Page 52 of On Dry Land

“Spencer,” he says again, holding the little black kitten by the scruff of the neck. She dangles from his fingers, legs curled upward. They look at each other for a moment, and the kitten meows. It sounds suitably pitiful, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“She was abandoned,” I tell him. “A poor little helpless baby.”

Another meow, this one a little softer. Dryden narrows his eyes again.

“It will ruin the furniture,” he says. I nod seriously.

“Only if we are lucky.”

Humor flashes across his face, warming his dark eyes and softening his mouth. He cups a palm under the kitten’s bottom but still keeps hold of her scruff. She blinks innocently, licking his thumb.

“Just for tonight?” he clarifies, and I force back a smile. I’ve won.

“We’ll find her a new home as soon as possible,” I promise.

“Mm.”

He raises a single, wry eyebrow in my direction, and I make sure to keep my expression clear. I’m counting on the kitten staying here, and he fucking knows it.

Dryden puts a frozen pizza in the oven and joins me upstairs, setting up the kitten’s room. She’s little enough that it’s best to keep her somewhat contained for now, and Dryden’s master bathroom is more than big enough to accommodate. I set up a litter pan and a couple of puppy pads, snorting when Dryden hands me a pair of fine china bowls to use for food and water. I give her a little soft food, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my back to the vanity as she eats. Dryden returns from downstairs, two plates of pizza in his hands, while she’s scarfing down her dinner. Instead of asking me to join him in the bedroom, he gracefully takes a seat next to me, legs stretched straight in front of him and crossed at the ankle, socks now covering his feet.

“Dinner in the bathroom?” I ask, grinning as I accept my plate.

“That smells like shit,” he says, watching the kitten devour a watery pile of soft food. I snort, taking a bite of pizza and leaning my shoulder into him. He turns his face into my head a little bit, not quite giving me a kiss on the temple, but close enough that the gesture feels affectionate. I swallow a bite of pizza and pretend it’s the reason why my belly feels so warm.

The kitten finishes her dinner before we do, tips over the water bowl when she tries to take a drink, and then runs off to track wet footprints across the tiles. I huff a laugh at Dryden’s beleaguered sigh. There isn’t much in the bathroom for her to cause trouble with, so it’s not until we finish dinner and retreat to the master bedroom that the fun begins.

Feeling braver, the kitten scales Dryden’s bed, claws sticking to the comforter as she uses it to climb up. There, she scoots around playfully, back arched and tail kinked, as she bounces. I laugh, and not even Dryden can pretend he doesn’t find the whole thing cute as he scoops her up in one hand and deposits her back onto the floor. She takes off running, claws sticking into the carpet and making little pfut noises as she streaks underneath the bed.

Pulling one of the cat toys out of the bag, I lie down flat on the mattress and dangle my arms over the side. Bouncing the string along the floor, I laugh when a little black shadow zips out and leaps on the feather. She rolls onto her side and catches it between her paws, biting at it.

“Very fierce,” I congratulate her.

Dryden joins me on the bed with the rest of the toys. He chucks one of the little crinkly balls across the room and snorts when the kitten bounces after it, pouncing and then streaking off in the opposite direction, tail held straight in the air. She vacillates between scampering around on the carpet and scaling the bed. At one point, she flattens herself to the comforter, wiggles her butt a couple of times, and leaps onto Dryden’s foot, teeth catching on his sock as she bites him. He smiles—a beautiful, unguarded smile that somehow makes me feel incandescently happy and unbearably sad all at once.

She tires eventually, the excitement of the day catching up with her tiny, four-week-old body. She passes out against her food dish after I’ve fed her again, stretched out on the puppy pad, little belly round and full. Leaving the bathroom, I close the door to keep her contained for the night, not wanting her to wake up Dryden if she gets the zoomies at one in the morning.

Dryden lifts the sheets on the bed when I approach. I slide underneath and right up against him, feeling happier than I can remember feeling in years. Rolling onto my side, I put a hand flat on Dryden’s stomach and my cheek on his shoulder, sick with longing for him and needing contact. He freezes—body still like a held breath. And then, with an exhalation I can feel in my soul, he puts an arm around my shoulders.

“The kitten can stay,” he says softly. I smile, glad for a little bit of levity to pull me away from the sudden ache in my chest.

“Thanks.”

“And so can you, tonight. If you’d like.”

I can’t see his face, nor hear anything telling in his tone. The hand cupping my shoulder is still. There’s only the calm rise and fall of his chest and my own heart pounding against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Staying is a terrible idea. It’s a foot firmly planted across the line we’ve been walking and a step in a direction I won’t be able to retreat from. It’s the first explicit request he’s made of our relationship.

“Okay,” I agree and then scoot a little closer. His free hand touches the one I’ve got resting on his belly, fingertips cold when they brush the skin underneath the cuff. I wait for him to pull away—to feel the smooth alienness of the scar and retreat.

Instead, his fingers stroke higher, gentle and featherlight. Soothing. I close my eyes, not wanting to do something embarrassing like start to cry. Other than myself, only doctors have ever touched me there, and it didn’t feel anything like this. It didn’t feel like recognition of the pain and a balm to soothe old hurts. It didn’t feel like warmth or comfort or tenderness.

In fact, nothing ever feels like this. So many days and weeks and months have gone by that I’ve stopped noticing them individually and instead find myself jolting into recognition of years gone past. Nobody treats me with gentleness or care. Nobody looks at me and sees a person deserving of such things, and it’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt safe enough to ask for it. Or safe enough to give it.

Turning my face into Dryden’s shoulder, I press a kiss through the fabric of his sweater and push up onto an elbow. As is his preference, the lights are dim, but the room isn’t dark. His irises are nearly black in the low light and intent on mine. I remember what he said about liking the color of my eyes and feel a shiver of pleasure at the thought. There is so little to like about me.

I trace the neckline of Dryden’s hoodie with my fingers, barely grazing skin. I give the strings a little tug.

“Can you take this off?” I ask him. The hand on my shoulder firms, gently nudging me off to the side so he can sit up. I watch as he reaches back and pulls the hoodie over his head, hands buzzing with the desire to touch. He drops it over the side of the bed, and I coast my eyes from his face to his stomach. “And the rest of it?”