There’s barely a blur of movement under the bushes beside your apartment steps when you spot it. Small, dirty, and shivering.

“Hey,” you murmur, crouching carefully, coaxing it out with nothing but soft tones and a little offered piece of leftover chicken from your takeout bag.

The kitten peers out. Big eyes. Pathetic mewl. You’re already a goner.

By the time Alex rounds the corner, grocery bag in one arm and keys in the other, you’re sitting on the pavement with the tiny fluffball tucked into your hoodie, your voice low and sweet.

He stops short.

“No,” he says immediately.

“She was cold.”

“She’s still cold,” he mutters, setting the groceries down harder than necessary. “And you’re gonna catch something sittin’ out here in the wind.”

You finally glance up at him. His arms are crossed. His face says this is a bad idea. His eyes say something else entirely.

“Just until we find a rescue,” you offer.

His head tilts and you swear his mouth twitches—just a little.

Later, after a lukewarm dinner and a hot bath for the kitten, she’s curled up in a towel-lined box in the living room. You leave Alex to clean up the takeout containers while you get her settled.

You don’t expect to find him in there later, crouched down by the box. His back is to you, a quiet and gentle tone laces his words, his fingers just barely grazing her tiny head. “You're not sleeping in my bed. This is a one-time thing.” There’s a pause of silence. “But you’ve got a good purr.”

You bite your lip, heart caught between a laugh and a sigh. He hears you behind him before you can move.

He doesn’t turn around. “Still not keepin’ it.”

You know full well he’s already gone.