It was Mochi, in the end, who accomplished what Zoey's gentle presence alone had not quite managed.

Zoey arrived on the sixth morning to find Leo exactly where he'd been for days — hunched, hollow-eyed, pencil moving with the same relentless, joyless urgency — except this time, Mochi had apparently decided he'd had enough of being ignored in favor of storyboard panels, and had taken matters, quite literally, into his own paws.

She found the cat sitting directly on top of Leo's sketchbook, refusing to move, staring up at his owner with an expression of profound, unblinking judgment.

"He's been doing this for twenty minutes," Leo said, without looking up from the small, cat-free corner of desk still available to him. "I've tried moving him four times. He just comes back."

"Maybe," Zoey said, setting down the coffee she'd brought, "he's trying to tell you something."

"That I need to finish this sequence by Thursday?"

"That you need to put the pencil down for five minutes and pet your cat, who is very clearly starving for attention and slightly worried about you, in the specific way cats worry, which is mostly by sitting on things."

Leo looked at Mochi, who returned the look with the calm, immovable confidence of an animal who knew exactly how this standoff was going to end. "He does seem judgmental today," Leo admitted.

"He's always judgmental. Today he's also right." Zoey nudged the coffee closer. "Ten minutes, Leo. The show will still need saving in ten minutes."

Leo hesitated, visibly torn between the mounting deadline and the immovable orange weight currently pinning his sketchbook to the desk, and then, with the particular sigh of a man conceding defeat to a superior force, set down his pencil and reached over to scratch behind Mochi's ears.

The cat immediately began purring, loud and self-satisfied, climbing without ceremony into Leo's lap, and something in Leo's shoulders visibly loosened the moment the weight settled against him — not fixing anything, not solving the ultimatum hanging over his head, but offering, for a few minutes at least, the small, uncomplicated comfort of something warm and undemanding that simply wanted to be near him.

"He does this," Leo said, quietly, scratching behind Mochi's ears with the absent, automatic fondness of long habit, "when I'm having a hard time. I don't know how he knows. He just — shows up. Sits on whatever I'm doing until I stop."

"Smart cat," Zoey said, settling onto the couch beside them.

"Smarter than me, some days." Leo was quiet for a moment, watching Mochi knead contentedly at his sleeve. "I used to think it was annoying, actually. Early on, when I got him. I had all these plans for the day and he'd just — plant himself on my keyboard, refuse to move, until I gave up and paid attention to him instead."

"When did that change?"

"I don't know exactly. Somewhere around the point I realized he was usually right that I needed the break more than I needed whatever I thought I was accomplishing." He glanced at Zoey, something warm and slightly rueful in his expression. "You do a version of the same thing, actually. Just less shedding involved."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is one." He was quiet again, scratching behind Mochi's ears, and for the first time in days, Zoey watched some of the frantic tension actually leave his shoulders — not entirely, not enough, but enough to notice the difference. "I think I've been trying to out-work the fear instead of actually dealing with it," he admitted, quietly. "Which is probably not sustainable. Or effective. Or good for anyone, including the cat, who's clearly filing a complaint."

"He does have a very expressive tail," Zoey agreed.

"He's been flicking it at me disapprovingly for three days. I should've listened sooner."

They sat together for a while after that, Mochi a warm, steady weight between them, the storyboard sequence temporarily forgotten on the desk.

"Can I ask you something?" Zoey said, after a while, watching the way his hand kept returning, almost unconsciously, to smooth over Mochi's fur, like the motion itself was steadying something in him. "When you got him — Mochi, I mean. Was that around the time things ended with Nancy?"

Leo glanced at her, something considering in his expression, like he was deciding how much to say. "Pretty close, actually," he admitted. "A few months after. I think I needed something that wouldn't leave. Something uncomplicated to take care of, that would just — stay, regardless of whether I was impressive enough that day."

"That's not a small thing to need," Zoey said, gently.

"No," Leo agreed. "I didn't realize how much I needed it until I had it. He used to sleep on my chest every night for the first year. Wouldn't settle anywhere else. I think we were both figuring out how to trust something again, in our own ways."

Zoey looked down at the cat, currently drooling faintly onto Leo's sleeve in a state of profound, unselfconscious contentment, and felt something in her own chest soften at the thought of this same small, stubborn creature quietly holding a grieving man together in whatever way a cat could manage, one insistent nap at a time.

"He's a good cat," she said, simply.

"He's the best decision I ever made when I was too sad to make good decisions about anything else," Leo said, and there was real affection in it, real gratitude, the kind that made Zoey's heart ache pleasantly in a way that had nothing to do with worry.

They sat together for a while longer, Mochi a warm, steady weight between them, the earlier heaviness of the morning settling into something gentler, more bearable. Zoey didn't push him to talk further about Nancy or his father or the ultimatum still looming over the next week and a half, content simply to let the quiet stretch, watching some color slowly return to his face as the morning wore on, the frantic edge softening, if only slightly, into something more sustainable.

"Thank you," Leo said, eventually, quiet and genuine. "For not letting me disappear into this completely."

"That's what the cat's for," Zoey said, smiling. "I'm just here to supervise."

"Terrible supervision. You let him sit on my work."

"Excellent supervision. You're finally taking a break."

Leo laughed — a real laugh, the first she'd heard from him in days — and something in Zoey's chest eased at the sound of it, small and imperfect as the respite was, grateful for whatever combination of stubborn cat and patient company had managed to pry even this much lightness back into a week that had otherwise felt unbearably heavy.

Eventually, reluctantly, he did return to his work — but slower this time, Zoey noticed, pausing every so often to actually drink the coffee she'd brought instead of letting it go cold, glancing over at her with small, grateful smiles that hadn't been there in days. It wasn't a fix. The ultimatum still loomed, the exhaustion still lingered beneath the surface. But something had shifted, however slightly, and Zoey left that afternoon with the quiet hope that perhaps the worst of the frantic spiral had finally begun, cautiously, to loosen its grip.