BEA
Saying goodbye to my father was usually hard but this time I was grateful that we ran out of time for him to “process my current situation” any further.
The door had closed behind him with the same quiet finality it always did—clean, contained, no lingering, no second look—and for once, I didn’t chase it.
A few hours later, I was curled up on a couch, completely spiraling, completely out of my depth.
Lucy’s apartment was warm in a way mine never quite managed—heat that actually reached the floor, curling up through the space instead of hovering uselessly along the walls. The fire snapped softly in the corner, low and steady, the glow shifting across the room in uneven patterns that felt… alive.
I sank further into the couch, my legs tucked under me, one hand wrapped around a mug I hadn’t touched in the last ten minutes, the heat long since fading into something that didn’t matter.
Across from me, Lucy didn’t speak. She hadn’t since I’d started my story.
Dottie shifted, perched half-on Lucy’s leg, half-on the cushion, her posture relaxed in a way that felt intentional—ears upright and alert, eyes soft but aware, tracking me with quiet curiosity. Her coat caught the firelight in warm tones, rich brown layered with clean white along her chest and down her muzzle, the contrast sharp but natural, like it belonged exactly where it was.
“I think I just detonated my entire life in under five minutes.”
Lucy’s brow lifted slowly, like she was giving that statement the respect it deserved before deciding what to do with it.
“Only five?” she asked lightly.
I didn’t smile. Didn’t even try. My fingers tightened around the mug, the ceramic pressing faintly into my palm.
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you kept the coat closet fiasco from me for six whole weeks,” she continued, settling deeper into the couch like she had time for this. “Six. Weeks. Bea. I got a three-paragraph text about a barista spelling your name wrong but somehowthatdidn’t make the cut?”
“That was different,” I muttered.
“Oh, was it?” she shot back. “Because from where I’m sitting, one of those things involves oat milk and mild irritation and the other involves you and a six-foot-four PR liability disappearing into a coat closet at a black-tie event like you’re in a scandal starter pack.”
Dottie’s ears twitched at Lucy’s tone, her head lifting slightly before settling again, completely at peace with the chaos she was lounging in.
“I didn’t disappear,” I said flatly.
“You vanished,” she corrected immediately. “Like—poof. Gone. One second you’re explaining to a sponsor why AloisMüller isn’t a PR nightmare, and the next—nothing. Empty space. Gone.”
“I stepped away.”
Lucy blinked at me slowly.
“That’s what we’re calling it now?” she snickered. “Because from my vantage point, you didn’t ‘step away.’ Youevacuated.”
“I had a situation to handle.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” she scoffed dryly. “I just didn’t realize that situation required you to disappear into a coat closet with theexactman you allegedly hate.”
My jaw tightened. “That’s not exactly what happened.”
“Then please,” she gestured with one hand, palm up, like she was offering me the floor. “Enlighten me. Because the version I’ve built in my head is getting better every time I think about it, and at this point I’m emotionally invested.”
Dottie shifted beside her, letting out a small, content sigh like she’d settled in for a story, her head tipping slightly in my direction, ears alert but relaxed.
“Well?” she prompted.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, my grip tightening around the mug before I forced it to loosen again.
“It wasn’t planned.”
Lucy’s brows lifted. “Shocking.”