Just walks in. Like she’s been waiting for someone to open the damn door for months and now somebody finally did and she has somewhere to be.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Inside, Dina settles on the kitchen mat in front of the sink. Lays down. Tucks her paws under. Closes her eyes.
Like she lives here.
Like she has always lived here.
I look at Jax.
I can’t speak. My hands are over my mouth and my eyes are burning and there is a feeling in my chest I don’t know how to name — not yet, maybe not ever — something that feels like months of almost and finally and safe.
She didn’t need coaxing. She didn’t need a bowl moved closer or a voice she recognized or a slow careful approach. She just needed the door open.
She just needed someone to open the door and stand aside.
He walks over. Sets everything down. Pulls me into his chest without saying a word.
I don’t make a sound.
Neither does he.
We stand there for a long time.
Brick goes on the counter beside the Cup when Jax brings him in.
He looks at Dina on the mat. She looks at him. Neither of them says anything to each other.
Then he settles next to the Cup like he’s always belonged there. Tail wrapped around his feet. Fur catching the kitchen light. Looking like a cat who’s assessed the situation and accepted it.
I look around the room.
Dina is on the mat in front of the sink like she has always lived here.
The plant on the windowsill is still alive despite me overwatering it for two months.
My camera bag is by the door where it always lands.
Jax’s arm is around me, warm and certain.
And both cats are in my kitchen at 3:30 AM like the universe finally stopped arguing with itself and put everything where it belongs.
I don’t try to make sense of it.
I just stand there in my kitchen at 3:30 in the morning with both cats, the Cup, and the man who took six flights of stairs in his socks to say five words, and I let it all be exactly what it is.
She waited eight months to come inside.
Hell. So did I.
“Bed,” he says eventually.
I go.
Chapter thirty-seven
Jax
