The Purrfect Wingman
I steadied my breath, reminding myself: This was the moment to step back into living.
I pushed the door open, and immediately Spitfire lifted her head, not more than her tired tortie glare, but her tail flicked once in a slow, deliberate arc, like she’d been thinking, Took you long enough.
That was Spitfire: queen of the castle, judge of the late.
I smiled.
“Hey,” I murmured.
Zach sat on the floor, cross-legged, wearing his favorite hoodie and sweatpants. Mochi was curled up in his lap, purring like a tiny motor. All of it looked easy, unforced, the kind of peace we hadn’t dared imagine a month ago.
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