Case was left sitting at his breakfast bar. The bone broth had helped enough to get him to his penthouse, but the weakness he felt was so deep it bordered on debilitating.
Slate was on the counter watching him. His muzzle-like face was turned to Case, while his body angled slightly toward the entrance. It gave Case a distinct impression of being judged.
“I know. I did this to myself.” His voice was low and laced with exhaustion.
“I’m not sure I can make it to the bedroom…” he muttered as he slid off the breakfast bar stool. His quads felt disconcertingly unstable. He could easily see himself face‑planting after a few steps.
“Why do I do this to myself? Would it not be easier—perhaps even healthier—if I had just voiced my intense displeasure in the boardroom?”
He was not expecting a reply. Slate, however, thought differently. He followed Case, giving an occasional chirp, and as Case veered away from the bar stool, Slate delivered a gentle headbutt to the side of his shin, trying to direct him.
“Marvellous. I am being herded by a cat. Not even a shepherd — a cat.”
Slate made a sound very similar to chuffing as Case collapsed into the recliner, and leapt onto him before he was fully settled. Case felt his muscles stiffen in surprise, then slowly — and a little awkwardly — adjusted so they could both be comfortable.
“I guess I must have worried you too…” he said drowsily as the exhaustion and Slate’s strangely comforting weight pulled him under.
****
Case opened his eyes to a darkened room. He had no idea how long he’d been out. This never happened. Still a little groggy, he went to get up — and froze immediately. What he thought was a bundled-up blanket was Slate. His tail draped across Case’s lap. Curled in with his back paws pressing against Case’s hip, Slate’s upper body lay over him, large tufty paws curled in toward his face on Case’s chest.
I… this is inconvenient. I don’t want to disturb him. Why don’t I want to disturb him? That makes no sense. Maybe I can just slide out sideways without disturbing him…
With the recliner fully extended, Case tilted his hips a fraction, trying to slowly turn onto his belly while sliding Slate very slowly off his chest. Slate didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. He simply extended his paws, hooked his claws into the top layer of the robe, and started purring. Case didn’t so much hear it as feel it reverberate through his chest. He stopped. He looked at the giant cat purring on him, paws kneading gently. He flopped back down. Then, very deliberately, he lifted one hand and touched Slate behind the ear — softly, like he was expecting to be bitten. Slate just purred louder.
It was the last thing Case remembered for a while.
****
Rafi knew Case was going to resent the intrusion into his private sanctum regardless of the logic behind it. It was so out of character for Case not to turn up without any notification that Rafi had to go and check on the man. He entered using his emergency clearance access. There was no sign of Case or Slate. He made his way toward the breakfast bar.
He stopped dead at the sight waiting for him — Case sprawled over his recliner, still wrapped in the robe Rafi had brought him yesterday morning. Slate draped over Case like a prized pelt, his large muzzle resting on Case’s chest, giant mittens softly hooked into the robe.
What… what am I seeing? I want to snapshot this for Isabel, so I know I’ve not imagined it! But it’s wrong — or is it? This is… I never thought I would use these words in relation to Case. It’s so—tender, soft, wholesome. I am actually feeling emotional. Incredible. That’s it, I can’t let it pass.
Rafi took his phone out, ensured it was on silent, and took a couple of photos. He stood rooted to the spot for a time, feeling feelings about his closed-off, self-restricting, man‑mountain of a boss. The same boss who apparently had the capacity to sleep for a whole day, allowing his cat to snuggle him.
This is different. It’s important. And why am I feeling like walking over and tucking them both in?
Rafi shook his head, bemused, looked over the sleeping pair, and retreated silently.
****
Case’s return to consciousness was slow. He rose through wispy webs of freshly grown mycelium, shrouded in fog. As the drowsiness lifted, the memories of the workshop, Rafi’s assistance, Slate’s uncharacteristic behaviour slowly filtered in. Slate was still draped across him, head between his paws, Lynx-like ears outlined in the dusk of the room.
Before he could think about it, Case smiled. There was warmth where the big, not‑so‑aloof cat lay on his chest. The tiniest suspicion that this was not the only source of warmth took hold. He knew this was not his. Not for him. But he allowed himself a moment.
“Okay, Slate, I need to get up now,” he murmured to the cat as he planted his elbows either side in preparation.
Slate opened one eye, focused on Case, spread his paws lazily, and gave a chirp. The message was clear, even to someone like Case — I am comfortable. I am not moving. Goodbye.
“Fine, have it your way,” Case told him as he propped himself up on his elbows. He expected to feel slightly exasperated by the feline, but to his surprise — he was calm. This was just another thing. That little bit of warmth flickered as if calling his bluff. He refused to acknowledge it. He rolled to his left hip, sliding Slate into the recliner, and finally managed to get up.
He headed for his private rooms. He glanced at himself in the dressing room mirror. There was sawdust in his hair, sticking to his feet and chest. His trousers looked appalling. The robe had seen better days. Testing his aching muscles, he attempted a few stretches.
No, that’s not going to work.
The large walk‑in shower was programmed for his usual morning routine. Considering how his body reacted, that wasn’t going to be the most efficient setting. Tapping a few quick inputs on the glass panel, he let the water run while he peeled off his remaining clothes. The golden‑honey teak duckboard, sealed in a tung‑oil mixture, was smooth and stable under his feet. He was glad he had the ipe‑wood floating seat installed — a sleek, thin‑profile seat capable of supporting his substantial mass. He sat, letting the shower pulses cycle over him — lukewarm, warm, hot, icy — each controlled change of temperature loosening some of the exhaustion he had carved into his body.
Once he deemed his muscles sufficiently recovered, he went through his normal ritual: washing, shaving, selecting his clothes carefully. By the time he stood in front of his dressing room mirror, adjusting his crisp cotton‑silk shirt collar, smoothing out the lapels of the fine‑blend jacket — he felt more in control. More himself.
Almost, but not quite… The little niggling voice piped up as he approached his private elevator. He smothered it, working through the likely outcomes of the infuriating meeting. The doors opened quietly, marking the passage of his fluid stride into the world.
He was ready.