Page 67 of The Knotheads Next Door
"I don't know," she says, her voice strained. "He started making this weird coughing sound, and I—I know it's late, but I was worried, and I didn't know what to do."
She looks fragile in a way I've never seen before, her usual defenses lowered by concern for the tiny creature in her arms. My chest tightens at the sight.
"Come in," I say, leading her to the examination room. "Let's take a look at the little guy."
Under the bright lights, Gerald looks alert and curious, his orange fur fluffy and clean, his eyes clear. No obvious signs of distress.
"When did the coughing start?" I ask, slipping into professional mode as I gently take Gerald from her arms.
"About an hour ago," she says, wringing her hands. "He did it three times, then seemed fine, but then it happened again while I was feeding him."
I check Gerald's vitals—heart rate, respiration, temperature—all normal. I palpate his tiny chest and listen with my stethoscope, hearing nothing concerning. As I examine him, he purrs contentedly, batting at my stethoscope with tiny paws.
"Has he been eating normally? Playing? Using the litter box?"
She nods. "Yes to all of that. If anything, he's more energetic than usual."
I continue my examination, thorough despite my growing suspicion that Gerald is perfectly fine. Rowan watches intently, her usual composure replaced by naked concern. It's endearing, seeing this side of her—the fierce protectiveness, the unguarded emotion.
"Theo?" she prompts when I've been quiet too long. "Is he okay?"
I smile, setting Gerald down on the examination table where he immediately begins exploring. "He's absolutely fine. What you heard was probably a hairball trying to come up.
Completely normal, especially as he's grooming himself more now."
The relief that washes over her face is palpable. "You're sure?"
"Positive. His lungs are clear, heart sounds good, and look at him—does he look sick to you?"
We both watch as Gerald pounces on a cotton ball, wrestling it with adorable ferocity.
Rowan laughs, though it sounds a bit watery. "I feel ridiculous now. Running in here after hours for a hairball."
"Hey," I say gently, "never apologize for caring. That's why I'm here."
She looks up at me, her expression softening. "You're always so... kind. Even when I'm being neurotic."
"Not neurotic," I correct. "Concerned. There's a difference."
She sighs, reaching out to stroke Gerald's fur. "He just... he matters to me, you know? More than I expected. More than makes sense, really, for a stray I've only had a few weeks."
"It makes perfect sense," I assure her. "Connection doesn't always follow a logical timeline."
"He's the first thing that's felt like...mine," she admits quietly. "In a long time. Maybe ever."
The simple vulnerability in her words hits me harder than I expect. Without thinking, I reach out, gently running my hand down her back in a comforting gesture. It's instinctive, but definitely not the kind of touch I'd offer any distressed pet owner.
Except Rowan isn't just any pet owner. She's the woman whose scent fills my dreams, whose smile makes my heartstutter, whose presence in our house has upended everything I thought I knew about what I wanted.
She stiffens for a fraction of a second, then shudders—not pulling away but leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. Her scent spikes, sweetening with something that calls to my alpha instincts like a siren song.
"Rowan," I murmur, her name a question and a plea all at once.
She turns toward me, her eyes meeting mine, pupils dilated in the bright clinical light. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously, the air between us charged with possibilities.
I lean in just a fraction, giving her time to pull away, to set boundaries, to remind us both of all the reasons this is complicated.
Instead, she closes the distance.
