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Tom Kazansky didn’t talk much that day.
That, by itself, wasn’t unusual—Tom had always been a man of few words—but Maverick had learned to tell the difference between comfortable silence and the kind that weighed heavy, clinging to the air like frost.
Today was the second kind.
The morning had gone wrong in small, sharp ways. A meeting that left a sour taste. A memory that slipped in where it didn’t belong.
A careless remark from an admiral who didn’t know when to stop talking.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would have labeled a disaster.
But it was enough to chip away at the careful control Tom held onto.
Maverick noticed when Tom didn’t finish his coffee.
“You don’t like it?” he asked lightly.
Tom shook his head.
“It got cold,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere past the mug.
A polite lie.
Maverick let it go.
Loving Tom meant knowing when not to push.
That was when the kitten appeared.
A tiny black-and-white blur wobbled out from under the couch, paws too big for his body, tail flicking with a mind of its own.
He stopped in the middle of the living room, looked at both of them like he was assessing a risky mission… and then walked straight toward Tom.
Maverick raised an eyebrow.
“Well. That was fast.”
The kitten sat down in front of Tom and stared up at him with wide, serious eyes.
Tom looked back, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected to be chosen by anything—or anyone—today.
“Hey there,” Tom murmured.
His voice was quiet, worn thin. The kitten tilted his head.
Tom slowly extended one finger, careful, hesitant, like the smallest movement might break something fragile.
The kitten sniffed, sneezed, and then bumped his head firmly against Tom’s finger, purring like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maverick smiled despite himself.
“Looks like you’ve been adopted, Ice.”
Tom didn’t answer, but something in his expression shifted. Just a little. A hairline crack in the ice.
Minutes passed.
The kitten climbed clumsily into Tom’s lap, kneading his uniform with intense concentration. Tom stayed perfectly still, breathing slow and shallow, afraid to scare him off.
“You know you can move,” Maverick said softly. “He’s not a bomb.”
“I know,” Tom replied. “I just… don’t want him to leave.”
That landed harder than Tom probably intended.
The day dragged on.
Tom answered emails, reviewed reports, did everything expected of him. He stayed composed. Professional. But he didn’t smile. Not once.
Until Maverick tried something.
“Hey,” he called from the kitchen. “We need to name him.”
Tom glanced up.
“Name him?”
“We can’t keep calling him ‘the cat.’”
As if on cue, the kitten lifted his head.
Maverick started tossing out names.
“What about Turbo?”
Nothing.
“Ghost?”
The kitten yawned.
“Big Boss?”
Tom let out the faintest huff of breath. Maverick grinned.
“Okay, okay… what about Rayo?”
No reaction.
Tom frowned slightly, thoughtful, looking down at the kitten now playing with the zipper of his jacket.
“Rayo,” Tom repeated, almost without realizing it.
The kitten’s ears perked up instantly.
Rayo lifted his head, looked straight at Tom, and meowed.
Maverick froze.
“Did you see that?”
Tom swallowed.
“Rayo,” he said again.
The kitten climbed up Tom’s chest and settled there, purring loudly, insistently, like he belonged exactly there.
Something broke open.
Not tears. Not a collapse. Just a smile—small, tired, real. The first one Tom had smiled all day. Maybe all week.
Maverick didn’t think.
He crossed the room and kissed Tom right there, soft and warm, one hand at the back of Tom’s neck, careful not to squish the kitten between them.
Tom didn’t tense. Didn’t hesitate. He closed his eyes and leaned in.
“He chose me,” Tom whispered when they pulled apart, sounding almost disbelieving.
“Of course he did,” Maverick said gently. “Both of you.”
Rayo, as if to confirm it, meowed and bumped his head against them both.
That evening, Tom talked a little more. Not about the meeting.
Not about the comment.
Not about the past.
He talked about the kitten—about how warm he was, how his breathing evened out the tightness in Tom’s chest, how the purring vibrated right where it hurt the least.
Maverick listened, knowing that sometimes healing didn’t start with big words or dramatic confessions.
Sometimes it started with a name spoken softly—and someone who answered only when you called.