks.

“Okay. Here’s the deal.”

He tensed. The kitten didn’t.

“She has FIP. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. It’s a viral disease—basically HIV or AIDS, but for cats. Her immune system is attacking her own body.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It’s usually fatal. The wet form—which is what she has, hence the fluid buildup that made her stomach so big—kills most cats within weeks. Sometimes days.”

His hand stilled on the kitten’s back. “Weeks.”

“Without treatment,” I added quickly. “There’s a drug called GS-441. Antiviral. Eighty to ninety percent survival rates in trials so far.”

“So you treat her.”

“It’s not that simple.” I pulled one knee up to my chest. “The treatment is expensive. Really expensive. And it’s long—eighty-four days of daily injections.”

“Daily.”

“Every single day. And here’s the fun part.” I grimaced. “The injections hurt. Like, really hurt. The medication burns going in. She’s going to scream. She’s going to hate it. She’s going to hate whoever gives it to her.”

He looked down at the sleeping kitten.

“There’s no guarantee it’ll work,” I continued. “Some cats don’t respond. Some relapse. And even if everything goes perfectly, you’re looking at thousands of dollars and three months of watching her suffer through something that might not save her.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” I let out a breath. “Here’s where it gets complicated. As her finder, you have first rights. Legally and ethically. The decision falls to you.”

His head snapped up. “What? No. I handed her to you. I told you I was⁠—”

“Allergic, I know.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’s that working out for you?”

He looked at the kitten plastered to his chest, then at his hands—which had been petting her for ten minutes without a single sneeze.

“My mother told me I was allergic,” he said finally.

“Maybe she was wrong.” I kept my voice neutral. “Regardless, you’re her finder. Which means you have two options.”

I held up one finger. “Option A: We start treatment. I’ll handle the injections here. It’s expensive, it’s painful, and it might not work. But we try.”

Second finger. “Option B: Euthanasia. Painless, quick. She goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up. No more suffering.”

The kitten shifted in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into Corbin’s neck.

“You’re asking me to decide whether to spend money I don’t have on a cat I didn’t want, or—” His voice cracked. “Or kill her.”

“I’m giving you the facts and letting you make an informed choice. Both options are valid. Both have consequences.”

Silence. The clock on my wall ticked. The kitten purred.

“If I choose treatment,” he said, “what are her chances? Really.”

“Good. Not guaranteed, but good. She’s young, and thanks to you bringing her here, we caught it early. She’s clearly got the will to live.” I nodded at the way she was clinging to him. “That matters.”

He was quiet for a long moment. His hand had started moving again on her back.

“And if I choose...”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

I stood. “I can do it now, if that’s what you want. It’ll take me five minutes to grab the supplies. It’s not even a fraction of the cost. You can finish eating. She’ll fall asleep in your arms and not wake up.”

I moved towards the door. Slowly.

My heart pounded so hard I was surprised he couldn’t hear it. I’d done this before—given people impossible choices and watched them make what they thought was the right one when I knew it was wrong. They’d make the “practical” one. The one that let them walk away without looking back.

I didn’t want this man to be one of those people.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He was a stranger. A grumpy, difficult, emotionally constipated stranger. But he’d carried her through miles of freezing mountain road. He’d tucked her inside his coat to keep her warm. He’d called her “stupid creature” while feeding her his own body heat. And he thought he was allergic.

He’d already proved he was a superhero to her.

I just wanted him to prove it to me, too.

People were like animals sometimes. The ones who’d been hurt the worst often had the hardest shells. But underneath—if you were patient—there was usually something worth saving.

I wanted Corbin to prove me right.

My hand was on the doorframe when fingers closed around my wrist.

I turned. Corbin had half-risen from the chair, the kitten still clutched against his chest with one arm, his other hand wrapped around my wrist like I might disappear if he let go. His grip was warm. Firm. I could feel his pulse hammering against my skin.

“Wait,” he said.

The kitten stirred, making a small sound of protest, and his hand immediately gentled on her back. But he didn’t let go of me.

“I don’t have a lot of money right now. I—I got laid off. And my car broke down, and—and everything is shit right now, but—” He swallowed. “Can you do a payment plan?”

Something cracked open in my chest.

“Yeah,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I’d meant. “Yeah, I can do a payment plan.”

“Then do the treatment. The injections. Whatever.”

His grip loosened on my wrist, but he didn’t quite let go. Like he needed the contact. Maybe I did too.

“You’re sure?”

“No.” A hollow laugh. “But I’m not going to let her die because it’s easier.”

He let go of my wrist, and I rubbed it without thinking.

For a long moment, I didn’t say anything. I looked at him. This prickly, defensive, closed-off man who’d walked miles up a mountain road to save a kitten he didn’t want and was now signing up for eighty-four days of heartbreak on the off chance it might work. God, he probably wouldn’t even stay to see if she got better or not.

But he still chose right in my eyes.

“There it is,” I said, and I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “I knew there was a heart in there somewhere.”

“Shut up.”

“A big, squishy marshmallow heart⁠—”

“I will throw this cat at you.”

“No, you won’t. You like her too much.”

“I don’t like her. She’s—” He gestured at the sleeping kitten. “She followed me. It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Sure, Superman.” I grabbed my dumplings and took a triumphant bite. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He glared at me. But his hand was still moving on the kitten’s back, and his shoulders had dropped three inches from where they’d been hovering near his ears.

“So what happens now?”

“Finish your food. I’ll put a rush order on the injections and they should be here sometime tomorrow. I’ll handle the hard part, and probably the aftermath.”

“The aftermath?”

“She’s going to be miserable after each shot. Sore, scared, probably pissed.” I met his gaze.

He looked down at the kitten. She’d shifted in her sleep, one paw stretched out against his collarbone like she was making sure he was still there.

“Eighty-four days of that,” he said.

“Give or take.”

“And then?”

“I guess we’ll see.” I leaned forward. “I can’t promise she’ll make it. All I can promise is that we take it one day at a time and give her the best shot we can.”

He nodded slowly. The kitten purred on, oblivious.

“One day at a time,” he repeated.

“Starting tomorrow.” I stood and stretched. “For now? Eat your food, hold your cat, and try not to spiral too hard about everything you can’t control.”

“She’s not my cat.”

“Sure she isn’t.”