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Another yip, louder this time.

Faun, please.

His nails scrabble against something, and my mother says, “What on earth⁠—”

I make the mistake of looking.

Faun sees me.

His entire seven-pound body detonates.

He launches himself out of my mother’s arms with absolutely no consideration for gravity, personal safety, or the fact that I am currently trying very hard not to exist.

“Fauntleroy!” My mother screeches.

He hits the floor running.

So much for covert operations.

I barely have time to straighten before he tears around the endcap and comes at me full speed, ears flying, making a noise somewhere between a scream and a malfunctioning smoke detector.

I crouch down and catch him against my chest on instinct.

And there it is.

That stupid fucking feeling.

Immediate. Physical. Embarrassingly sincere.

He’s wriggling so hard I nearly drop him, front paws scrambling up my shirt until he can shove his face beneath my chin. His whole body is shaking. His tail is going a million miles per minute, and when I get a hand around him, I realize I’m grinning.

“Hey, buddy.”

He whines and licks my jaw.

“I know.”

Another frantic lick.

“I missed you too.”

For approximately three seconds, I forget why seeing him is a problem.

Then I look up.

My mother is standing at the end of the aisle.

The photograph hangs forgotten at her side. The woman she was talking to has decided this is better than whatever she came here to buy and is openly watching from behind her bread.

My mother looks at me.

I look at my mother.

Faun licks the inside of my nostril.

“Traitor,” I mutter.

He sneezes directly into my mouth.