Claire didn’t get back to Begonia Court until well past nine.
She was debating whether it was too late to bring Weston his shirt when she nearly collided with Naomi, sprinting toward her as she stepped out of the elevator.
“Claire!
Whisper’s escaped!”
Claire’s heart lurched, memory flashing back to the last time a full night and day of searching before finding her.
“Escaped?
How long’s she been gone?”
Naomi caught her own mistake instantly, waving her hands.
“No, no, not lost.
She’s next door.
At Weston’s place”
Claire’s mind blanked for a second.
“…What?”
“I ordered late-night food,” Naomi explained, sheepish.
“Opened the door for the delivery and she just bolted.
I chased her, and I swear I saw his door close right as I got there.
It’s been like thirty seconds, tops.
I was literally about to knock.”
Claire exhaled, relieved.
“I’ll go.
You go put actual shoes on.”
Naomi was wearing one slipper, one bare foot, hair in a messy topknot not exactly presentable.
“Yeah, yeah, probably better if you go anyway.
She listens to you more.”
Claire rang the bell.
The door opened fast.
Weston was still in his suit, hadn’t had time to change since getting home from work.
Compared to the two more relaxed looks she’d seen from him, tonight he carried something sharper, more commanding.
“Uncle, my cat”
“Come in.”
The easy response settled her nerves.
She headed for the shoe cabinet and found her own slippers already sitting out in the open, right beside the dress shoes he’d just stepped out of.
Odd.
And somehow not odd at all.
She shook it off, slipped them on, and hurried inside.
No sign of Whisper in the living room.
She turned to Weston, confused.
He was pouring water at the bar, eyes flicking toward the guest rooms.
“In there.”
Claire pushed the door open and froze.
This wasn’t a guest room at all.
No bed.
No sofa.
Just a plush carpet, a small house-shaped cat bed, and a floor-to-ceiling cat tree.
An open cabinet nearby was stocked entirely with cat food and treats.
A pale pink bowl and water fountain sat in one corner, an automatic litter box in the other.
This is a whole room dedicated to a cat.
Whisper sat perched at the very top of the cat tree, staring down with wide, delighted blue eyes.
Mom, this place is amazing, her expression practically screamed.
Claire glared at her traitor of a cat.
Her own apartment had plenty of toys and gear, just not an entire dedicated room, apparently.
“Whisper.
Down.
We’re going home.”
Nothing.
Whisper turned her back entirely and kept playing, tail flicking with unmistakable smugness.
A knock.
Claire turned, embarrassed.
“She’ll come down in a second, I promise.”
Weston leaned against the doorway, glanced up at the cat, then down at Claire.
“Claire.
Stop lying.”
…
He added, deadpan, “Given how comfortable she’s made herself, shouldn’t she at least eat something before you take her home?”
Claire followed his gaze to a small scattering of litter on the floor and covered her face with both hands.
She’s been here five minutes and already used the bathroom.
Completely shameless.
“Wait outside,” Weston said.
“The more you chase her, the less likely she comes down on her own.”
Claire already knew that.
She shot one last betrayed look at Whisper, gathered what remained of her dignity, and followed him back to the living room.
“Uncle, why do you even have a whole room set up for a cat?”
He shrugged out of his suit jacket, expression unreadable.
“I looked into getting a pet once.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I had your cat for one day.
I lost interest fast.”
…
Claire muttered, indignant on Whisper’s behalf, “You called me sharp-tongued, but you’re the one who”
“What was that?”
She grabbed the shopping bag instead, holding it out.
“I got you a shirt today.
Hope it works.”
Weston set his jacket aside, pulled the shirt out, and examined it with real attention.
Claire hadn’t expected that.
Whenever she’d given Ethan gifts, he’d usually thank her politely and barely glance at them.
“The pattern’s subtle.
Thoughtful choice.”
Something warm bloomed in her chest genuine approval, unprompted.
“If you like it, try it on.
Make sure it fits.
I can exchange it if not.”
Weston made a short sound of agreement and started loosening his tie.
An entirely ordinary motion.
For some reason, Claire’s face went warm anyway.
Before she could react, he held the tie out to her.
“Hang that up somewhere, thanks.”
“Oh right, of course”
She only really came back to herself once he’d disappeared into his room to try on the shirt.
Hanging up the tie alongside his jacket, she caught a scent fresh, faintly warm, distinctly woody.
It hit like some perfect balance of vitality and cold restraint, like watching ice slowly give way to spring growth.
A minute later, the chill faded entirely, replaced by something rich and warm, like standing near a crackling fire.
“Barberry…
wormwood…
bitter herb…
sandalwood?”
Her hearing loss had sharpened every other sense over the years, especially her nose; she could pick apart the individual notes almost instantly.
What actually caught her attention was how closely this matched a perfume she’d formulated herself, years ago, during a university assignment.
Professor Wren had assigned it as a “first taste of the real world” project before graduation.
But she’d been an anonymous grad student at the time no one had taken the formula seriously.
Even Ethan had said, at the time, that it smelled fine but had zero commercial potential.
After the assignment wrapped, the Institute had greenlit a different senior student’s pharmaceutical project instead, and her perfume had quietly died on a shelf somewhere.
So why did Weston’s suit jacket smell almost identical?
Coincidence?
“Runs a little small,” Weston said, stepping back out.
He caught Claire still holding his jacket to her face, something sharp and assessing flickering in his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
Fully absorbed in the scent, Claire blurted, “What cologne is this?”
Something shifted in Weston’s expression, genuine interest, a faint curve tugging at his mouth, patience settling into his voice.
“The brand’s called Sloth.”
He said it in flawless English.
Claire’s brain translated it instantly.
Her surprise showed on her face before she could stop it.
“…Sloth?
Like an animal?”
Where does a perfume brand get a name like that?
And out of every animal on earth why does the sloth keep showing up in her life, over and over?
The old nickname.
The hot water bottle.
Now the cologne.
And that thing from childhood