I stood in the doorway of my flat, a small bundle of fur tucked carefully in my arms. William sat where he always did—sprawled across my couch like some sort of ruling monarch, a book in hand and an expression of calculated disinterest on his face. Predictable.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” I said, unable to hide the satisfaction in my voice. The thrill of disrupting his perfectly ordered world never failed to amuse me.

He barely glanced up. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

Of course he hadn’t. That wasn’t the point.

I crossed the room, holding the kitten a little closer. “Well, you’re getting one anyway. It’s a ginger. You’ve always seemed the sort to appreciate a creature with a bit of character.”

That earned me a raised eyebrow and a voice that dropped in temperature. “I don’t need a kitten, Sherlock. I’m perfectly capable of—”

He cut himself off the moment I placed the kitten beside him. Clever thing—immediately took to pawing at his sleeve with reckless affection, then curled against his arm like it belonged there. William looked away, lips tight, but I caught the way his shoulders eased. Subtle.

“You’ll get used to it,” I murmured, letting my grin linger. “In fact, I’d wager you’ll grow quite fond of it.”

He didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, he picked up the kitten as though it were something fragile, precious. His fingers moved over its back with a kind of hesitant reverence he likely didn’t realize he was showing. The mask was still in place when he spoke, though.

“I don’t need this.”

I leaned against the armchair opposite him, watching him like I always did—quietly, curiously, always calculating. “But you’ll take care of it,” I said softly. “Won’t you?”