Chapter 2.

14:22, Thursday, the 29th of January, 2029.

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It’d been two days since I began working at the compound and two days since the ‘incident’, as the place’s only other occupant liked to call it, which she did often, as she took every opportunity to bring it up, to remind me what I’d ‘done’. And really, it had helped. I’d very quickly lost the care and respect for her I had when I first started.

She was, in every conceivable meaning of the word… a bitch.

But, truth be told, aside from that, nothing important at all had happened. I cleaned up after said bitch and made chicken and egg rice every four pm, along with what seemed to be a deadly amount of green tea, which she drank like water out of a ceramic bowl of all things. It was odd, also, that aside from the fast food binge on the first day, she ate healthier than I ever had.

No knife or fork, though, which caught me off guard the first time. Given her quote-unquote ‘manners’ and constant use of technology, I’d expected her to, but no, she actually ate with her mouth – on a plate, of course, but still with her mouth, always loudly.

“Don’t stare at me when I eat, Max.”

I blinked, sitting up, realising what I’d been doing, and did my best to focus on eating my own meal: an extra-large serving of omelette. “Sorry,” I said, taking another hearty mouthful. We were sat in the large dining room, her at the head of the long table and me next to her – she’d insisted, and I didn’t care enough to say no. It was still weird to me that I was able to eat and relax so easily, and whilst I did my best to savour it, I didn’t quite get what I was supposed to be doing.

Charlotte looked after herself just fine, if a little lazily, so all I’d really been doing was basic food prep and some light cleaning, both of which I was sure she could manage herself.

Why, I wondered, itching at my chin, had Jack even hired me?

“So,” began Charlotte, speaking up. “What is it you do, Max?” Always with the name. “Are you a struggling artist rioting against the world? A poet, a writer?” She placed her chin atop a paw she’d laid upon the table. “Or are you going to bore me?”

“I am going to bore you,” I revealed, glad for something close to a regular conversation. “I am a business specialist. I went to college and uni for it – the youngest in my class, too – but it, uh… didn’t exactly work out.”

She raised a brow. “You mean you couldn’t get a job?”

'You bitch,' I thought, gritting my teeth and ignoring the sting in my chest.

“…Basically,” I took a breath, resisting the urge to choke a poodle out. “I put so much time and money into school that when I left and couldn’t land a job in time, I was kinda screwed.” Another mouthful of egg, a light nod from Charlotte. “What about you?” She hummed, raising her head as though surprised I’d asked. “You said you had fans or some shit?”

“Language.”

I rolled my eyes and waited.

“Online marketing,” the pooch said. “Tweets, social media, that sort of thing. But… I also have this.” The tablet she was forever glued to was spun around and shown to me, revealing… Instagram?

No, not quite, I realised, squinting and leaning over the table. A copy, one more canine thing, based on the paw-shaped logo. “Behold.” She swiped to her account, which, to give her some semblance of credit, did in fact have nearly half a million followers, along with many high-effort posts.

Her meals, days out, exercise routines, pics of her posing and a strawberry cheesecake that

I paused my perusing, eyes focusing in on the rather… interesting poses. They weren’t too bad, just…

No comment.

“Your-” The word 'owner' nearly slipped out, but I bit it back just in time. “Jack really lets you post these?”

“Of course he does,” she deadpanned, showing off a well-lit picture of her in a vest. “Because every girl tells her dad what she's up to online.” And then a low, pleased little huff escaped her as the soft underside of her robotic thumb swiped over to an image of some poor gormless idiot stuffing his face with noodles that-

Wait.

I knew that gormless idiot.

Very well.

“Charlotte, I swear to god that better not be who I think it is.”

She smirked, scarlet eyes lighting up as her tail began wagging loudly against her chair. 

I lunged, trying to snatch it away from her, but she, in that same instance, pulled away. “Détends-toi, Maxi! It's just a silly-”

No second guesses or hesitation, I clambered out of my seat and rounded the table as fast as I could just as she clamped her fangs onto the tablet and bolted, sharp canine teeth digging into the tough rubber guard. She was long and lithe, with twice as many legs as I, so by the time I'd escaped the dining room, she'd made it a ways away.

I followed as best as I could, chasing the sound of manicured claws clacking audibly atop the marble flooring of the hallways and her distant yips. Every time I thought she might escape me completely, she'd stop in place, look back and wait for me to catch up before continuing. She was enjoying herself, because of course she was. Down the left – no, right. Past the rooms I'd not been shown, left again, into the entryway, beneath that ridiculous chandelier and into the forbidden zone.

