Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader
Bob hadn’t gotten out of bed in two days.
The apartment was dim, quiet. Your soft footsteps echoed against the hardwood as you moved through the rooms, arms crossed against the heavy silence. No news reports blared. No glowing golden aura pulsed under the bedroom door. He hadn’t even turned on the shower.
The only sign he was still there—still breathing—was the quiet creak of the mattress when you gently opened the door.
He lay curled toward the window. Bare-chested. His hair tangled. Eyes sunken. The soft, broken golden glow in his chest barely flickered beneath his skin.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You just sat down beside him and laid your hand on his back.
“I can’t move,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I know I should. But I can’t.”
“I know,” you said softly. “You don’t have to move. I’ll help you.”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away.
You brushed his hair back. “You don’t have to fly. Or fight. Or save the world today. Just let me take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere soft.”
He blinked. His jaw tensed. “I’ll ruin it.”
“I’m not good to be around when I’m like this.”
You slid your hand down to his. Interlaced your fingers.
“Then I’ll be around you like this.”
It took an hour to coax him up. Another to help him into the shower. You combed his hair with gentle fingers, buttoned up the navy sweater you’d set out for him. It hung loose on his frame. His eyes never quite met yours. But he let you hold his hand the whole way there.
The cat café smelled like cinnamon and coffee and vanilla beans.
Bob froze in the doorway at first. There were four other people seated around small café tables, warm drinks in hand—and a sleepy gray tabby sprawled across one customer’s lap. Two black kittens wrestled near a scratch post. And one curious orange cat immediately padded over to sniff Bob’s boot.
“Let’s get you something sweet.”
You sat him down near the window, the softest corner of the café. Ordered him a honey latte and a slice of banana bread. And when the orange cat climbed up onto his lap—Bob didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe for a second.
Just stared down at the tiny creature now purring against his thigh.
“I think they like you,” you said gently.
He blinked. Lifted one shaking hand. Let the cat press its head into his palm.
“Why does it feel like this?” he whispered. “Like… I can breathe again.”
“Because it’s not asking you to be anything but here.”
You wrapped your hands around his coffee and guided it to him.
The first sip made him exhale. The cat curled tighter against his body. And you watched Bob Reynolds—glowing god, weapon of mass destruction, too much and too empty—start to soften.
Not because he was scared anymore—but because he was peaceful.
“Can we come back?” he asked quietly.
You opened your bag. Reached in. And pulled out a small purple carrier.
Inside was a kitten. Pure black. Tiny. Sleepy.
“Her name’s Nova,” you said softly. “She’s yours.”
Then his lips trembled. “You—you got me a—?”
“For the days you can’t move,” you said. “She’ll lay with you. Purr with you. Just like I will.”
He looked down at the sleeping kitten. Then at you.
“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.
You reached up. Touched his cheek. “You deserve softness, Bob.”
His arms wrapped around you—tight, trembling.
And in the safety of your arms, with Nova asleep in his lap and coffee still warm in his hands, Bob Reynolds let himself cry.
Not because he was broken.
But because he wasn’t alone.
