Page 5 of Catastrophically Yours
Back in her kitchen, she stared at the laptop screen where quarterly projections waited with mathematical certainty. But her attention kept drifting to sounds from the guest room—Drew's soft voice talking to Pickle, gentle thuds of belongings being arranged, the subtle shift in atmosphere from solitary precision to inhabited warmth.
Her color-coded calendar hung slightly crooked on the wall, knocked askew by Sadie's enthusiastic entrance. Normally Piper would have straightened it immediately, but something held her back. Maybe it was the memory of Drew's relief, or the way Pickle's purr had vibrated through her fingers, or simply the realization that her carefully controlled life had just become significantly more complicated.
One week, she reminded herself. Seven days of disrupted routine in exchange for helping someone through crisis. She could manage one week of chaos without losing everything she'd built.
The guest room had gone quiet, and Piper found herself listening for signs of her unexpected houseguests. When Pickle's purr resumed—audible even through walls—she discovered the sound didn't annoy her quite as much as expected.
Maybe one week wouldn't be completely unbearable.
THREE
MORNING ROUTINES
Drew woke to purring—not the usual buzz of her phone alarm, but a deep rumble that should have been vibrating against her chest. Instead, it drifted from somewhere down the hall, muffled by walls and distance.
She bolted upright in the unfamiliar guest bed, her heart hammering as she patted the empty space beside her. The cream-colored duvet held no trace of orange fur, no warm indent where fifteen pounds of emotional support cat should have been sleeping.
"Pickle?" Her voice came out scratchy and small in the pristine room with its neutral walls and carefully arranged furniture. Everything smelled like lavender cleaning spray instead of the familiar scent of her own apartment—her former apartment. The reality of displacement hit fresh and sharp, followed immediately by concern.
Had Pickle gotten out? Piper's building had strict no-pet policies, and if he'd somehow escaped into the hallway or worse, outside?—
The purring grew louder as Drew padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, her oversized Sleep-In t-shirt hanging loose around her thighs. She followed the sound like a lifeline, pastthe immaculate living room with its precisely arranged throw pillows, toward the partially open door at the end of the hall.
What she found made her stop dead in the doorway.
Pickle sprawled across Piper's bed like he owned it, his massive orange bulk spread across what had obviously been a perfectly made duvet five minutes earlier. His green eyes were half-closed in bliss as his paws kneaded rhythmically against the expensive-looking fabric, claws catching slightly on the thread count that probably cost more than Drew's last three grocery bills combined.
At the small desk positioned near the window, Piper sat with her back straight and shoulders squared, strawberry blonde hair already styled into its precise bob despite the early hour. She wore a crisp white button-down and pressed black slacks, and she was sorting through a stack of files with color-coded tabs while Pickle supervised from his claimed territory.
"Oh." The word escaped Drew before she could stop it. "I'm sorry, he's never done this before. He must have pushed your door open somehow."
"He's fine." Piper didn't look up from her files, but her voice held none of the irritation Drew had braced for. "I was already awake."
Drew hovered in the doorway, uncertain whether to enter or retreat. The scene felt impossibly domestic—too intimate for two virtual strangers sharing space out of necessity. Piper's bedroom reflected the same minimalist aesthetic as the rest of the apartment, all clean lines and muted colors, but Pickle's presence transformed it into something warmer. More lived-in.
"It's seven-fifteen," Piper continued, finally glancing up to meet Drew's eyes. Her wire-rimmed glasses caught the morning light filtering through the gauze curtains. "Coffee finishes brewing in three minutes. I watch the news at seven-thirty and respond to work emails at eight."
The military precision of it should have been off-putting, but her tone suggested this wasn't criticism—just information. A roadmap to navigating the morning without collision.
"Right. Okay." Drew shifted her weight from foot to foot, very aware of her bare legs and messy hair. "I should probably get him?—"
Pickle chose that moment to lift his head and fix Drew with a look of supreme contentment before deliberately settling back into his cozy spot and resuming his purring. The dismissal was pointed but not personal—more like a cat announcing he'd found the optimal sleeping arrangement and intended to keep it.
"Apparently he's found the warmest bed in the apartment," Drew said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.
The corner of Piper's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile.
Twenty minutes later, after Drew had managed to make herself somewhat presentable in yesterday's clothes, she found Piper in the kitchen with Pickle winding around her ankles like he'd been doing it for years. The cat's motor-purr filled the small space as Piper moved between counter and refrigerator with efficient grace, seemingly unbothered by fifteen pounds of orange fur threatening to trip her with every step.
"Pickle." Drew's voice carried a note of gentle warning. "Come here, buddy."
Pickle acknowledged her with one ear flick but continued his figure-eight pattern around Piper's legs, occasionally rubbing his cheek against her pressed slacks in a way that definitely left orange fur evidence. He seemed fascinated by her precise movements, the way she measured coffee grounds and arranged items with mathematical precision.
Drew tried again, this time crouching down and reaching into the small bag of supplies she'd managed to grab duringher hasty evacuation. She shook his favorite treat bag—the expensive ones that usually sent him into a frenzy of excitement.
Pickle glanced at her, then back at Piper's fascinating morning routine, clearly torn between treats and his new hobby of observing someone who moved with such purposeful efficiency.
"Here, Pickle. Come on." Drew produced his catnip mouse, the raggedy gray thing that had been his comfort object since kittenhood. She squeaked it hopefully.
