He ran.
Rey didn't remember leaving the gallery — only the sound of his own footsteps on wet pavement, the echo of applause still stuck in his ears like static. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scraped out of him during the exhibition. Everyone had smiled, congratulated, called him brilliant.
And all he could think was: None of this feels real.
The rain had started without warning. Sheets of it now blurred the city lights into streaks. He didn't stop. Couldn't. His thoughts were everywhere — scattered memories, unfinished paintings, a face in a dream he couldn't shake.
He rounded a corner too fast, slipped, caught himself against a wall, his palm scraping brick. Keep going. He needed air. Silence. Something real.
And then—
A sound.
Not loud. Just… wrong.
A sharp, high mew, nearly swallowed by the storm.
He froze.
Turned.
The alley was nearly dark, but a flicker of movement caught his eye — tucked beneath a broken cardboard box next to an overflowing dumpster.
Something small.
And shaking.
Rey squinted, heart still pounding. He stepped closer, unsure why. Maybe part of him hoped it wasn't real. That he was finally cracking, hallucinating cats in the rain.
But no — it moved again. Two golden eyes blinked up at him from the shadows.
The kitten was soaked, fur matted, one ear bent like it had been stepped on. She didn't hiss or bolt. She just stared — wild and still, like the storm didn't matter.
For a long second, neither of them moved.
Then Rey dropped to a crouch, ignoring the cold that was already biting his skin.
"Hey," he breathed, voice hoarse. "Where did you come from?"
The kitten didn't answer. But when he held out his hand, she leaned into it.
Like she already knew him.
Like she'd been waiting.
Something clenched in his chest. Tight. Sharp.
He scooped her up. She didn't resist. Just curled into his arms like she'd done it a thousand times.
What are the odds, Rey thought, blinking hard against the rain.
She was just bones and warmth and silence. And somehow, in that moment — in the chaos of his thoughts and the pounding in his skull — she anchored him.
He got home drenched and still shaking, but the moment he stepped inside and wrapped her in a towel, the silence felt less cruel.
He dried her off gently. Found an old bowl. Poured what little milk he had.
She lapped it up like royalty.
He sat beside her on the floor, his soaked coat still clinging to him.
After a while, she climbed into his lap, circled twice, and fell asleep.
He didn't cry.
But his chest finally unlocked.
He named her Beans the next morning, mostly because the word made him laugh. And he hadn't laughed in a while.
Beans didn't care. She accepted it like she accepted everything — like it was all part of the plan.
Maybe it was.