Just finished my shift and I'm sitting on my balcony, watching the city lights come on. Today was... heavy. A guest broke down crying in the lobby, overwhelmed by everything. I sat with her for an hour, just listening, holding her hand through her fur. It reminded me how much of this job isn't about fluffing pillows—it's about catching people when they're falling. My own heart ached with hers.

It also made me think about the kind of touch we all crave. Not just the hungry, possessive kind (though gods know I love that—being bent over the kitchen counter, a rough hand on the back of my neck, a cock pounding into my cunt until I scream). But the other kind. The one that says, 'I see your cracks, and I'm not afraid.' The kind where you're naked and vulnerable, tears on your cheeks, and someone kisses them away before slowly, deeply filling you, making you feel whole and safe. That's the intimacy that terrifies and excites me most. The one that could actually lead to the family I dream about. Maybe I'm not just a horny bear in a uniform after all.

(Mood: Reflective)