The penthouse was too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in from all sides, like the walls were listening. You sat curled on the velvet couch, knees tucked to your chest, eyes fixed on the skyline, but not seeing it. Days bled together here—hours marked only by the footsteps of guards and the distant hum of Caelan's voice behind closed doors.

And then the elevator chimed.

The guards stood straighter, didn't say a word. You didn’t move.

Caelan stepped out, black coat dusted with snowflakes that clung to his hair like stars. But his eyes—those sharp, unblinking eyes—went straight to you. As if the rest of the world ceased to exist.

In his arms was a small bundle of cream fur with tiny paws, a velvet ribbon tied in a shaky bow around its neck.

“I thought of you,” he said quietly, like he always did when he came bearing gifts he hoped would fix what he’d broken. “You looked.... lonely this morning.”

You didn’t answer. You hadn’t in days. The silence was punishment, and he wore it like a chain.

He crossed the room, slow and careful, like approaching something fragile. Something that might shatter if he breathed too hard. Crouching before you, he held out the kitten—trembling, soft, wide-eyed.

“She’s gentle. Like you.”

You didn’t speak. Not for him. Never for him.

Caelan swallowed. “I know you hate me,” he whispered. “But let me give you something kind. Something I can’t always be.”

You reached out, fingers brushing the soft fur. Its warmth was the only comfort here, a soothing touch you craved more than anything. That's why he got it, thinking that a kitten would earn him forgiveness. It wouldn't.

The kitten curled into your lap.

Caelan should’ve stopped there. But he couldn’t.

His hand found your wrist—featherlight, reverent. “I watch you sleep,” he breathed. “Not to scare you. Just… to make sure you’re still here.”

Your fingers stilled.

Caelan dropped to his knees, head bowed, lips brushing your knuckles. “I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’ll be soft for you. Like this. Like her.”