Chapter 3 - Spitfire

I was having a nap.

A perfect, glorious nap in the laundry basket—freshly filled with warm towels and socks that smelled vaguely like roasted anxiety and lavender detergent. The overhead light was off, the space heater had clicked on with a soft hum, and Ofelia was in her usual end-of-day spiral on the couch, eating pasta and muttering about academia. Everything was right with the world.

Until it wasn’t.

The scent hit first. Sharp. Acidic. Smoky. Like something synthetic was throwing a tantrum in the hallway. I twitched one ear, flicked my tail once in protest, and promptly buried my nose in a folded sweatshirt. Not my circus, not my problem.

Then the alarm started.

Not ours—yet. But close. And shrill enough to jangle my whiskers.

Ofelia swore, which wasn’t unusual. The girl cursed more than she slept. But then came the telltale signs of Trouble: hoodie flung on, phone grabbed, her footsteps creaking toward the door.

I cracked open one eye as she glanced at me.

“Stay put,” she said like I was a well-trained golden retriever instead of a self-respecting tortoiseshell calico queen.

I blinked slowly. Translation: Make me.

She left. The door clicked. A second later, the stench got worse. A lot worse. Even through the comfort of laundry, I could smell the panic. I heard her shout something—then the door slammed back open. Her footsteps thundered in.

“Spitfire! Let’s go!”

Excuse me?

I leaped from the basket, claws snagging on her bra strap. Sorry, not sorry. My cozy kingdom had been invaded by smoke and chaos, and now this lunatic wanted to stuff me in that plastic coffin with the rickety door and no escape hatches? I think not.

I bolted. Closet. Under the bed. Anywhere but there.

She followed, of course. Muttering desperate promises like “it’s okay,” “we have to go,” and “I’ll buy you that fancy salmon pâté you like.” Lies. All of them. Her hands were shaking. Her face looked wrong—pale and sweaty, like the time she ate that suspect bodega sushi on a dare from her sister.

Then I heard it. A second alarm. Ours.

That was new.

I hissed, low and feral, as the floor beneath me felt like it exhaled a wave of heat. Ofelia crawled under after me, looking like a half-burnt raccoon in grad school chic. Her hand reached out, tentative and trembling.

I swatted, but she didn’t flinch. She grabbed me.

Reader, I screamed.

Loudly. Violently. But even as I thrashed, something in her grip steadied. Like she’d locked into something deeper than instinct, like fear had become determination, her arms wrapped around me in a makeshift hold, cradling me tight against her chest, coughing and stumbling toward the door.

I was still yowling when she shoved me into the carrier, only this time it wasn’t rage. Not entirely.

The air outside the plastic bars looked wrong—thick and dark, curling with smoke. I crouched low, pupils blown wide, ears flattened as she fumbled the latch closed. She was muttering again, this time something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

And then she said it—“I’ve got you.”

No panic. No uncertainty. Just raw, exhausted conviction.

I’d been yanked from a warm nap and flung into a hellscape of alarms, sweat, and the world’s worst aromatherapy. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.

Ofelia had me. And I had her, even if I would make her pay for this later.

The moment the cold hit the carrier, I knew I was being abducted.

One minute, I was mid-protest inside a rapidly suffocating apartment, yowling my lungs raw. Next, everything shifted. Carried like luggage through smoke and chaos, bouncing with every bootfall. The scent of melted plastic clung to my fur, my pupils were blown wide, and my sense of dignity? Gone, singed clean off.

Then it happened.

The large one—the walking furnace with gentle hands—passed me off like I was a sack of potatoes.

Rude.

The second human, thinner and less important, took the carrier. He blinked down at me, eyebrows twitching, then had the audacity to smirk. “She’s got a set of lungs, huh?” he muttered. His breath smelled like smoke and cheap coffee. “You better be worth the drama, fuzzball.”

Fuzzball?

Excuse me?

I threw my weight against the door of the carrier with a screech that could’ve cracked glass. He jerked back like I’d grown a second head. Good. Let the lesser human know fear.

While he juggled me like a cursed jack-in-the-box, I caught sight of my human—Ofelia—sitting on the back bumper of a large white vehicle. She looked like hell. Ash in her curls, soot smudged across her cheeks, coughing like she’d swallowed half the building. But her eyes were open. Sharp. Stubborn. Alive.

The bigger male—the one who’d pulled us out of the inferno—was crouched beside her, removing his helmet. He had kind eyes. Broad shoulders. Mismatched gear that looked more melted than whole. I didn’t trust him. But Ofelia looked at him like he’d pulled her out of the ocean.

“Spitfire okay?” I heard her rasp.

“She’s pissed, but breathing,” the male—Zach—replied.

Pissed?

Try incandescent with rage, thank you.

The one called Dez—Carrier Thief—shuffled awkwardly and handed me back like I was radioactive. “Your girl,” he said.

Damn right, I am.

Back in Ofelia’s hands, the world settled half a notch. She cradled me like I was something precious, whispering apologies through cracked lips as her voice warbled. I butted my head gently against the mesh. Not because I forgave her. Just… to let her know I noticed.

Then the rig doors opened, and two humans in navy uniforms leaned out.

“She’s bringing the cat?” one asked, voice sharp.

“She doesn’t go without her,” Ofelia snapped hoarsely.

“She just made it out of a burning building,” the tall one said firmly. “If she wants her cat, the cat rides.”

That shut them up. Beautifully.

They helped her into the rig, even if they didn’t look thrilled about it. She settled onto the bench, still coughing, clutching me like I was the last stuffed animal on the planet.

