I never said the dog couldn’t get on my bed, mostly because I assumed I didn’t have to. Some things should be obvious, but assumptions don’t survive contact with Tessa. She doesn’t just cross boundaries; she violates them with precision. And apparently, the dog takes after her.
I swing my legs out of bed and set my feet on the cold floor, already irritated that this is how the day is starting, and I dress quickly—black shirt, wool slacks, belt, shoes—because nothing about this is casual. Not for her, not for the dog, and not for me. If I lower the standard once, it becomes an expectation, and I don’t have the patience to manage that.
By the time I step into the hall, I’ve already reset, my expression even, my movements deliberate, my voice steady if I choose to use it.
She’s crouched by the door with the leash in her hand, carefully fixing the dog’s bowtie while Waffles pants happily, tail knocking against the floor with no sense of restraint. She talks to him in a quiet, coaxing voice, laying out rules he’ll ignore the second she opens the door.
“No jumping. No barking. No chasing squirrels into traffic unless it’s metaphorical, got it? And absolutely no sniffing mailboxes. I don’t care what energy they give off.”
I lean against the doorframe and wait. She doesn’t notice me, which isn’t surprising. She tends to pour all of her attention into the task right in front of her and forgets that the rest of the room exists, and it makes her look more focused than she probably feels.
She smooths the bowtie again, adjusting it even though it’s already straight. The dog couldn’t care less, but she does, because she always has. She wastes energy on details no one else would bother with, and even if the effort is unnecessary, it’s still… her.
And I watch, which irritates me more than anything she’s doing, because I should stop and tell her this doesn’t work, that she needs to take the dog and go, and yet, I don’t. Instead, I stand here, cataloging every small movement and every unnecessary word, frustrated that she doesn’t realize she’s already crossed into territory I should never have let her near.
“Are you giving him a speech,” I say finally, “or just trying to bore him into obedience?”
She startles, spinning around with the leash clutched in both hands, eyes wide. “I was—” she stops, defensive already. “I was setting expectations.”
“He’s a dog,” I remind her, pushing off the doorframe and walking past to grab my coat. “The only expectation he has is that someone feeds him before noon.”
“He understands more than you think,” she shoots back, voice quick, sharp.
“Doubtful,” I mutter, slipping into the coat. “If he understood, he wouldn’t have been in my bed.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. Waffles barks once, as if on cue, which earns him a pointed look from me.
“That doesn’t count,” she says quickly, tugging the leash tighter. “That was enthusiasm. Not disobedience.”
“Call it what you want,” I reply, reaching for the keys on the counter. “Just don’t call it my problem when he ignores your TED Talk about squirrels.”
I pull the door open and step into the hall, and it takes her a second to move. She blinks at me.
“You’re… coming with us?” she asks, her voice pitched high.
“Apparently.” I lock the door behind us and slide the key into my pocket. “Unless you think I trust you not to get arrested before breakfast.”
Her jaw drops, caught between offense and confusion. “I’ve walked a dog before.”
“In your apartment’s hallway. Not on my block.” I start down the corridor, not waiting for her to catch up. “There’s a difference.”
She scrambles after me, leash tugging as Waffles barrels forward with zero coordination. “You can’t possibly think I need a chaperone.”
“I don’t think it,” I say flatly, pressing the elevator button. “I know it.”
Her mouth falls open again, and I can feel her glare boring into the side of my head. She mutters something under her breath, too quiet for me to catch, but loud enough that she wants me to ask. I don’t.
When the elevator doors slide open, Waffles lunges forward, nearly dragging her with him. She stumbles, catching herself on the rail—except it isn’t the rail she grabs first. It’s me.
I catch her elbow before she can fall, steady her, then let go as soon as her balance returns.
“See?” I say as we step inside. “Exhibit A.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” she argues, cheeks flushed, fingers tightening on the leash. “He just gets excited.”
“And you just nearly face-planted in front of my neighbors.” I hit the ground floor button. “Try again.”
She glares at me, then huffs, shifting Waffles closer to her side. “You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care, you sure seem invested.”
