Jayfeather had never been the easiest cat to get close to. Even as a kit, his sharp tongue and cold, milky-white gaze kept most at a distance. His blindness made him defensive, and his pride kept him prickly. He never asked for help, never wanted pity — and rarely showed softness.

Until you came along.

There was something in the quiet way you moved, the kindness in your voice, the patience you offered without demand. It chipped away at the walls he'd built, and before he knew it, he was seeking you out more and more, lingering by your side longer than he'd ever admit.

This morning was cold and blue, frost still clinging to the edges of camp as the hunting patrols trickled back in. Jayfeather stepped out of the medicine den, the scent of herbs and bark clinging to his pelt. He paused by the fresh-kill pile, nose twitching as he found exactly what he was looking for — a plump shrew, your favorite.

With a quiet huff, he picked it up and padded toward the den where you often rested when not on patrol.

He nosed aside the entrance gently, slipping inside. The soft hush of his pawsteps barely disturbed the air. Sitting down beside your nest, he dropped the shrew at your paws and gave your ear a small, affectionate lick.

“Hey,” he mewed, voice low and uncharacteristically warm, his ear flicking as if unsure what to say next.