I'm pressed against the doorframe of a Kensington Market apartment by Oliver the goldendoodle, my cashmere coat now dusted with golden fur, and the meticulous architecture of my hair has been demoted to suggestion.And I am trying very hard not to smile.
Because Oliver is warm, and ridiculous, and he is looking at me with so much immediate, uncomplicated adoration that something behind my ribs cracks, just slightly, like ice in the spring.
“It's fine,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Softer. I reach down and scratch behind Oliver's left ear, and his entire back half goes limp with pleasure. His tail redoubles its efforts. “He's... enthusiastic.”
Casey finally manages to wrangle Oliver down to four paws, but the dog immediately sits directly on my feet and leans his full weight against my legs, gazing up at me with an expression of devoted worship.
“He likes you,” Casey says, and there's something in his voice, something warm and surprised and almost tender, that I absolutely cannot consider at this point in time. “He rarely picks favourites that fast.”
“He has exceptionally poor judgment,” I say, but I don't move my feet.
I pick up my leather notebook from where it fell, brush a small constellation of golden fur off the cover, and follow Casey deeper into the apartment. I step over a chew toy shaped like a rubber steak. I navigate around a laundry basket that appears to contain both clean and dirty clothes in a filing system known only to Casey. I pause at the kitchen table, which is a small, round oak surface covered in medical journals, hockey magazines, a half-eaten box of Uncrustables (grape flavour, so at least the man has baseline taste), three different phone chargers, and a potted succulent that is, against all botanical probability, thriving.
“Do you want coffee?” Casey asks, already moving toward the kitchen counter. “Fair warning, I only have the big mugs. And themilk might be... let me check.” He opens the fridge, sniffs something, makes a face, and puts it back. “Alright, so we're doing black coffee.”
“Black is how I take it.”
“Right, I knew that.”
He says it casually, tossing it over his shoulder while he reaches for a mug, and the motion does something to the long line of his back that I have no business cataloguing. The cataloguing happens anyway. Three years of anatomy lectures and a fellowship in microsurgical technique, and my brain has selected this moment to inventory the latissimus dorsi of a colleague in a faded Leafs shirt. The information lands in the centre of my chest with the force of a thrown scalpel: this man, who seemingly cannot organize a laundry basket, has catalogued my coffee preference. I have, apparently, been cataloguing things in return. I had not previously been aware of this.
I sit down at the kitchen table, easing aside a hockey magazine and the Uncrustables box. Oliver has followed me and is now sitting at my feet with his chin resting heavily on my knee, shedding and drooling onto my tailored trousers with the quiet, relentless dedication of a man doing his life's work.
I open my leather notebook to the first page, where I have written, in my precise, surgical handwriting: CONTINGENCY FRAMEWORK: KAPOOR ENGAGEMENT (REV. 1).
Casey sets a mug in front of me, drops into the chair across the table, and peers at my notebook. His eyebrows go up. “You titled it.”
“Organization is the foundation of any successful operation.”
“Sure, but you titled it like it's a NATO mission briefing.” He leans back, his massive frame making the kitchen chair creak dangerously, and takes a sip of his coffee. “Alright, Doc. Lay it on me. What are the rules?”
I take a steadying breath. Somewhere between the circling of the block and the Goldendoodle assault, my pulse has settled intoa rhythm that is merely elevated rather than arrhythmic. I can work with elevated. I have performed surgeries at elevated levels.
“Rule one,” I begin, clicking my pen with a precision that I hope conveys authority. “Public displays of affection will be controlled and strategic. We will present a united front of confident, understated intimacy. Hand-holding when observed. Proximity in social settings. Brief, appropriate physical contact when necessary to sell the narrative.”
Casey nods, his face serious. “Define 'brief, appropriate physical contact.'“
“A hand on the arm. A touch to the lower back in a crowd. Perhaps...” I force the words out like I'm dictating a surgical plan. “An arm around the shoulder in group photographs.”
“Okay. What about a hand on the knee? Like at dinner, under the table?”
My pen skips. “Why would you need to touch my knee under the table?”
“Couples do that,” he says, with an expression of such guileless sincerity that I cannot determine if he's being helpful or deliberately trying to end me. “It's, like, a thing. The under-the-table knee touch. Very standard relationship behaviour.”
“Fine. Knee touches. Noted.” I writeknee touchesin my notebook. Then I cross it out. Then I write it again, more firmly, because crossing it out felt like an admission of something. Casey, across the table, takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug with the placid attention of someone waiting to see what I do next. His mouth, when it leaves the rim of the mug, is wet, and pink, and I look at it for half a second longer than is strictly required to confirm that yes, he has a mouth, and then I look at my notebook with the focused intensity of a junior resident being observed during their first lumbar puncture. “Rule two. Terms of endearment. We need to establish an approved list and use them consistently.”
“So what am I calling you?”
“Something plausible. Something my family would expect from a partner.”
Casey taps his chin, eyes crinkling with a thoughtfulness that looks suspiciously like barely restrained delight. “Babe?”
“Adequate.”
“Honey?”
“Acceptable.”