Semua Bab The Purrfect Wingman: Bab 41 - Bab 45

Some days at the hospital felt like a blur. Others, like today, hummed with something quieter. Not peace, exactly. But the space right before it. The art therapy room was warm and dimly lit, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a soft view of the city’s skyline. It always smelled faintly like paint water and lavender markers. Kids came here for all kinds of reasons: grief, anxiety, trauma. Sometimes they came to talk. Most of the time, they came not to talk. And that was okay. Today I was helping Micah, a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head, hoodie sleeves always tugged down over their palms, and the eyes of someone who’d seen more than they should’ve. They weren’t chatty, but they liked drawing. Their sketchbook was filled with figures that resembled comic book heroes, quiet and fierce, with eyes always cast in shadow. They were hunched over a new page now, sketching a person standing in the center of swirling chaos. The figure held a long sword in both hands, the blade resting

It had been just over a month since Jane was handed a restraining order and quietly admitted to McLean Hospital for a three-month inpatient mental health hold. Publicly, she was on a “wellness sabbatical” in St. Barts. Privately, the world was a whole lot quieter. No cryptic posts. No flowers. No flickers of her shadow on security footage. It should’ve felt like peace. But now, with Christmas looming and snow caking the windows of the train bound for Boston, I was chewing the inside of my cheek like it owed me money. “Relax,” Ofelia murmured, fingers brushing against mine. “We don’t have to stay the whole time. A day and a half. Max.” She sounded calm. But I could feel the tension in her body, the way she kept smoothing the leg of her jeans like they were going to wrinkle just from existing. The backpack carriers helped. Mochi was curled inside mine, fast asleep, tail tucked to his chin, while Spitfire rode in Ofelia’s, eyes sharp and unimpressed, watching the train’s aisle like sh

I prowled the perimeter of the garden like any competent commander would. The sun hung low in the sky, warm and golden, casting a soft shimmer across the petals that littered the cobblestone walk like nature’s version of confetti. Humans oohed and aahed over the setup, white chairs lined in perfect rows, satin ribbons flapping in the breeze, blossoms spilling from urns that were clearly more decorative than functional. But this wasn’t about aesthetics. This was about security. Stability. Control. This was my domain. I wore the floral collar Ofelia had bribed me into with a piece of grilled chicken. Daisies. A touch of lavender. Something pale and pink I couldn’t identify, but it didn’t offend me. It sat lightly against my fur, and I tolerated it because it matched the mood. And because I looked good in it. Obviously. Mochi, bless his foolish heart, had been strapped into a bowtie harness. A powder blue disaster with tiny white stitched stars. He strutted like he owned the place,