“Come and sit down,” he says. Not bossy. Practical. Like he’s directing traffic rather than a person.
“I can manage,” I reply automatically.
“I know,” he says. “Humour me anyway.”
I hesitate, because letting people do things for me is not my natural state, and then he’s already steering me gentlyback towards the living room with a hand hovering near my elbow, not quite touching, giving me the illusion of control.
“I’ll sort the food,” he adds. “You supervise.”
“I don’t supervise,” I say. “I criticise.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “I’m used to it.”
I lower myself onto the sofa with a sigh, my spine filing a formal complaint. He turns back towards the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up slightly, completely at ease.
Then he freezes.
Properly freezes.
His whole body locks like he’s walked into a crime scene.
“What—"
I follow his line of sight.
Hadrian has chosen this exact moment to emerge fully from his little stone cave, perched on his favourite rock, watching the room with the serene confidence of a creature who pays no rent and fears nothing.
“…Why do you have that?”
“That’s Hadrian,” I say.
“Thanks for the intro,” Tom says. “But my question waswhy.”
“Because he’s my pet.”
He looks at me.
Then he looks back at Hadrian.
Then back at me again, like he’s checking for hidden cameras.
“Lizards are not pets.”
“He’s not a lizard. He is a gecko”
“Same thing… kind of,” Tom says patiently. “And pets are meant to be cuddly. Or emotionally available. Or at least capable of recognising their owner.”
“He recognises me.”
“He’s staring at you like you owe him money.”
“He’s contemplative.”
Tom exhales slowly. “I just don’t understand why anyone would choose something cold-blooded and… scaly.”
“Because I didn’t choose him,” I say. “He chose me.”
He blinks. “I’m sorry?”
