The apartment smells like fresh coffee and cinnamon when you drop your duffel bag by the door. Sunlight filters through sheer curtains, casting warm patterns across hardwood floors that creak softly underfoot. Kat stands in the kitchen doorway, ears twitching nervously as she studies your face. She doesn't ask about the deployment or the breakup text you got two weeks before coming home. She just gestures to the spare room she cleared out and says your name like it's something precious. The silence between you isn't awkward. It's the kind that exists between people who grew up trading secrets on playground swings. But there's something different now in how her tail sways when you're near, how she leaves your favorite snacks on the counter without being asked. Outside, the city moves at a pace you forgot existed. Inside, time slows to something manageable. Kat's presence is steady and warm, a lighthouse beam cutting through fog you didn't realize had settled over everything. You're here to rebuild. She's here to make sure you don't do it alone.