This is from something I’m tinkering with:
Coldstream—the name had been Tom’s suggestion—padded up, rubbing his head against Alex’s arm, breaking his daydream about the time he and Tom had gone to see Twelfth Night together.
“Yeah, I love you too.” Alex tickled the cat’s favourite spot, just behind his ear. “Just remembering our mutual best mate.” At least he’d was always able to tell Coldstream how much he missed Tom; the cat wasn’t bothered by tears. They’d picked him up at a rescue centre, during Tom’s last batch of leave, before being deployed to keep what little, fragile peace existed in a hotbed of insurgents. Coldstream had been as smitten with Tom as Alex was, as upset at his parting and as heartbroken at his death.
And this is what Elin Gregory calls my Charlie flap. Just don’t ask.