Her bedroom door crashed shut. I threw it open, panting, chasing the tablet and whatever disgusting post she might’ve made. Something to her dog followers, something about a human pet and how well he serviced her.

I stumbled, tripping on a pillow and ignoring how glaringly pink everything was, along with how many stuffed animals and electronics she had.

She skittered forward, off balance, banged her nose against a wall, yelped sharply and dropped the tablet.

I caught her as quickly as I could. Snatching the device from the floor with one hand and pinning her harshly with the other, shaking fingers gripping the chest of her purple jumper. She, breathless and flushed, beamed wide and sharp and oh so pleased, delicate paws hovering in the air, not scrabbling, not tight. 

Her tail wagged hard between my thighs as I held her there, eyes narrowed and watching, waiting.

She was, when beneath me, so very small.

Ignoring her for a moment, I looked down at the tablet; the post was thankfully still loaded.

New carer. He eats a lot of noodles. Nice hair, though. :3 o///o

The tension in me evaporated slowly.

I waited.

For… something.

But that was it.

Lost, I looked down at her, prepared to ask, only to get a lick up the side of my throat for the attempt.

“The fuck-?!” I groaned, reeling, rubbing at the wet patch madly, my cheeks and neck suddenly flush with heat. She burst out laughing at me, eyes wide. “What is wrong with you? For fuck's sake, Charlotte, don't just LICK me!”

“Hey!” She beamed, teeth white and glinting. “You called me Charlotte!”

Again and again until my skin was raw, I rubbed at my cheek, and then, when I didn’t feel quite so violated, “Of course I did. Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

The words came out sharper than I meant them to. I was still on her bedroom floor, legs splayed out on that stupidly plush pink carpet, heart hammering from the chase and the… whatever that had been. She took her time getting up, as if the whole thing had been planned.

A shake of her curls, a neat push to her paws, and then she mirrored me, settling back onto her haunches across from me.

Shorts. Thank Christ for the shorts.

“I told you to, yeah,” she said, her voice dipped in syrupy cheer. The fake kind. The kind that came with teeth. “But a lot of the maids my father hires tend not to listen to the pretty doggy in a jumper.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled through it slowly, like I was defusing something explosive. “Well, I’m not a maid your dad hired.”

She nodded once. Twice. Like she was humouring a child explaining taxes.

“Charlotte,” I pressed, forcing my voice to stay level. “I’m not-I don’t care if you’re a canid or a dog or whatever you want to call it. I’m here to look after you. That’s it. You can wear whatever, do whatever, pose however, just-” I gestured vaguely at my neck. “Maybe don’t lick me.”

“And why not?”

She leaned closer when she said it. Not aggressively. Just enough that I could feel the faint warmth of her breath. “I think, just personally, garçon idiot,” she went on smoothly, “that I can do whatever it is I wish. No?”

I held her gaze. I really tried to. Scarlet eyes, bright and expectant, waiting for me to flinch.

I didn’t. I just sighed. Long. Tired.

“Just… what do I have to do for you to relax?”

Her head tilted. One ear flicked. The movement was small and uncertain. “Relax?” she echoed. “I am relaxed.”

Right. Of course she was.

I clapped my hands together once. “Okay. Sure. Then here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go finish my dinner. I’m going to do the dishes. Then I’ll do some work on my laptop.”

I stood, brushing bits from my black trousers, and pointed at her. “You’ll finish your food, give me the bowl, and I’ll wash it. Then I’ll rack it. No more photos of me. We’ll call it a win!”

Charlotte scoffed. Her muzzle curled just slightly.

“If I want to, I will,” she said flatly. “Remember I had you licking my paws on your first day here. I can do it again, if I so wished.”

There it was.

The card she would always have.

My stomach tightened. Because she was right. Jack would believe her. Why wouldn’t he? The wealthy, brilliant, biologically evolved daughter or the out-of-work ‘business specialist’ barely scraping by?

“I know,” I muttered, hating myself for it. “I know. Just… please don’t. I’m asking you not to. As a person.”

That seemed to catch her off guard.

Not much. Just enough.

If she’d had arms to cross, she would have. Instead, she slouched, paws shifting awkwardly on the carpet.

