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He can deny Bob being his pet as much as he likes; those two are usually inseparable.
I lean forward and rest my head against his back, staring out at the bright blue sky, trying to ignore how sunburned my face feels like it’s getting. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and sitting here, listening to Bob’s steady purr, is making me sleepy. My eyes do that slow blink thing, sleep pulling me under, and when they snap open again—
Lynx is there.
“What the hell is this?” His whole face is scrunched up as he looks down on us, like he can’t work out what he’s seeing.
A yawn stretches my face wide. “Hey,” I say, rubbing my head against Bob’s. “I came for a visit.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want you to miss me again.”
His lips flatten until they disappear. “Move.”
“Can’t.” I let my eyes drift closed. “Too comfy.”
“Bob.” Lynx makes a hissing sound, and the animal jumps up off my lap with an unhappy noise. With the warm weight gone, I’m suddenly not as sleepy or at peace as I was.
“Rude,” I grumble, climbing to my feet. “I was enjoying that.”
“Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to pet wild animals?”
I roll my eyes at the way he insists on calling Bob that. “Yes. He looked very dangerous.”
“You never know.”
“Well, if being cuddled to death by a kitty is how I go, I’d still argue it’s better than most other ways to die.”
His face is still twisted into that disgusted expression. “Dying is dying. There is no better way to do that.”
“Of course there is. Dying in your sleep is objectively better than something long and painful and drawn out.”
He goes on frowning at me. “Go home.”
“Considering I was lucky to make it here, there’s no way I’m doing that.”
Lynx lets out a steady breath like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to do with me, and he must decide that ignoring my existence is best because he steps around me and walks inside.
I follow him. “This is where you live?”
His back visibly tightens before he turns to face me. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“Uh … sorry?” I didn’t realize he was so big on manners. “We were in the middle of a conversation, so I thought I was supposed to follow you.”
“The conversation was over, and I told you to go home.”
“And I told you no.”
Bob sneaks his way past us and curls up in a giant squishy basket that I’m assuming must be his bed.
The sight has me let out a ha. “He is your pet. You have a bed for him and everything.”
“He’s a reluctant roommate at best. It’s not like I could let him sleep on the ground.”
“But he’s a wild animal. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? Where else would they sleep?”
“Is it time for you to leave yet?” He walks over to the table and sets his new knife down on it before going over to the fridge. Seeing him reach inside for an apple and look it over before taking a bite is so weirdly normal I’m mesmerized by the whole process.
