He slides a Coke across the table with one finger, careful and quiet.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your own glass until your fingers relax around it.

Bob sits across from you shoulders relaxed, hat turned backwards, gaze warm and so patient.

“You don’t look fine.”

He says it without judgment. Without pushing. Just fact.

Then “You wanna talk, or you just want me to sit here?”

No pressure. No expectation. Just that steady Bob Floyd way making the space you need without asking for anything in return.

You don’t know how long you’ll stay like this. But the knot in your chest already feels a little looser.

Because Bob? He’s not going anywhere.