“He didn’t have a great first ten years,” I said. “He spent his life in a small cage. He got no enrichment from his too many owners. He learned that being loud got results.”
Markie peered at us over his shoulder, clearly satisfied with the accuracy.
Liam’s attention stayed on him, not the cage. “Does he ever come out?”
“Yes,” I said.
He glanced at me then, one eyebrow raised in question.
“He doesn’t fly well,” I continued. “He never learned how. They clipped him early. By the time I got him, his balance was off and his confidence was worse.”
Markie shifted his weight and clicked as if he was offended.
“So he just hangs out?”
“Pretty much. He supervises. He sits on my shoulder and judges my life choices.” I paused. “He also falls asleep pressed against my neck and screams if I move.”
“That sounds… terrifying,” Liam said.
“He acts more like a cat,” I said. “If cats were furious and swore a lot.”
Liam nodded. “You take him out every day?”
“Yes,” I said. “On his terms.”
Another click from Markie.
“He remembers,” Liam said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “He remembers everything.”
I adjusted Markie’s water bowl a fraction, needing to keep my hands busy. I didn’t want to explain what it meant to care for something that learned survival the hard way.
Markie leaned into the side of the enclosure and settled, one foot tucked up, content enough for now.
The living room was full of boxes. The couch existed in theory, beneath a pile of who knows what. Liam guided me there, his hand hovering near my elbow, never touching. I hated how accurate his read on my balance was. He carefully removed my things from the couch and placed them in a neat pile.
“Sit,” he said.
“I don’t need?—”
“Sit.”
I sat.
He disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for permission. I crossed my arms, irritation lining up neatly with old instincts. Being taken care of always came with a cost. There was always the expectation of future compliance or obligation.
He moved through the kitchen without hesitation, clearing a space on the counter with a sweep of his hand. Took a glass from the cabinet, paused, then chose a different one. He filled the glass and set it on the counter, then he picked it up again and brought it over, placing it on the coffee table within easy reach. He folded a kitchen towel, then set it next to the glass and propped my foot on it.
I stayed like that, mostly out of spite, because I suspected he thought I’d be a shitty patient and didn’t want to prove him right.
The couch was still half wrapped in plastic, the cushions stiff. I took a careful sip of the water he’d brought me and watched him move back into the kitchen.
He didn’t ask what I wanted to eat. That should have annoyed me more than it did.
He opened a cabinet, closed it, opened another, paused, considered. Then he adjusted something on the counter that had not been crooked. He moved with a confidence that suggested he was used to kitchens that were not his and still took responsibility for the outcome. My gaze roved over his body. Hewas large. His shoulders filled the narrow space. He had to angle himself to reach the upper corner cabinet so as not to bump into things. The house seemed to accommodate him reluctantly.
He pulled out a pan, then swapped it for a bigger one. He turned on the burner and waited until it responded before continuing.