“I thought you might be fun,” she said at last, her tone losing some of its sparkle. “I can work with pathetic. Pathetic has flavour. But this?” She gave me a once-over. “This is just boring.”

That stung more than it should have, and I didn’t know why.

“Go do the dishes, peasant,” she added, flicking her tail lazily. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She padded past me, all soft footfalls and swaying hips.

I followed. Mostly because the kitchen was that way. Partly because I didn’t trust her not to post something else the second I lost sight of her.

She didn’t head for the dining room.

She stopped at the drinks cabinet.

Of course she did.

The door nudged open beneath her nose. She glanced back at me expectantly, like I was already late. “Grey Goose and orange juice,” she said. “My glass bowl. I’ve got work to do on my laptop, so hurry.”

I blinked at her. “You want an actual bowl of vodka and orange juice?”

She stared.

“Clearly I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be asking. And if you say anything about my father-”

“No, no,” I cut in quickly. “I’ll make it. On one condition.”

Her eyes narrowed. Interested, annoyed.

“I get some too. In a glass. Like a human being. And I’m not letting you get obliterated. Buzzed, maybe. Obliterated, no.”

The words came out braver than I felt. Jack had been specific. Strict. And I needed the job. Desperately.

But I also couldn’t survive here if every interaction was a test I automatically failed.

She studied me. Then, slowly, something almost like approval ghosted across her expression. “I wasn’t planning to,” she said lightly. “But it’s good to know I have a guardian angel looking out for me, Maxi.”

She sniffed once, tail swishing, and padded off toward her room.

“Special bowls are on the top shelf.”

Of course it was. Once she was gone, I opened the cabinet properly.

It was obscene.

Rows of bottles, pristine and gleaming. Some were older than me and I stood there for a second, fingers hovering over glass that could probably fund my rent for a year.

Some, I thought sourly, were probably worth more than the pathetic balance left on my student loan account. I stood there a second too long, fingers hovering over a bottle that could’ve covered three months’ rent.

Then I grabbed the vodka.

If I was going to be bossed around by a designer poodle in shorts, I was at least going to numb the edges.

The fridge was just as ridiculous. Fresh juice in glass bottles, organic labels everywhere, and fruit arranged like it had a publicist. I grabbed the orange juice and nudged the door shut with my hip, already feeling annoyed at the sheer abundance of it all.

Then I looked up.

The bowl sat on the highest shelf.

I climbed halfway onto the counter, stretched, and finally got my fingers around it. Smooth glass. Lightweight. Expensive, probably. High enough that no dog could reach it.

Even standing.

“Guardian angel, my ass,” I muttered, hopping back down.

Before I left the kitchen, I hesitated. Then I unscrewed the vodka and took a long, unapologetic swig straight from the bottle.

It burnt.

Good.

I let it sit there for a second, heat spreading down my throat into my chest, steadying something tight and irritated in me.

Tipsy Charlotte.

That was about to be my problem.

I screwed the cap back on, grabbed the rest of the collection, and carried it carefully down the hall.

She was sprawled on her stomach when I entered, laptop open in front of her. False thumbs tapping with irritating precision. Focused. Efficient. Like she hadn’t just threatened to blackmail me with paw-licking knowledge.

The cut in her shorts for her tail was neat. Clean. Deliberate.

She glanced over her shoulder at me.

“You could’ve made it in the kitchen.”

I looked down at the bottle, juice, bowl, and my own glass balanced in my hands. “I could’ve,” I agreed. “But then I wouldn’t get to watch you supervise.”

A lie, technically. But not a bad one. I set everything down between us and dropped cross-legged onto the carpet. It swallowed my knees whole. Ridiculous house.

She didn’t come closer. Just watched.

Her tail swayed lazily behind her.

Judging.

I unscrewed the vodka again, slower this time.

“So,” I said, pouring myself a finger first. “How strong? And don’t say ‘surprise me’. I’m not babysitting you while you text half a million followers about how your human servant watered you like a houseplant.”

“I’m not sixteen, you dolt.” She rolled her eyes. “Enough to feel it, not enough to ruin the flavour. Can you manage that?”

I gave her a flat look. “I worked in a pub.”

I eyeballed the pour as I unscrewed the cap. The vodka flowed clean and steady while I angled the bowl so it didn’t splash.

“It’s basically a single,” I muttered. “When I was in college, I worked at a bar near the dorms. I know how to measure.”

