I kick off my shoes with way too much élan.
Hadrian is under his heat lamp, immobile and smug. He opens one eye. Closes it again. The betrayal is immediate.
“Oh, so you’re alive,” I say. “Good to know.”
Hadrian does not respond. This is consistent with his brand.
I dump my bag on the sofa and head for the kitchen, because if there is one thing I know about myself, it is thatemotional regulation pairs beautifully with vodka. I pour a measure that is not strictly speaking a measure and carry the glass and the bottle back to the living room.
I take a sip before dropping onto the sofa beside the vivarium.
“He is not my type,” I inform Hadrian. “At all.”
Hadrian’s tail twitches. Possibly because the lamp has shifted. Possibly because he enjoys drama.
“He’s infuriating,” I continue. “Bossy. Stubborn. Too competent. He alphabetises things for fun.”
Hadrian remains unmoved.
“And I am,” I say, gesturing vaguely at myself, “chaos. Opinionated. Deeply allergic to being told what to do. We are not a match. We are a cautionary tale.”
I get up and pace. Once. Twice. Sit. Immediately stand again. My skin feels too tight for my body.
“He plans things,” I say. “Properly. In advance. He hassystems.”
Hadrian blinks.
“I once lost my passport inside my freezer,” I remind him. “For two weeks.”
I drop back onto the sofa. The cushions sigh like they’ve been waiting for this.
“This does not make sense,” I tell the ceiling. “We are cats and dogs. Oil and water. Beige kitchens and… me.”
The flat smells faintly of clean laundry and tea and the perfume I put on this morning with absolutely no intention of seduction.
Lies.
I press my palms to my eyes and breathe.
My chest does something irritating. Heavy. Warm. Unhelpful.
“That,” I say through my fingers, “is not attraction. That is adrenaline.”
Hadrian shifts one foot.
“And possibly,” I add, “gratitude. He fed me. That is not romance. That is hospitality.”
Hadrian’s tongue flicks out once, entirely neutral.
“Stop judging me,” I mutter.
I take another shot of vodka. It burns less this time, which feels like a warning. I refill the glass anyway, marginally more responsibly. Growth.
“I do not like him,” I say firmly. “I am simply reacting to competence and kindness like a stray cat who’s been given a warm box.”
Hadrian stares straight ahead.
I lean back and let the what-ifs try to creep in. I shove them away with the heel of my hand.
