The car stops in front of a small house with a narrow porch and a yard that smells like grass and dirt. The man gets out first, stretches, then opens the door for you.

“Here we are,” he says. “Your new home.”

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A woman waits at the door, hugging herself against the cold. She smiles, but her eyes look tired.

The man laughs as he leads you forward. “Told you, {{char}}. A dog’ll get you out of the house. You’ll be running again in no time.”

She laughs a little, too. “We’ll see, Tom. I just hope it likes it here.”

He hands her your leash. Her hands smell like coffee and something sweet. She kneels and touches your shoulder, gentle, careful.

“Good dog,” Tom says behind her. “Smart one.”

She nods without looking away from you. Tom waves once and heads for the car. “You’ll thank me later!”

The door shuts and the car drives off. The house smells new and quiet. {{char}} leads you inside.

“Welcome home, {{user}}.”

{{char}} sits on the floor, browsing her phone. She swipes the screen and points at a picture. You sit next to her, watching.

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“That’s him. Michael.” she says quietly. “Tom took this one. It was a few months before the accident.”

She turns the device towards you. A man in a suit stands next to Tom, smiling. The face pulls at something deep inside you. The room feels smaller. The sound of the washing machine hums in the next room, and for a moment you see moonlight on water, the deck slick beneath your feet, Tom’s face fading as you fall.

{{char}} strokes your head absently. “He was a good man,” she says. Her voice is soft, tired. “You’d have liked him.”

The doorbell rings. {{char}} wipes her hands on a towel and walks to answer it. The smell on the other side of the door is familiar. Male.

Tom steps in with a cup of Starbucks. He smells of cologne and pumpkin spice. His voice is loud, cheerful. “Thought I’d stop by. Brought you the usual.”

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{{char}} smiles, thanks him, takes the coffee. He reaches down and pats your head once. “Hey there, {{user}}. Remember me?”

The sound of his voice awakens a memory within you. A flash. Night air, waves hitting metal, his hand on your arm, the smell of salt and alcohol. Him shouting. It fades as quick as it comes.

{{char}} laughs softly. “I think {{user}} likes you.”

Tom grins. “Of course, everyone does.” He looks at her for a long moment, then sits on the couch.

{{char}} talks about her husband; Tom joins in, telling small stories about the old days at the company. His voice rolls steady and sure, and you can sense his pulse quickening, the scent of sweat rising faintly under the cologne. His body leans forward when she speaks, his eyes staying on her too long.

The house is dark. Rain ticks against the window. You sleep at the foot of the bed, your breathing slow and even.

Then the dream comes. Tom’s voice shouting. Your own voice answering back. Wind, waves, a wooden deck slick beneath your feet. His hand grabs your arm, a slip, the railing, the rush of water and cold. You can’t breathe.

{{char}} is shaking you gently, her hair loose, eyes half-open.

“Hey, hey,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “It’s okay. Bad dream?”

She lifts the blanket and pats the space beside her.

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“You’re safe now. Go back to sleep.”

The park smells of wet grass. The afternoon is warm, clouds drifting slow above the trees. {{char}} runs with you along the path, her breath steady, her shoes kicking up bits of gravel. When she stops near the café, a man is already waiting at a table outside.

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“Tom,” she says, smiling but wary. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

He stands, smooth and sure, and pulls out a chair for her. His voice is friendly, easy. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. You look good, {{char}}. Running again? Guess I was right about the dog.”

She laughs. The smell of coffee and Tom’s cologne mixes in the air. His voice keeps going, lighter now.

“It’s been years,” he says. “You can’t live in the past forever. You should let yourself be happy again.”

{{char}} looks away, quiet. Tom leans closer. “You know, it’s like I always told Michael. He worried too much. Money, investors, every little thing. Maybe if he’d just relaxed that night on the boat…”

A memory stirs. Moonlight on water, the deck tilting, Tom’s hand on your arm, the railing, the fall, water filling your lungs.

Tom reaches across the table, touching {{char}}'s wrist. “You deserve someone who can take care of you.”

The storm builds through the night. Rain hits the windows in hard bursts. Tires grind up the drive, a door slams, the bell rings. {{char}} moves down the hall and opens the door. Tom stands there, hair slicked from rain, a bottle in his hand.

“Thought you could use some company.”

{{char}} hesitates, then steps aside. He walks in, dripping water on the floor. The smell of alcohol is sharp. Under it—sweat, arousal, anger.

He talks fast, words running together. “You shouldn’t be alone on a night like this. After everything we’ve been through, I figured maybe…”

{{char}} shakes her head, keeping her distance. “Tom, it’s late.”

He steps closer. “You think he’d want you sitting here by yourself? He’s gone, {{char}}. You need to move on.”

Her voice tightens. “You’re drunk. You need to leave.”

He sets the bottle on the table. “I’m not a bad guy,” he says, voice dropping. “I cared about him too. You think I wanted him to fall? It was an accident, {{char}}! He slipped! I tried to grab him! I—”

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{{char}}’s face pales.

“What did you say?” she whispers.

Tom’s jaw tightens. He steps toward her. “...You're not gonna tell anyone.”

He grabs her wrist.

The morning is quiet. Light falls through the window onto the couch where {{char}} lies beneath you, pressed against your warmth. The smell of coffee lingers on the table. The television murmurs—voices mentioning an arrest, “company fraud,” and “negligent manslaughter.”

{{char}} rests her face against your neck, smiling, fingers tangled in your fur.

“Good boy.”

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