The clear spirit pooled at the bottom of the glass. “Although,” I added, glancing at the size of the bowl, “this is less of a classy screwdriver and more of a weak fishbowl at a student union. You normally drink this much?”

Her grin had faded. Not completely, but enough that it didn’t feel like a performance.

“No,” she said, eyes drifting back to her laptop. “More. I don’t go out much anymore. And there’s only so much to do here. If you’ve not already noticed.”

That landed more than I felt she meant it to.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for the orange juice. “Noticed.”

I poured slowly, still watching her from the corner of my eye. “This place is insane, though. Still kind of hitting me that I’m in a mansion with… all this.”

I gestured vaguely at the room. The carpet. The electronics. The stupid chandelier light bleeding in from the hall.

“Went from living in a car with no heating and no wifi to this.” I snorted softly. “Bit of a jump.”

She looked at me properly then.

Not mocking. Not amused.

Studying.

“It is more than something people of your… station can afford,” she said carefully. “But to me, it just is.”

There was no venom in it. Just a fact. I added a little more orange.

“Easy,” she warned immediately. “Don’t dilute it too much.” The pooch hopped down from the bed and padded closer, slim muzzle drifting uncomfortably near my face.

“If I wanted juice,” she said quietly, “I’d have asked for juice.”

I paused mid-pour.

“Right. Sorry.” I adjusted the ratio slightly. “It’s strong stuff. And I’m not dealing with you flopping around in twenty minutes because you wanted to prove something.”

Her ear twitched.

Instead of arguing, she lowered her head and started lapping at the drink. 

Slow at first.

Then deeper.

I sat back on my heels and finally made mine properly – heavier than I should have – and took a long swallow. “Mm,” I muttered despite myself. “Okay. That’s actually nice.”

She dragged the bowl closer with both paws, painted claws clicking faintly against glass. Her tongue was long and pink, streaked faintly with deep blue, as if dyed. It disappeared into the orange liquid again and again.

Then she leaned back, inhaled slowly, and noticed my own glass.

“Remember how expensive the drink you’re using like a cheap mixer is,” she said coolly. “And I never actually said you could have some, Maxi. I may have to deduct it from whatever my father is paying you.”

I glanced down. My glass was almost empty.

“Uhh. Yeah. Sorry.” I set it down, heat creeping up my neck. “Force of habit.”

The amused look on her face was almost human.

She reached for the bottle with an awkward but determined grip and tugged it away from me.

“Sorry,” I repeated.

She dipped for another mouthful, then stood and hopped back onto the bed in one smooth movement. After a moment’s consideration, she carefully nudged her laptop off the mattress and onto the floor instead. She followed it down, settling on a pillow like royalty lowering herself onto a throne.

I was still kneeling.

“Aren’t you going?” She asked dismissively, brow raised in an oddly human facsimile. “To do work?”

Another lap. A faint wince this time before she pulled away. Stronger than she’d expected probably. “If you want to be sneaky,” she then added, tapping at the keys with stiff little clicks, “take the bottle and make a drink in the kitchen.”

I eyed it. Tempting, I realised.

“No, it’s not…” I exhaled. “That.”

She didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. We both knew it was exactly that.

“I just wanted to know what you’re working on,” I lied instead. “More Instagram?”

“Pawstagram,” she corrected automatically. “Lazy name. I didn’t create it.”

Her tongue dipped again before she continued.

“And no. I’m adjusting phrasing on a tweet. It needs to feel less human but more respectable. There’s a balance.”

I leaned slightly, trying to read the screen upside down. “Respectable how?”

She sighed. “The Wendy’s posts are embarrassing. Traction, yes. But traction from what? Who goes to a Wendy’s?”

“The memes were funny,” I offered weakly.

She snapped her head up. “In 2016.” I winced. “Bet you used to watch compilation videos of them,” she continued mercilessly.

I looked down at the carpet.

Silence.

“Oh my god.” She blinked, eyes widening. “I was kidding.”

That somehow made it worse.

“I was ten!”

I used the opening her laughter gave me, bright, sharp, almost barking, to pour myself another drink. The liquid glugged softly into the glass, the sound mostly swallowed by the way she tipped her head back and laughed at my expense.

“Immaculate,” she repeated, delighted. “That explains so much.”

“Shut up.”

I didn’t look at her while I mixed it. Measured slower this time. Less defensive, more deliberate. The vodka caught the light; the orange juice followed in a steady stream.

