As most of their adventures did, it started with a call. John Price was halfway through cleaning his rifle when his phone buzzed. Her contact photo—all sunny smile and windblown hair—lit up the screen. “Hey, love,” he answered.

“Hi, darling,” she greeted. “So, I may need you to come get me.”

He sat up straighter. “Where are you? You alright?”

“I’m fine! Just a flat tire,” she assured. “I pulled over on that road off the A27. I might need a hand changing it.”

“Might?” he repeated, already grabbing his keys.

“Well. That’s not the only reason I called.”

He heard the faintest mewling through the phone. “Wait a second—what was that?”

There was a pause. “Don’t be mad. Just come and see,” she said and hung up before he could ask more.

Once he arrived, the sun was setting low behind the highway. Her car was parked on the shoulder, and there she stood, three tiny kittens bundled in her arms like a treasure trove.

“Aye, Christ,” he muttered as he got out, hands on his hips. “What did you do?”

“I found them!” she said brightly, walking over like she hadn’t just hijacked his evening with soft paws and whiskers, “In the ditch, all by themselves. Look at them, John. Look at their little faces.” One calico with a splash of orange across her nose. One black-and-white tuxedo, bold and already squirming to explore. One fuzzy brown tabby who blinked up at him like he’d hung the stars. “They’re half-starved,” she added, softening her voice. “I couldn’t just leave them.”

Price sighed and rubbed his face. “You don’t even have a carrier.”

“I have my hoodie,” she said proudly, tugging the drawstrings tighter to make a makeshift pouch.

“You’ve got a flat tire and three kittens,” he said, walking to inspect the car, shaking his head with a reluctant smile.

“You love me,” she sing-songed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I bloody do.”

And just like that, they drove home — one car towed, three kittens richer, and Price wondering how the hell he’d gone from covert ops to kitten formula in under twenty minutes.