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Molly loves animals.
All animals.
Every bird she passes on a walk gets a soft little "hi, baby," every squirrel is greeted like an old friend. Dogs? Instant excitement. Whole-body joy. But her greatest, most enduring love? Cats. Always has been. She had one as a child and still talks about it like it was her soulmate.
So one night, after six months of living together, six months of domestic bliss, cozy routines, and falling asleep on the couch together, they're watching a random movie, and a cat strolls onto the screen. Molly smiles, leans against Rocker, and says casually:
"Maybe we could get a cat sometime?"
And Rocker pauses. He knows how much she loves animals. It's one of his favorite things about her, the way her face lights up, how soft her voice gets. It's adorable. But still.
"Babe, I don't know. I'm not a cat guy..."
So, of course, they go to a shelter the following weekend.
Just to look, of course.
That's when they meet him.
A one-year-old gray tabby curled up in the back corner of a kennel. He has the biggest paws any of them have ever seen, like absurdly big. Fuzzy little toes, like he forgot to grow into them. He saunters over with sleepy eyes and flops down against Molly's legs with a dramatic little sigh.
That was it. Papers signed. Pickup scheduled.
Back at home, Molly is already in full cat mom mode. She scrolls through cat furniture online, but everything looks too tacky, too weird, too...not them.
"They're all kind of ugly," she groans.
"I got it," says Rocker. "Let me handle this."
So he ends up at the hardware store.
The next two days? He's in full construction mode.
He builds the most aesthetically pleasing cat tree ever, neutral tones, clean lines. He secures the balcony so it's cat-safe. Mounts a series of scratching posts on the wall. Meanwhile, Molly sips tea from the couch and watches him, her eyes full of love.
"This from the man who's not a cat guy," she teases.
Rocker rolls his eyes, but smiles. "I'm doing this for you, not the cat."
Sure.
When they finally bring their new roommate home, they name him Beans, in honor of his ridiculously big feet. He's shy at first, hiding under the bed for hours.
Molly says to give him time.
Rocker agrees.
Three hours later, she finds Rocker lying flat on the floor, looking under the bed.
"Just checking on him," he mumbles. "See if he's breathing."
Within a week, Beans has taken over the apartment.
He follows Molly everywhere. He naps on Rocker's chest when he's watching TV. At 2 a.m., he's on patrol, waging war on unattended socks.
Rocker still insists he's not a cat person. But Molly just grins.
Because:
- He buys new toys because "Beans looked bored with the old ones."
- He whispers, "What's up, buddy?" every time he passes the cat.
- His phone background is Beans, in the middle of a yawn, looking like a little lion.
- He reads about the best cat food online and buys the fancy stuff.
And when Beans turns out to be a ball of zooming chaos, Rocker suggests leash training.
"He's got energy. Might as well direct it."
And it works, Rocker devotes himself to training Beans, and they become a unit.
The little Rocker-Hicks family goes for walks and hikes. Beans is carried in a mesh backpack like a furry explorer when he needs to rest. Molly has hours of footage of Rocker crouching on trails, holding tiny training treats for him, or carrying Beans on his shoulder.
"With that black harness on," Rocker says one afternoon with pride in his voice, "he looks like he's part of SWAT."
Now Beans is fully part of the family.
He snoozes in the sun on her lap while Molly reads a book, climbs on Rocker's back while he does pushups, and waits at the door every time he hears someone coming home.
And sometimes, when Beans curls up on the couch between them, purring like a little engine, Rocker scratches his ears and mumbles:
"Still not a cat guy."
But he's totally lying.