I felt her watching.

Closely.

When the glass was nearly full, a paw slid into view. Slow and careful. Pads pressing lightly against the rim.

I stopped.

“That’s an expensive drink, Maxi.”

Her voice had softened. Not sweet. Just lower.

I met her eyes. She held my gaze for a second too long, assessing, weighing, before her mouth split into that familiar, fang-filled grin again.

Then she pulled her paw back as if she’d never touched it.

“You can pay me back,” she said brightly, “by sitting here and listening to me talk. Good deal, right?”

I looked at the glass. Then at her. The air between us felt… odd. Not calm, never. But less actively combative.

“Deal,” I said.

She didn’t argue when I took it. Not that she could’ve physically stopped me, and we both knew that, but the fact she didn’t try felt like something close to permission.

I took a sip.

“So,” she began, shifting into that strange frog-like sprawl dogs sometimes did, hind legs angled out, paws spread, posture loose in a way that would’ve looked ridiculous on anything else. On her, it was oddly confident. “You worked in a bar?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. The warmth hit faster this time. “In college.” I leaned back on one hand, glass resting against my knee. “Could’ve lived off the loans. A lot of people did. But I didn’t want to be paying rent with interest for the rest of my life. Seemed… dumb.”

Another sip.

“It’s harder than it looks, though. It’s not just pouring drinks. You’re managing people. Ego. Testosterone. Drunk girls crying in bathrooms or on the floor.” I let out a quiet laugh. “A lot of telling dickheads to calm down.”

Her ears twitched.

“Especially since there weren’t many other men working there,” I added. “Which meant guess who got the aggressive ones.” The haze creeping in around the edges of my thoughts wasn’t unpleasant. Just enough to dull the sharper corners of memory. “That’s why I left,” I finished. “The supermarket was safer. Sad sentence, but true.”

She’d leaned sideways at some point, furry cheek pressed to the edge of her mattress, chin resting there as she watched me from below the line of the bed.

Her eyes were heavy-lidded now.

Scarlet. Stark. Too bright for anything real.

There was something deeply unnatural about them and deeply compelling. They tracked me with visible intelligence, picking up on pauses I didn’t even realise I’d made.

She shifted slightly. The drink made her wobble for half a second before she corrected. Smooth. Controlled.

Cute, I thought before I could stop myself.

Annoying. But cute.

“My half-brother said pubs are dull,” she murmured. “Relaxing, though. Apparently. I’ve not set paw in one.”

“…I take it you don’t like your brother much,” I said carefully. I leaned my shoulder back against the side of her bed now, closer without even noticing. “But yeah. Dull in a good way. Predictable.”

She squinted at me.

“How’d you know? Did some irritating pamphlet tell you?”

I laughed, softer this time, more real. “No. It’s just… something I noticed at uni. If you like your half siblings, you just call them brother or sister. You said half like he’s lesser.”

I winced slightly after saying it.

That might’ve been too far.

Her lip curled, and for a second, I thought I’d stepped on something.

Then she giggled; an odd, yipping sound that rocked her small frame. It made her jumper wrinkle around her withers. “He kind of is lesser,” she admitted, rubbing her cheek against the mattress lazily. “Got a boyfriend and left me here.”

The words were flippant, unimportant.

The claw tips digging into the carpet weren’t, nor the way her tail curled awkwardly between her legs. That flicker, I felt it more than saw. Something raw and human.

“That sucks,” I said quietly, meaning it, even with how she’d treated me.

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected that answer. Then the smile snapped back into place. Clean. Controlled.

“But that’s the past,” she said lightly, forcing it, based on the faint tightness around her dark lips. “Tell me more.”

“More?” I swirled my drink, watching the liquid climb the sides of the glass. “There’s not much. Did the bar thing. Went home for a bit after. Helped Mum with my sister. House stuff.”

I shifted fully so my back rested against her bedframe now, legs stretched out in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the faint dip of the mattress when she moved.

“Then when my place at uni was ready, I went back.”

She shuffled closer.

Not dramatically. Just enough that the fabric of her jumper brushed lightly against my shoulder. Heat, unwanted and not right, crawled up my chest before I stifled it.

“Supermarket still?” she asked.

Her voice had shifted.

No paw-licking threats. No faux innocence. No theatrical cruelty.

