Not curled up. Not begging. Just sitting. 

Wick was watching her from just inside the glass door, like a velvet gargoyle with secrets. His eyes were locked on hers. No movement. No sound. Just that quiet feline stare-off that only cats understand. 

We opened the door. An invitation. 

She didn’t come in. 

We hesitated, unsure of what to do, then left for dinner, hoping she’d still be safe when we returned. 

She was. 

Exactly where we left her. 

“She won’t come in,” I said as we walked up the steps. 

Timmie opened the front door. 

And Jinx bolted inside. 

She ran like the house was her finish line. Past us. Past Wick. Straight behind the couch—where she stayed, invisible and trembling, until well after dark. 

Wick didn’t hiss. Didn’t blink. Just turned and strolled away like he’d been waiting for her the whole time.