The knock at your door is quiet. Measured. Like he debated whether to do it at all.

When you open it, Simon’s standing there, mask on, hoodie slightly dusted in fur, and in his gloved hands... a cardboard box.

It meows.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet, eyes flicking down and then back to yours like he’s bracing for impact. “Found her near base. Tiny little thing. Loud as hell.”

Another tiny meow escapes the box, followed by a soft scratch. “Figured you could use somethin’... warm.”

He clears his throat. Doesn’t meet your gaze.

“I might’ve picked up some food. And a bed. And a couple toys.”

He holds the box out like it’s dangerous. Like it matters more than he wants to admit.

“Here. She’s yours.”