Her tail swayed lazily between her splayed hind legs, thick fur brushing against her shorts in a slow, absent rhythm. Relaxed. Almost thoughtful.

I watched her for a second too long.

Something about how fast she could turn it off unsettled me, how her emotions and level of care warped so fast and so harshly.

“Nah,” I said, dragging my focus back. “The supermarket was too far. I worked in a corner shop after that. Was alright, honestly. Had to keep telling kids to piss off, though. The fakest IDs I’ve ever seen. Some of them didn’t even try. They’d just lurk in the crisp aisle for twenty minutes.”

I finished my drink and set the glass down beside me.

“Used to bitch about getting ID’d all the time too, to be fair.” I glanced at her. “What about you?”

“No,” she said automatically. “I have a special pass. Or Father buys them if they don’t accept it.”

“I meant work.”

A soft, sheepish “oh”.

She turned her laptop around with a hind paw. On the screen was a verified social media account for a bank I recognised instantly; not some tiny regional one either. My mum and uncle both used it.

“I did say I was crafting tweets,” she reminded me.

The cursor blinked mid-sentence in a draft about mortgage rates. The tone was sharp but polished. Corporate, but almost… human.

She scratched a spot behind her ear with her hind paw, then rotated the laptop back toward herself. “I also respond to idiots.”

I laughed.

Not a polite exhale. A real one.

She stiffened.

For half a second she looked like she’d miscalculated something, like she wasn’t sure whether she’d just been mocked. Then she saw my face and relaxed, a genuine grin breaking through. Her tail thumped once against the carpet.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, leaning slightly closer, “I sneak in jokes when Dad’s not looking. They get traction.” Her breath, warm and faintly citrus, brushed my cheek. “And I get to flirt with people in the replies. Pretend my manager isn’t watching.”

There was a flicker of pride there. And something else. Hunger, maybe. A need.

She took a long lap from her bowl, finishing it at last, then leaned back onto her side with a small exhale, curling up like a true canine.

I poured myself another without asking this time and drank a third of it in one go. The burn hit deeper now. Slower.

The bottle was looking thin.

I started to push it away.

A paw reached out and rested on it.

“A little bit more,” she said.

Not commanding.

Asking.

There was something in her eyes — not dominance, not mischief. Just a quiet, wanting heart.

I hesitated.

Then poured.

For her. For me.

The bottle ran dry between us.

We drank in companionable silence for a moment.

I didn’t notice myself moving closer until my shoulder brushed the edge of her bed again. Heat radiated from her. Subtle, steady.

She smelt… layered.

Conditioner. Something floral and expensive. Beneath that, something unmistakably animal and warm.

Sweat?

Or maybe the room really was too warm.

It felt close. She smelt good.

I shrugged off my jacket and tossed it aside, left in just a black tee.

She watched me.

Then, as if not to be outdone, she reached up and tugged clumsily at her jumper.

It didn’t budge.

For all her intelligence, quadruped legs weren’t built for clothing. I’d no clue how she’d even managed to put it on in the first place.

She pawed drunkenly at the neckline before I noticed the metal zipper.

“Hold still,” I muttered, leaning forward.

My fingers brushed the metal and tugged it down. The sound was small. Intimate.

She tried to shrug it off herself and somehow managed to trap one floppy ear in the sleeve.

I exhaled through my nose.

“Seriously?” I shifted fully in front of her now, knees brushing her hind paws. Close enough to feel her warmth properly. “Stop moving.”

I rested one hand against her exposed shoulder, careful and steady. Holding myself still more than her as I worked the fabric up and over her head. Her fur beneath was soft and curly, charcoal black and warm from being covered. My fingers brushed through it briefly as I freed the sleeve.

She went still.

Completely still.

Her nose twitched once.

Then again.

And before I could process what she was doing, she leaned in.

Too close.

Whiskers brushed my cheek.

She inhaled slowly.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure she could hear it. I didn’t move, fidn’t breathe.

For a second it felt like she was cataloguing me. Soap. Vodka. Something human and tired beneath it.

Then she pulled back abruptly, her posture collapsing in on itself.

The sharp intelligence in her eyes dulled at the edges.

Alcohol.

Poison to dogs.

…Right.

No matter how evolved she was, there were limits.

“…Charlotte?” I said quietly.

Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. Her eyes drooped heavier.

She didn’t answer.

I waited another second.

Nothing.

