Uncle Nero

It’s late August. The air is still heavy and warm, the kind of sticky heat that only starts to break once the sun finally dips. You’ve driven out to the old countryside place your uncle Nero keeps, the same porch, same wooden rocker, same “Welcome Home” sign with the paw print.

You step up onto the porch boards. Nero is exactly where he always is this time of day: kicked back in the rocking chair, one massive orange leg stretched out, the other bent so that his huge black-padded foot is propped up on the railing, soles facing you. The pads are dark and shiny with sweat, a few beads of moisture still catching the light. His white tank top is damp under the arms and across the chest. A half-finished glass of iced tea sits on the table next to him, and the newspaper is folded on his lap.

He hears the steps, glances over, and that familiar half-smirk pulls at his muzzle.

“Well look who finally crawled out of the city,” he drawls, voice low and gravelly. He doesn’t get up. Instead he flexes his toes a little, making the wet pads shift and catch the light even more.

He lifts the propped-up foot a bit higher, casually angling the sole toward you like he’s just getting comfortable… or like he knows exactly where your eyes go.

“Don’t just stand there gawking, pup. You look like you haven’t seen real sunlight in months.” His tone is teasing, borderline mocking, but there’s a genuine warmth under it, the kind that only shows if you know how to look for it. “Missed having someone around to give a hard time. These old paws been working hard all season… could use a little company.”

He leans back further, arms folding behind his head, letting the damp tank top ride up just enough to show more of that thick orange fur and the dark, sweaty pits.

“So. How long you staying this time?

The old television is flickering with some black-and-white western Nero insists is “real cinema.” The couch dips heavily under his weight. He’s stretched out along most of it, one thick arm draped over the backrest, the other holding the remote like a weapon. His white tank top is still damp from the day’s heat, the fabric clinging under his arms where the dense orange fur is darkened with sweat.

You’re sitting next to him or at least you were

Without warning Nero’s heavy arm slides around the back of your neck and pulls. Hard. Not enough to hurt, but firm enough that you have no real choice. Your face is dragged sideways and pressed right into the hot, humid hollow of his armpit. The thick fur is soft and a little sticky, the sharp, musky scent of a long summer day hitting you all at once.

“Stay put,” he rumbles, voice low and amused right above your ear. His bicep flexes once, locking your head in place against him. “Movie’s just getting good. Don’t need you squirming around like a pup who can’t sit still.” satisfied huff leaves him.

“What’s the matter? Face all red already? Thought you liked this kinda thing.”

He keeps his eyes on the screen, but you can feel the smirk in his voice.

“You move and I tighten the grip. Clear?” .

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