My wife doesn’t leave town often, but when she does, I waste no time. The moment she’s out the door, I let my favorite girl slip into our bed. She curls up beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. We nap, we stretch, we watch movies. I always wash the sheets afterward so my wife never suspects a thing. It’s risky, I know. But I can’t help it. She’s soft. She purrs. She needs me. And I need her. If my wife ever found out the cat was sleeping in our bed, I’d be in serious trouble.
It started innocently enough. One night, I found her curled up outside our bedroom door, looking pitiful. I opened it, just for a minute, just to see what she’d do. She leapt onto the bed like she’d been waiting her whole life. From that moment on, it became our secret ritual. Whenever my wife travels, the cat knows. She waits by the door, tail flicking, eyes wide. And I cave every time. I know I shouldn’t. But she’s family too. And she’s got a way of making me feel like the chosen one.
One time, we were mid-snuggle when I got a text—my wife’s flight was delayed. I should’ve panicked. Instead, we stretched out, watched a movie, and napped till sunset. It was one of the best evenings I’ve had in ages. There’s something about her presence that’s grounding. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t talk. She just exists beside me, warm and loyal. I know it’s silly. But in those quiet hours, I feel like I’m part of a secret club. One that only she and I understand.
My wife has strict rules about the cat. No furniture, no beds, no exceptions. She says it’s about hygiene, but I think it’s about control. The cat used to sleep beside her before we got married. Now she’s banished to the guest room. I get it. But I also get the look in those feline eyes—the longing, the betrayal. So when the coast is clear, I make it right. I let her back in. Just for a night or two. Just enough to remind her she’s still loved.
I always clean up afterward. Fresh sheets, lint roller, the works. My wife never suspects a thing. She comes home, kisses me hello, and the cat slinks off like nothing happened. It’s our little conspiracy. I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s also sweet. In a world full of rules and routines, this tiny rebellion feels like freedom. Like love. Like loyalty to the one who never stopped waiting at the door.
Thirteen years from now, maybe I’ll tell my wife. Maybe I won’t. Maybe the cat will be gone, and I’ll miss those secret snuggles more than I can say. But for now, I’ll keep the door cracked, the sheets warm, and the secret safe. Because sometimes, the softest love is the one you hide under the covers.