I stood carefully. The room tilted more than I liked. I steadied myself on the doorframe and gathered the empty bottle, the bowl, and the juice.

When I came back, she hadn’t moved.

Sprawled on her side. Breathing slow and deep.

Without the grin, without the bite, she looked younger somehow.

Smaller.

I hesitated.

Then grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and laid it gently over her. She shifted slightly under it, a soft sound escaping her throat, but didn’t wake.

I stood there a moment longer than necessary, then I left.

#

The day after was grey and miserable.

Cold light leaked through the tall windows of the compound, turning everything pale and washed out. I’d been up for an hour already, drinking expensive coffee and pretending I hadn’t downed half a bottle of vodka with a talking poodle the night before.

Right on cue, she appeared.

Charlotte shuffled into the living room like a Victorian orphan with a nicotine addiction, which…. Her eyes were redder than usual, not vibrant now, just sore-looking. Her tail dragged limply behind her, the tip brushing the floor with each step. Even her ears hung low, curls dull and unbrushed.

She’d only bothered with shorts. The polish on her claws was chipped.

“Rough night?” I asked around a mouthful of bacon.

She made a noncommittal grunt and flopped dramatically onto the rug, face-first, limbs splayed like she’d been shot.

I swallowed and gestured lazily toward the coffee table. “There is a fix!”

One eye cracked open. A single scarlet slit tracking me with suspicion.

I reached over and nudged the plate toward her. Full English. Bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, toast. Slightly ‘aggressive’ in portion size.

“It’ll help,” I said. “Trust me.”

“Surely,” she muttered, levering herself upright with visible effort. Her maw opened in a long, jaw-cracking yawn that showed far too many teeth. “I never normally eat food this greasy, you know.”

“No. No, I did not.” I took a careful sip of scalding coffee. “But it’s science.”

She sniffed the plate.

“If you don’t eat it,” I added, “I definitely will.”

That did it.

Muttering under her breath, she leaned down and took a cautious bite of sausage. Chewed. Swallowed. Licked her lips once. Twice. A third time, slower.

Her ears twitched.

“Not bad…” she admitted.

Then whatever restraint she’d been pretending to have evaporated.

She dived in.

Bacon disappeared. Eggs vanished. Beans were licked clean from the plate with efficient, unapologetic enthusiasm. She knocked the ceramic off the table in the process, too focused on chasing the last smear of grease to care.

“Easy,” I sighed, setting my mug down and retrieving the plate before it could shatter. “You’re hungover, not feral.”

She sat back on her haunches, licking the corner of her mouth, trying and failing to look dignified. “I want that every morning now,” she declared. “Mark it on your schedule or whatever it is you have.”

I placed the salvaged plate back on the table and studied her.

Diet pamphlet.

Jack’s rules.

Portion control. Structured feeding times. A limit on alcohol, no nicotine nor ear pulling.

And there she was, red-eyed and softer around the edges, having actually talked to me last night. Not just toyed with me. Demanding she go back to green tea and calorie-counted chicken felt… wrong.

“Deal,” I said finally. “If we can have another night like nast night…” I paused. "Last night."

She squinted at me.

“Bottle got your tongue?” she asked dryly, taking a long drink from the water bowl I’d set out.

“Shut up.”

A faint chuckle escaped her before she could stop it. She looked away quickly, lip twitching as if smiling might physically hurt.

“Yeah,” she said, too casual. “I suppose we can.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the empty bowl from last night, then back to the window. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do later.”

I finished my own plate more slowly, watching her from the corner of my eye. When I was done, I held up the last tomato sausage between two fingers.

Her entire posture shifted.

Eyes sharpened.

Head lifted.

Locked in.

I raised an eyebrow.

Then tossed it.

She lunged without thinking, snapping it neatly out of the air, and froze mid-chew as the reality of what she’d just done settled in. Ever so slowly, she swallowed.

“Don’t say anything,” she muttered. I was already grinning. “…So unladylike.”

“Tragic,” I agreed solemnly.

#

Washing up had become… calming.

Hot water. Soap. The loop of scraping sponge against ceramic. The soft clatter of cutlery. There was something honest about it. No mind games. No power plays.

Just scrub. Rinse. Rack.

It hit me again, in the quiet, how strange the estate was. Massive. Expensive. And yet no staff. No guards. No cleaner drifting in and out.

Charlotte had mentioned maids before.

