I want to stay. I want to tell her she was right, that I am scared, that she matters. Watching her take care of everyone—including a neurotic dog that isn’t even hers—makes me feel things I can’t name.
Instead, I go.
But I leave my door unlocked. Just in case.
An hour later, I’m pretending to read briefs, the words swimming on the page, when I hear it—scratching at my door, insistent, desperate.
I open it, expecting Muffin.
But she’s not alone.
Poppy is carrying her, wrapped in blankets like a burrito. Her hair is everywhere, no longer styled but wild around her face. Makeup gone, scrubbed clean. Barefoot, her feet probably still aching from those heels.
“She won’t settle,” she says, her voice small and uncertain. “Keeps crying. I think she wants—”
“Her spot.” I step aside without hesitation. “Come in.”
They enter like it’s normal, like we do this. Poppy, with her disaster hair and someone else’s dog, makes herself at home in my space as if she belongs here.
“Where’s her spot?”
I gesture to the rug by the fireplace. “There. She likes the corner.”
Poppy carefully settles Muffin, tucking the blankets around her. The dog immediately curls up, sighs deeply, and passes out.
“Seriously? That’s all it took?” Poppy stares at the sleeping dog, incredulous.
“She’s particular.”
“She’s ridiculous.” But she’s smiling slightly, the first real smile I’ve seen since the patio.
“Yeah, well.”
We stand there, awkward. The weight of our earlier fight hangs between us like smoke. I can still see the hurt in her eyes, the way she holds herself carefully, as if she might break.
“I should—” She starts toward the door.
“You could stay.” The words are out before I can stop them, rushing out like they’ve been trapped. “Until she’s really settled. In case the storm comes back.”
She looks at me for a long moment, searching my face. “Just until she’s settled.”
“Right.”
“On the couch.”
“Of course.”
“This doesn’t mean—”
“I know.”
She curls up on one end of the couch, pulling her knees up. I sit on the other, keeping a careful distance between us. A full cushion of space that feels like miles.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not naïve. I know the statistics. I know half of these marriages won’t last.” Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. “But I also know that moment when they look at each other and think,‘You’re it. You’re my person.’ And even if it ends… that moment was still real.”
