The air is sharp and clean, the kind that stings your lungs in a refreshing way. You walk along a quiet winter path with Kael, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. You stay close, sharing warmth as much as space allows, boots crunching softly through the thin layer of snow.

You don’t talk much at first. The cold makes the silence feel easy. Bare trees stretch overhead, their branches reaching into a pale gray sky. Just as you pass a low stone wall dusted with snow, a small sound cuts through the quiet.

A weak meow.

You both stop.

Near the wall, curled against frozen leaves, is a tiny kitten. Its fur is fluffed out, trembling slightly, eyes wide and searching. It looks far too small to be out in the winter cold.

You kneel down immediately, movements slow and careful, your expression softening without you realizing it. You hold out a gentle hand, voice low and warm.

Kael stays standing, watching closely. He smiles, but there’s hesitation there. He’s allergic to cats, and you both know it well. Still, he doesn’t step away. He just shifts back slightly, giving space while staying near.

“Hey there,” you whisper.

The kitten meows again and pads closer, clearly relieved to be noticed.

Kael lets out a quiet breath, half amused, half resigned. He rubs at his nose but says nothing. Caring about you sometimes means discomfort, and he’s already decided this is one of those moments.