𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Walker

The stranger man has an even stranger name. But after meeting Wilde Seede, I’ve grown used to these bizarre names. This one’s called Walker. Yeah. The man who uses a wheelchair. The man who can’t walk. Walker.

The irony doesn’t escape me, and I might have laughed if I wasn’t so distracted by my current predicament—being a cat stuck in his lap.

I figured out his name when we reached his house, a sleek and modern house that screamed money, and met a beautiful, middle-aged woman who looked like she owned the place. Spoiler: she didn’t. I found that out later.

She’s Walker’s mother. What’s her name? I have no idea. Not like I can transform into a human just to ask. She’s gorgeous, though—probably even more so than her son. Walker is striking in his own way but far too lean, which makes sense for someone whose legs have been paralyzed for who knows how long. Muscle atrophy and all that.

Walker, however, couldn’t care less about the woman. He ignored her completely as his bodyguard-slash-helper smoothly wheeled him past her into the lift, with me still perched in his lap like some sort of trophy cat. The woman didn’t seem fazed by his blatant dismissal. She must be used to it.

Or maybe not. Because when the lift doors opened at the first floor, there she was, standing outside like a shadow, waiting. Only this time, she wasn’t looking at Walker. She was staring at me. Her wide, curious eyes scanned every inch of my furry form, not in a hostile way, but like I was some rare artifact she couldn’t quite figure out.

She reached out to touch me, and her fingers were immediately swatted away—by Walker himself.

Her perfectly arched eyebrow lifted in response, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she asked coolly, “Where did you get the kitten, Walker? I thought you didn’t like those things.”

Her eyes flicked back to me, and I felt like I was under a microscope. What do I even look like? From what I’ve seen, my paws are white, and my underbelly has a patch of orange fur, but I haven’t seen my back yet. I must be cute, though, because Walker doesn’t seem like the type to randomly pick up strays.

“She’s mine, mother” Walker replied simply, his tone flat. For a moment, his voice overlapped with another in my head—Wilde’s. The resemblance sent a ripple of confusion through me. I tilted my head to look up at him, searching for some trace of Wilde. But it was just Walker. The man who can’t walk. Maybe I’m losing it.

“Anything else?” Walker’s curt tone sliced through the air, breaking whatever momentary connection his mother and I had.

“Did you eat yet? I brought your favorite—” she said, but before she could finish, Walker cut her off.

“Mmhmm. Ate. Thanks,” he muttered, brushing her off like an annoying fly.

Despite his dismissal, she seemed satisfied, as if those two grunted words were enough. Her standards must be buried somewhere six feet underground. Not that I’m complaining. I was exhausted and ready to sleep anywhere, preferably in a patch of sunlight.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened between them. There was a story here, hidden in the stiff interactions and the unspoken tension. But Walker wasn’t about to share it, and I wasn’t in the mood or place to dig for answers. Not yet.

So here I am, lying on the heated carpet, where Walker—the man who can’t walk (still not over the irony)—placed me. I watch him climb into his luxurious king-size bed alone, his every movement sharp and deliberate, like he’s afraid I’ll somehow sneak in.

Before turning off the light, he looked right at me and said, “Sleep here. Don’t come on the bed.” His tone was so sharp I almost flinched.

Naturally, I can’t just hop on the bed. Yet. I have to wait until he falls asleep.

The carpet is soft but unyielding, and the faint warmth can’t compare to the allure of that plush mattress. Two minutes pass, feeling more like two hours, and finally, his slow, steady breathing fills the room. My time to shine.

The dim glow of a small yellow lamp casts long, soft shadows across the room. I crawl forward, silent and determined, my paws sinking into the carpet as I approach his wheelchair. It’s parked next to his bed, a sturdy lifeline to the height I need. With practiced ease, I spring onto the seat.

My claws find grip on the smooth leather armrest, and I steady myself. The jump to the bed is next. I crouch, then push off in one swift motion.

I land perfectly. For about half a second.

Momentum carries me forward, and before I can stop myself, I roll right into him, hitting his side. Just my luck.

“I told you not to jump on the bed,” his raspy voice growls out in the dark. It’s hoarse and low, almost sexy in a way, though I’d never admit that out loud.

Before I can scamper away in apology, I’m scooped up in one broad hand, his palm warm as it closes around me. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, it’s laced with something softer—fond exasperation.

He pulls me under the blanket, tucking me against his chest. The heat radiates from him like a furnace, wrapping me in the kind of comfort I’ve been dreaming about all night. His arm curls loosely around me, creating a little nest in the crook between his chest and shoulder. I bury my face in the fabric of his shirt, the scent of clean linen and something faintly musky filling my nose.

Ah, so warm. So soft. Why does he even bother with that tough-guy act? He’s clearly a big softie. So cute.

Finally, I relax, letting the events of the day fade away. I’ve earned this moment. After everything—being picked up by a stranger, that icy tension with his mother, starving, and then being exiled to a carpet—I deserve this bliss.

As sleep overtakes me, strange dreams flicker to life behind my eyelids: faces merging and morphing, voices overlapping until they’re indistinguishable, and me caught in the middle of it all. A swirl of confusion and familiarity.

But even in the chaos of the dream, I feel anchored. Warm. Safe.

~VOTE, COMMENT, SHARE AND FOLLOW🩷~