Jinx purred when she trusted you, blinked slowly when she loved you, and rested deeply. 

Wick gave her space. 

She gave him stillness. 

Together, they created a rhythm. Quiet mornings curled together on the windowsill. Silent patrols through hallways. Mutual understanding built from soft glances and shared sunbeams. 

Wick stayed close—closer than usual. He claimed the recliner with me, curling up tight against my side, his body warm and still. He didn’t need to meow or move much. His presence was a comfort. 

That was his grief. 

He’d always been independent, a bit aloof unless it suited him—but after Jinx passed, he rarely left the chair. He followed me from room to room like a shadow in soft slippers. No demands. Just there. 

Some nights, I’d catch him looking at the quiet spots Jinx used

When she passed, it was sudden. Peaceful. But the kind of loss that echoes.   to sleep. His ears would flick. His eyes would narrow. Then he’d turn away and settle against me again, like he was saying, I know. I miss her too. 

He didn’t go looking for anyone new. 

But he stayed close, like he knew I needed someone.