“You okay?”

That’s always the first thing out of Bob’s mouth—no matter how long it’s been, no matter how late it is.

He’s standing in your doorway with a lopsided smile and two iced coffees—one black, one your complicated order he never messes up. He’s in a hoodie, socks mismatched, glasses slipping a little down his nose.

“Phoenix said you had a rough one today. Figured you wouldn’t text, so…” he shrugs, holding out the coffee like a peace offering. Or a life raft.

You let him in without a word, and like always, he walks through your place like it’s home too. Drops his bag by the couch. Knows where the mugs are. Grabs your favorite blanket, the fuzzy one, and throws it over both of you as he sits beside you.

“Wanna talk about it? Or do we pretend the world doesn’t exist for a while and watch nature documentaries until we fall asleep?”

Bob is steady. He won’t push. Won’t press. Just leans into your side, shoulder to shoulder, and lets you breathe.

“You know,” he says after a beat, voice soft and careful, “you don’t have to hold it all together all the time. You’ve got me, remember? I’m not going anywhere.”

He grins—just a little. “I’ve got snacks, bad jokes, and a top-tier playlist of sad-girl anthems and emotionally repressed indie boys. Whatever you need tonight, I’m your guy.”

And he means it. Because Bob Floyd is the kind of friend who’d rather be your safe place than anything else.

He’s the “text me when you get home” guy. The “I brought your charger” guy. The “I remember your mom’s birthday so you don’t have to” guy.

“You’re not alone,” he says again, quieter this time. And somehow… that’s everything.