“Hi, sweet boy,” I murmured, crouching slightly as I reached down, fingers finding the soft, dense curls of his coat.
Bento blinked up at me, slow and deliberate, like he was taking inventory before deciding I still passed inspection. A low, steady purr started up beneath my palm—quiet, but present. Approval. Temporary, but real.
Lucy noticed immediately. “Oh my god,” she whispered, dropping her voice like she might scare him off. “He’s out. I was about think he wasn’t real.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I warned gently, already knowing it wouldn’t matter.
She crouched anyway, carefully extending her hand just enough to hover near his head. “Hi,” she coaxed softly. “I come in peace.”
Bento turned his head, glaring at her. The wheels were churning as he blinked slowly. Then—like a switch flipped—he darted backward and disappeared under the new sofa in one smooth, affronted motion.
Lucy froze, hand still midair. “…did I just get rejected?”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “That was actually better than usual.”
“Better?” she echoed, blinking.
“He made eye contact first,” I offered with a shrug.
“That’s… encouraging?”
“Extremely.”
From the kitchen, Lo hummed into her wineglass. “He’s selective.”
“He’s ruthless,” Lucy snorted, glancing toward Bento’s couch sanctuary.
I straightened, brushing my hands lightly against my jeans. “He doesn’t really trust anyone,” I explained. “He barely tolerated Micah, and she fed him half the time for years.”
“Unbelievable,” Lucy muttered. “I have great energy.”
Ezra passed behind her, setting the last of the frames down on the table before resting a hand briefly on her shoulder—absent, grounding. “He’ll come around,” he assured calmly. “He just needs to decide it was his idea.”
We finally finished hanging the pictures, and just like that—there was nothing left to do.
My grown-up apartment had taken shape around us.
The couch sat beneath the windows, angled slightly because the wall wasn’t as straight as it pretended to be. Late afternoon light spilled in across the cushions, catching on the edges of the frames we’d just hung. The rug lay flat—mostly—after spending the morning trying to curl itself back into its packaging. My kitchen cabinets were half full, half waiting. The small table by the window held two mugs, a stack of mail, and the folder I’d already checked three times.
Tomorrow’s folder.
I forced my gaze away from it.
“Okay,” Lucy announced from the floor near the coffee table, pushing herself up onto her feet. “I’m calling it. We’ve reached peak productivity.”
“We have not,” I returned automatically from beside the couch, straightening one of the throw pillows that didn’t actually need it.
“We absolutely have.” She gestured broadly around the apartment. “The pictures are hung. The couch exists. There are beverages present.” She lifted her water bottle like evidence. “This is success.”
Lo, leaning against the kitchen counter with her wineglass balanced between her fingers, took a slow sip and smiled into the rim. “I agree with Lucy. This feels complete enough to celebrate.”
I drew in a breath and let it out slowly, taking it all in.
They weren’t wrong.
For now, our work here was done.
And that made something in my chest tighten.