And Wick? 

The tiny monster had the audacity to look immediately horrified afterward. 

That’s the part I remember most now. 

Not the swelling. Not the antibiotics. Not trying to function one-handed while muttering threats about tiny furry demons. 

It was his face afterward. 

Because the second the adrenaline burned off, he realized what he’d done. 

He kept his distance the rest of the night, watching me carefully instead of launching his usual ankle ambushes. No puffed-up attitude. No chaotic swagger. Just this tense, uncertain energy like he didn’t know how to undo it. 

And honestly, that was the strange thing about Wick even at his worst. 

There was never cruelty in him. 

Only overwhelm. 

Too much energy. Too many instincts arriving all at once in a body too young to understand what to do with them. 

Once the hormones settled, so did he. 

The sweetness had been there the whole time, buried underneath a tiny feline apocalypse.