Bob had always been honest with you in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. Not heroic honesty, not the kind people praised—just the quiet kind. The kind that admitted he didn’t always wake up feeling like himself. The kind that said some days felt heavier for no clear reason.

You understood that weight. You carried your own.

That was how you became inseparable—not through grand moments, but through shared lows. When one of you hit rock bottom, the other sat beside them on the floor, back against the wall, saying nothing until breathing felt possible again. Some days it was Bob staring at nothing, hands shaking. Other days it was you, curled inward, trying not to disappear. Neither of you ever left.

People sometimes asked what you were to each other. Best friends, maybe. Something more, maybe. Neither label felt necessary. What mattered was that you stayed.

On your 28th birthday, Bob didn’t make a big deal out of it. No speeches, no crowd. He just showed up at your door looking strangely nervous, holding a carrier with air holes punched into the sides.

Inside was a cat.

Small. Soft. Same coloring as the one you’d lost years ago—the one that used to sleep on your chest when things got bad, the one that passed quietly while you were away. The moment you saw the cat’s face, your breath caught, sharp and sudden, like grief and joy colliding.

Bob noticed immediately.

“I know it’s not the same,” he said quickly, almost apologetic. “I just… I thought maybe it’d help. For both of us.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you hugged him instead. He stiffened for half a second before hugging you back, hard, like he was anchoring himself.

The cat became part of your routine. It slept between you during late nights, followed Bob around while he pretended not to like it, and seemed to understand exactly when either of you needed grounding. You smiled more. Bob did too, even if he tried to hide it.

Then came one of those nights.

The kind where your thoughts wouldn’t slow down. Where your chest felt tight for no visible reason. Bob wasn’t there—called away for a mission, paperwork, something endless and bureaucratic. You told him you were fine. You always did.

You weren’t.

You retreated to your room, lights off, exhaustion pulling you under faster than you could fight it. The cat curled against your chest, warm and solid, purring like a steady heartbeat. You clung to it as sleep finally took you.

When Bob returned, the first thing he noticed was how quiet everything felt.

You weren’t in the common area. Not on the couch. Not where you usually were.

Something in his chest tightened.

He knocked once on your door, then opened it slowly. The room was dim, moonlight slipping through the window. And there you were—curled on your side, face softer in sleep than he’d seen it in days, arms wrapped protectively around the cat.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Relief hit him so hard he had to brace a hand against the doorframe. His shoulders sagged, the tension draining out of him all at once. You were here. You were breathing. You were safe.

He stepped inside quietly and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake you. The cat opened one eye, then relaxed again when it recognized him.

Bob brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the back of his fingers.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice barely there. “Just like you’ve got me.”