Page 22 of The Knotheads Next Door
"Or I can check on him during lunch breaks," I offer, surprised by my own eagerness to help.
"The clinic's not far from the florist."
Jasper looks between us, clearly sensing he's losing the battle. "Fine," he finally says. "But it's your responsibility. And if it—he—damages anything, it comes out of your rent."
"Deal," Rowan says quickly, before he can add more conditions.
For the next hour, we work together to get Gerald settled. I show Rowan how to mix the kitten formula and feed him with a tiny bottle, how to stimulate him to go to the bathroom (a necessity at his age that makes Jasper grimace and Wells flee the room), and how to set up his makeshift bed with the hot water bottle for warmth.
She's a quick learner, her hands gentle but confident as she takes over the feeding. The look on her face as Gerald latches onto the bottle and suckles eagerly is something between pride and wonder.
"You're a natural," I tell her, watching as she carefully wipes milk from his tiny chin.
She smiles, not taking her eyes off the kitten. "I've always liked taking care of things. Plants, mostly, since pets weren't allowed in my apartment. But I grew up with cats."
Gradually, Wells and Jasper migrate to the living room, pretending they're not keenly interested in the kitten's progress.
Once Gerald is fed, cleaned, and sleeping peacefully in his box-turned-bed, we all somehow end up in the living room. Rowan sits cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table, where she's placed Gerald's box so she can keep an eye on him.
"He needs a middle name," she declares, looking up at us. "All the best cats have middle names."
"That's not a thing," Jasper says from his armchair, though he's been surreptitiously watching the kitten for the past twenty minutes.
"It absolutely is," she insists. "My childhood cat was Sebastian Bartholomew Whitley. Sebby for short."
"Gerald Danger," I suggest, settling onto the couch. "Because he lives life on the edge."
Rowan grins. "Gerald Fluffington."
"Gerald Never" Jasper mutters, but I catch the slight twitch of his lips.
"Gerald Temporary Houseguest," Wells offers drily from where he's keeping a safe, allergy-conscious distance.
"Gerald Jasper," Rowan says with faux innocence. "Because he's tiny but thinks he's in charge."
That startles a laugh out of me, and even Wells coughs to hide his amusement. Jasper narrows his eyes at Rowan, but there's something almost like reluctant appreciation in his gaze.
"Gerald Resilient," I say, more seriously. "Because he's a fighter."
Rowan considers this, then nods. "Gerald Resilient Whitley," she decides. "It's perfect."
"Whitley?" Jasper questions. "You're giving it—him—your last name?"
"Well, he's my responsibility, right?" she says, a hint of challenge in her voice. "That makes him a Whitley."
No one argues with this logic, not even Jasper. There's something about the way Rowan has claimed this tiny, helpless creature that feels... right. Natural. Like she was meant to find him.
As the evening wears on, Gerald wakes for another feeding, and I guide Rowan through the process again. We sit side by side on the floor, knees touching, heads bent together over the tiny brown and gray kitten. There's something intimate about it, this shared act of nurturing. Something that makes me want to lean in closer, to breathe in her scent.
And her scent... it's changed. Subtly, but unmistakably. The scent of the blockers she's been using are still there, but underneath, there's something sweeter emerging. Something that makes my alpha instincts perk up and take notice.
I almost catch myself scent-marking her—a casual brush of my wrist against her shoulder, the way I might with someone who’s pack—before I realize what I'm doing and pull back. She doesn't seem to notice, too focused on making sure Gerald is eating properly.
Across the room, I catch Jasper watching us, his expression unreadable except for the slight tension around his jaw. Next to him, Wells pretends to be absorbed in his tablet, but I know he's observing too, cataloging every interaction in that analytical brain of his.
By the time Gerald has been fed, cleaned, and settled again, it's nearly midnight. Rowan yawns, her eyelids drooping.
"You should go to bed," I tell her. "I can watch him for a while."
