#cc ask

You click your tongue and kneel down to scratch it behind the ears, cooing sweet little praises as it rubs up against your legs, long tail curling around your calf. “Oh my God,” you mutter. “He’s so cute!”

“He sure is, baby,” Tommy agrees. “Now c’mon. Gonna be late for our reservations.”

But you don’t listen, because you never do—and so Tommy is stuck standing there, ten feet away from the restaurant he’s been dreaming about for two days now, watching you pet this little kitten and knowing damn well what you’re gonna ask even before you say it.

“Sweet angel,” you murmur, voice high pitched in the same way you speak to smiling babies that wave at you in the grocery store. “Do you have a home, cutie? No collar? Aww…how sad…”

Tommy sighs when you lean fully on your knees and the kitten crawls right into your lap as if it’s where it belongs.

“He looks like a toasted marshmallow,” you say, giggling. “We could call him Toast! Toast Miller. Isn’t that cute?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t go namin’ him now. S’a bad idea and you know it—”

All it takes is one look.

You stare up at him through your lashes, a pleading sort of look in those pretty, starry eyes and Tommy knows he’s fucking done for.

Thinks to himself, ‘welcome home, toast,’ but shakes his head and says, “Nuh-uh. Don’t you even start.”

“Tommy he’s so sweet! And we can keep him inside!”

“Baby, he could belong to someone close by—”

“But he doesn’t have a collar!”

“An’ he’s probably covered in fleas—”

“I’ll clean him up, I promise!”

“Will need all kinds of vaccinations to fly him back to Texas and—”

You reach up and take your hand in his, bottom lip jutting out into a dramatic pout that has him fighting for his damn life.

“Christ,” he hisses, running a hand down his face. “Let’s get dinner first, okay? An’ we’ll see after that.”

It takes a minute or two, but you kiss the kitten on its forehead ten times and then stand to your feet.

And God damn it, the thing fucking follows you. Walks between your legs, tail curling, weaving between the two of you and prancing to keep speed.

To make matters worse—it waits just outside the restaurant. And you stare at him through the window, barely eating, saying things like, “Didn’t you say you and Joel were gonna build a barn for all your tools? Isn’t it good to have a barn cat? Just look at him! Look at that face and tell me he isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Unfortunately, Tommy does find him quite adorable.

Which is why, as you step outside the restaurant and give him those pleading eyes again, he feels his restraint splinter and crack. You say, “Pretty please, Uncle Tommy?”

And it does him in. He’s never been good at telling you no.

He doesn’t even have to say anything. Just lets out a lengthy sigh and a lighthearted laugh. Finds joy in the excited way you squeal and giggle and scoop Toast up to cradle him in your arms.

You spend the last day of your honeymoon at the veterinary office, getting him checked over and vaccinated and cleaned up. Purchase food and water bowls and a pet carrier and a goddamn passport for a fucking cat.

But once you’re home, snuggled up in bed with your ice cold feet pressed against his thighs and that glittering wedding ring on your finger, Toast climbs up and lays on Tommy’s chest, curling himself into a little circle.

You smile all big and gently stroke his soft fur, your small fingers moving in the same pattern that Tommy’s are against your scalp. You pet Toast, and Tommy pets you, and you say, “Don’t lie. You love him.”

He laughs and admits, “Yeah, I guess I do.”