Volume #104: Affection Management Protocols (Jack Division)

He approaches daily.
Big. Soft-hearted. Slightly chaotic but with manners. Jack.

He greets me with reverence.
“Hi Pookie, you’re my best girl,” he says, gently petting my head like I’m ancient royalty.
I blink slowly in acknowledgment. He is large and capable of crushing me.
But he does not. He tucks his limbs respectfully. He whispers compliments. He tries not to poke my spleen.

Unlike the other one—James, the tornado with fingers—Jack understands boundaries.
Mostly.

Today, he curled up beside me with a blanket and a book titled “How Dinosaurs Say I Love You.” It was unsettling content. But I tolerated it. His love is persistent and—dare I say—loyal.
He read aloud.
He gave me choices: “Do you want to hear the bunny story or just sit in silence like a queen?”
I chose silence.
He honored it.

Then, he kissed my ear.
Twice.
I did not flee.

Later, he tried to put a tiny paper crown on my head and said, “She is ruler of naps and wisdom.”
Ashley laughed from the kitchen. I did not.
I held still.
Because Jack meant it.

So yes. I accept his love. I tolerate the gentle invasions.
Because he is careful. Because he believes in me.
Because when James chased me with peanut butter fingers, it was Jack who intervened, yelling, “STOP! That’s her majestic fur!”

I do not seek affection.
But Jack offers it respectfully.
And for that, I stay.
Near.
Within reach.
Sometimes even on the couch.