Page 91 of Client Privilege

Buster considered the offering, then butted his head against Damian’s fingers, demanding pets. The sight of my stoic lawyer gently scratching my cat’s ears made something twist pleasantly in my chest.

“He likes you,” I said softly.

Damian’s eyes met mine over Buster’s head. “Good. I was hoping we’d get along.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on me.

THE FIRST WEEKwith Buster transformed Damian’s house in ways I hadn’t expected. Cat toys appeared in unlikely places. The formal dining chair became Buster’s favourite perch. The pristine kitchen counter now featured a ceramic water fountain that Damian had researched and determined was “optimal for feline hydration.”

More surprising was the transformation in Damian himself. I’d discover him in the morning, suit already immaculate, sitting on the floor dangling a feather toy for Buster’s amusement. He’d installed a bird feeder outside the kitchen window to provide “environmental enrichment” and downloaded an app that helped him track Buster’s medication schedule.

Two weeks after bringing Buster home, I came downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water to find Damian on the couch, fast asleep with case files spread around him and Buster curled on hischest. The sight stopped me in my tracks—this powerful man who’d fought so fiercely for me in court, completely vulnerable in sleep, one hand protectively resting on my cat.

I stood watching them longer than I should have, something warm and frightening blooming in my chest.

When Buster’s respiratory infection worsened briefly, requiring midnight medication, Damian insisted on taking turns with me. “You need your sleep too,” he’d said simply, as if caring for my cat in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world.

By the third week, Buster had gained weight, his coat regaining its lustre. He’d established routines—breakfast with me, afternoon sun-bathing in Damian’s office window, evenings sprawled between us on the couch.

“He’s looking much better,” Damian observed one evening as we sat in the living room, Buster purring contentedly between us. I was sketching while Damian reviewed case files—our own routine that had developed naturally.

“Thanks to you,” I said, not looking up from my sketchbook. “I don’t know how I would have managed all this without your help.”

“You would have managed,” he said with quiet certainty. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

I glanced up to find him watching me, his expression open in a way it rarely was outside these evening moments.

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But I’m glad I didn’t have to do it alone.”

Buster chose that moment to stretch dramatically, front paws pushing against Damian’s thigh while his back paws pressed into my leg. We both laughed, the tension of the moment breaking.

“I think he agrees,” Damian said, scratching under Buster’s chin.

I returned to my sketch, adding the final touches to what I’d been working on—a portrait of Damian with Buster asleep on his lap, both of them bathed in the warm light of the reading lamp. I’d captured thegentleness in Damian’s hands, the protective curve of his posture, the rare softness in his expression when he thought no one was watching.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, setting aside his files.

For a moment, I hesitated. Showing him felt like revealing too much—not just the drawing, but what it represented. The way I saw him. The way I felt.

“Just a sketch,” I said, but turned the pad toward him.

He took it carefully, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the subject. For a long moment, he said nothing, just studied the drawing with an intensity that made my heart race.

“Alex,” he finally said, his voice low. “This is…”

“It’s how I see you,” I said simply. “The real you. Not just the lawyer.”

He looked up, something vulnerable and questioning in his eyes. “Is that how you see me?”

I nodded, unable to find the words for what I wanted to say—that in the weeks since the trial, since bringing Buster home, since living in this strange domestic limbo, I’d seen past the polished exterior to the man beneath. The man who researched cat nutrition at midnight, who left his case files scattered to avoid disturbing a sleeping cat, who somehow knew exactly when to push and when to give me space.

“I like that version of me,” he said quietly, handing the sketchbook back. His fingers brushed mine, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Buster stretched again, then hopped down, apparently deciding we needed privacy. Smart cat.

“Damian,” I began, not sure what I was going to say.

“I know,” he said, understanding in his eyes. “We’re still in a complicated situation. I’m still your lawyer. You’re still healing.”

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