I did not purr. But I didn’t protest either. Because despite the smoke, the chaos, the idiot with coffee breath, and the very rude EMTs, I was back with my human. And that was the only thing that mattered. For now

The ride in the ambulance was unacceptable.

The floor vibrated. The lights were too bright. The humans kept glancing at me like I was a ticking bomb wrapped in fur. And honestly? I might’ve been. I was still rattled from the smoke, from being hauled around like a sack of potatoes, from being trapped while chaos unfolded around me. But at least I was on Ofelia’s lap, even if she smelled like singed hair and fear.

She coughed again, cradling the carrier like I was royalty, which, to be fair, I was. Her hoodie sleeve was bunched under my carrier as a makeshift cushion, and her thumb rested near the door, rubbing slow circles on the top like she was grounding herself on my plastic prison.

I watched her through the mesh, and then my thoughts turned to the tall one who’d pulled us out.

His face lingered in my mind. Not just because he didn’t smell like cheap soap and regret, though that helped, he’d looked at Ofelia like she wasn’t just a job, as if she wasn’t just another person to be rescued. Like she mattered. And more importantly, he hadn’t flinched when she’d refused to leave without me. That said something. Most humans would’ve left us both behind and claimed it was protocol.

But not him.

He’d carried her like she was something precious. Spoken gently. Reassured her. Promised not to leave me. He had arms like he could break down doors and eyes like he’d already seen the worst of the world and still didn’t look away.

I licked a paw delicately and cleaned the soot off my face.

Yes. That one might do.

For Ofelia. For me. And for the little ones growing inside me.

The EMT beside us—Tim, if I’d heard the other one right—kept side-eyeing me like I was going to molt or something. “I can’t believe we seriously brought a cat,” he muttered.

“She’s pregnant,” Ofelia rasped. “She inhaled smoke, too.”

Tim frowned. “Didn’t realize the ER had a feline maternity ward.”

“Insolent human. How dare you mock my humanity and, worse, mock me and my pregnancy?” I hissed. Or I would have if my throat didn’t still feel like sandpaper dipped in lemon juice.

Once we arrived, the ER was no more welcoming than the rig. More lights. More beeping. More confused stares. A nurse at the triage desk took one look at us and sighed hard enough to blow out a candle.

“No animals in the treatment area,” she said flatly.

“She’s all I have,” Ofelia croaked, holding my carrier tighter. “If I have to leave, I’ll discharge myself and take her to a vet right now.”

The nurse blinked. I narrowed my eyes, tail flicking inside the box.

“She’s expecting,” Ofelia added quietly.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the nurse gave the smallest, most reluctant nod I’d ever seen. “Fine. But keep her in the carrier.”

Ofelia sagged in relief and mouthed a thank you. I blinked slowly at the nurse with deliberate feline superiority.

Know your place, mortal.

I was Spitfire, Empress of Apartment 4B, Bringer of Hairballs, and Soon-to-be Mother of Chaos. And now? I had a fireman in my court.

If he played his cards right, I might even let him pet me someday.

Maybe.

I knew something was wrong the moment her grip on the carrier shifted.

It wasn’t much—just a tremble at first. A slight dip in the way her fingers curled over the handle. But I felt it. Ofelia never let go. Not during thunder, not during vet visits, not during that smoky hellscape she dragged me from with sheer force of will. But now?

Now, her fingers loosened.

I rose in the carrier, bumping my nose against the mesh. She was perched awkwardly on the hospital cot, face pale, the tips of her ears flushed in that too-bright way I didn’t like. She’d stopped coughing, but not in a victorious sense. In a way, that felt too quiet. Too still.

A nurse was checking her vitals. Another male, with worried eyes, was preparing something on a nearby tray. “BP’s dropping,” he said. “She’s working too hard to breathe. We need oxygen and fluids, now.”

Ofelia turned her head slightly, eyes unfocused. Her lips parted like she meant to say something—maybe my name, perhaps a curse at the fluorescent lighting—but all that came out was a wheeze. Then nothing.

Her body swayed. Slumped.

The carrier jostled as someone moved it away—rough hands, impersonal. I yowled in protest. The sound was raspy, my throat still sore from smoke and stress, but I couldn’t help it. She was right there. She needed me. I tried to press my face closer, pawing at the mesh with dull claws, ears pinned back as they lay her flat, and someone started barking orders.

“Get a line in.”

“She’s not responsive.”

“Push a bolus, now—come on, come on—”

She didn’t move.

I’d been trapped before. Behind doors. Inside vet cages. Under laundry baskets that someone had thought was a game. But nothing—nothing—matched the helplessness of this. Of being this close and completely useless. A queen with no power. A warrior with no claws.

All I could do was watch.

They were working fast now, hooking wires to her chest, slipping tubes into her arm, slipping something clear and plastic over her mouth and nose. The beep of her monitor climbed steadily, still weak, but improving.

I crouched inside my box, fur puffed, tail tucked. I couldn’t pace. I couldn’t comfort her. I couldn’t do anything but stare with wide, panicked eyes.

I wasn’t afraid of fire.

But I was afraid of this.

Ofelia was my human. My foolhardy, big-hearted, pasta-wasting, cuddle-demanding human. And I needed her awake. Not because I wanted a lap to nap on—though, obviously, I did—but because if she didn’t make it out of this hospital…

Then, none of this would’ve been worth it.

Not the fire. Not the rescue. Not even the handsome firefighter with good arms and decent instincts. None of it.

So I stayed pressed against the edge of the carrier, silent now, watching and waiting like the sentinel she didn’t know she had. My claws were useless. My yowl meant nothing. But I would not stop watching.

Not until she opened her eyes again.