Two Cards, One Unspoken Thank You

Bumbly didn’t like debt—not the financial kind, and especially not the emotional kind.

Piper had become a constant in his weeks: cinema nights, rock shows, rides to events, small practical help offered without drama. She wasn’t “on shift.” There was no invoice. No system tracking minutes.

Just Piper, choosing.

At first, Bumbly told himself he’d repay it later in some grand way—some gesture big enough to balance the scale. But the scale didn’t want grand. It wanted steady.

The feeling showed up in small moments: Piper carrying an extra item without being asked; Piper waiting through a slow transfer without making it feel like a delay; Piper texting “home safe?” after concerts.

Bumbly felt grateful, yes—but also itchy with the need to give something back that wasn’t just words. Because words were easy. Love was easy. Reciprocity took creativity.

So he bought the cinema subscription.

Not because Piper asked. Because she hadn’t. Not because it was romantic. Because he needed a way to say: I see what you do. I respect it. I want to carry some of the weight too.

He set it on the table before she arrived, beside two mugs and a heat pack he’d warmed ahead of time. The apartment smelled like mint tea and dish soap and the faint metallic tang of a charging cable.

When Piper walked in, she stopped short.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the envelope.

Bumbly tried to sound casual. His voice did that thing where it pretended not to care and failed.

“A subscription,” he said. “Two cards. Weekly movies if we want. My treat.”

Piper blinked behind her glasses, slow. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” Bumbly cut in, gentler than his urgency. “You’ve… done a lot. And I can’t always… give back in the ways people expect.” His jaw tightened, then loosened. “So I’m giving back in a way I can: time, tickets, and a guaranteed reason to leave the house.”

Piper’s shoulders dropped as if she’d been carrying a quiet worry of her own. “That’s… actually perfect,” she said.

When Bumbly slid the card sleeve across the table, his paw pressed the paper for an extra second—like sealing a pact. A dark smudge transferred to the back: a small pawprint, accidental again, but this time it felt deliberate.

Piper turned the sleeve over, saw it, and smiled.

“Now it’s official,” she said. “We’re a tradition.”

Bumbly felt the scale in his chest level out—not because he’d paid her back, but because he’d joined her on the same side of the effort.