My ex couldn’t be bothered to nurture a houseplant, let alone a pet. Something else always came first. Her career. Her image.Hercheating. But watching Cami mother Shadow and Stripe during her shifts over the past few days has stirred something unexpected: a glimpse into a life I never got the chance to build.
Chasing those thoughts away, I move around my living room, folding blankets, fluffing pillows, and tossing stray toys into a basket by the coffee table.
I pull a damp blanket from the crate and replace it with a clean one.
These messy kittens might have my house smelling like the Bronx Zoo, but at least it looks semi-presentable before my relief arrives.
And right on time, my co-parenting neighbor taps on the door at two o’clock sharp, ready to assume her shift.
She looks ten times more alive than I feel—bright-eyed, all smiles, hair up, and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.
Even sleep-deprived, I don’t miss the details as she saunters inside: a loose strand brushing her cheek, bare shoulders, that citrusy scent reaching me before she even speaks.
I might be too wrecked to muster a response, yet something low in my chest tightens anyway. God help me if this woman ever realizes what she does to me without even trying.
Handing her a warmed bottle, I try not to yawn too loudly, but Cami catches the tail end of it anyway.
“When was the last time you slept in an actual bed?” she asks, already crouching near the crate.
Both kittens perk up, their soft mews and tiny paws stretching toward her as though they’ve been waiting.
Maybe I’ve been waiting, too.
“Don’t know,” I manage through another yawn. “Pretty sure the couch and I are in a committed relationship now.”
Cami fires off a hand-on-hip, pointed look. One that makes denial pointless.
“Knox, I’m happy to stay tonight.” She gives me a once-over. “You needrealsleep. Eight. Full. Hours. Not thirty-minute naps between squeaks.” When I open my mouth to argue, she raises a hand before I get a word out. “Just one night. Seriously. I’ve got it handled.”
I should tell her to go home at ten o’clock like she has for the last two nights.
But the thought of waking up alone to kitten squeaks that’ll fade into a cold silence nudges at a truth I’d rather ignore.
Plus, the promise of real, uninterrupted sleep, in my own bed, feels dangerously tempting.
So yeah. She’ll stay. Overnight.
And maybe this is the riskiest damn thing I’ve done since going into Millie’s attic to investigate those phantom squeaks.
The quiet clatter of dishes and savory scents of garlic and onion yank me out of my sleep, reminding me I’m not alone.
Cami.
I scrub a hand over my face, then roll over and pluck my phone off the nightstand—6:47 p.m.
Shit. How did four hours fly by so fast?
Rubbing my eyes, I haul myself out of bed and into the en-suite bathroom.
Hot water jolts me back to life, the quick shower peeling off whatever fog four hours of sleep couldn’t fix.
By the time I towel off, that scent of garlic and onion is stronger, cutting through the steam-filled room like it’s staging an intervention.
I pull on a black silk-blend tee and gray sweatpants, hair still damp as I step into the hall.
Stairs creak underfoot, and with each step, I tell myself I’m heading down for the smell and those kittens. Not Cami.
As I step into the living room, there’s no sign of fostering chaos.