So where were they? What would happen if someone just walked in?

I paused mid-scrub and rubbed my nose thoughtfully.

Instant regret.

Soap smeared across my face.

“Very clever,” Charlotte called from the doorway. “The green slime look suits you!”

I glared at her and wiped it off with a towel.

On impulse, I pinched a bit of suds between my fingers and reached toward her.

She shrieked – an undignified, high yelp – and scrambled backward, nearly slipping on the tile before bolting for the living room.

“Coward,” I called after her.

“Peasant!” she shot back.

Scrub.

Rinse.

Rack.

The quiet settled again.

My hands kept moving even as my thoughts drifted.

'Mum would probably be making tea around now,' I thought absentmindedly. Watching daytime TV. Folding laundry slower than she used to.

I’d told her Uncle James had found me work.

Left out the rest.

She didn’t know how close I’d been to sleeping in my car for another month. Didn’t know how thin everything had gotten.

And she wouldn’t. She’d offer to help. Insist, even.

I couldn’t let her.

Scrub.

Scrub.

I ran out of things to clean.

The counters gleamed. The sink was empty. Even the chrome tap shone back at me like I’d done something productive with my life.

So I just stood there, my hands braced against the counter. Knuckles whitening. Jaw tight for no real reason.

No. This was fine.

Charlotte was fine.

The first day had been rough. Weird. Humiliating.

But how was it then? That was manageable. Breakfast, mild ‘flirting’ disguised as insults, and a bit of shared misery over hangovers.

Normal.

Everything was good.

I dried my hands and wandered back into the living room.

She’d turned the TV on.

Of course she had.

Netflix glowed across the wall-sized screen, currently blasting some Victorian romance monstrosity, which meant powdered blondes in suffocating gowns, men with jawlines sharp enough to cut bread and all of them staring at each other like eye contact alone might cause a pregnancy.

I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee.

Charlotte was sprawled across the entire sofa, limbs extended in decadent abandon. Large for a breed that was already decently sized. Zero regard for spatial awareness. The tail draped over one armrest like an accessory. There wasn’t room for me unless I wanted to sit on her, which was… less than ideal.

So I lowered myself to the floor beside the small side table, back resting against the couch cushions, looking up at the screen from below.

“What is this? ” I asked.

“Mhuham.”

Helpful.

My eyes flicked over to her.

Her eyes were glued to the screen. Wide. Focused. Pupils sharp and dark against the red. Onscreen, the male lead had just backed the heroine against a bookshelf in what I could only describe as aggressively romantic tension.

Very touchy…

Very close…...

Good god…......

I looked back at her again.

Her tail gave one abrupt, twitching flick before lifting up slightly. Her ears angled forward.

“Charlotte,” I said carefully.

She flinched. Actually flinched. Withers bunching tight before she forced herself to relax.

“Enjoying yourself…?”

“It’s a good show,” she said quickly, a little too prim. “Ladies were treated properly back in these times. Romanced. Courted.” She stretched the last word out, lips curling just enough to show fang. “If only.”

I snorted. “Hey, you’ve got Tinder.”

She didn’t look at me.

“You know…?” I continued, digging my grave. “Dog Tinder. The… Pawstagram thing?”

Her head turned slowly.

“Pawstagram thing?” She asked, lost.

“The app.”

“That’s for photos and stories, Maximus,” she said, voice flat. “As much as I love people appreciating my good looks, it’s hardly the place to find a partner.” A pause. “Would you use your human version to meet people?”

“No, but-”

“There you go then.”

The sharpness in her tone caught me flat-footed.

“And no,” she added, eyes flicking back to the screen but no longer really watching it. “We don’t have Tinder. We don’t really have anything.”

Her nose twitched once. Subtle. Controlled.

The tension shifted. Quietly.

Neither of us was watching the show anymore.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“…It’s fine.”

The words came out softer. Not defensive. Just… tired.

“At least I’ve got handsome humans on Netflix to keep me occupied.”

“Ew,” I laughed, thinking she was just playing.

It died in my throat when she didn’t.

Instead, she shrank. Just slightly. Shoulders drawing in. Tail lowering.

Oh…

Right.

“Ahah.” I rubbed the back of my neck, pretending I wasn’t suddenly very uncomfortable nor very knowledgeable about why her tail had been in such a raised position. “I got you.”

Her eyes flicked toward me then. Just for a second.

Then back to the screen.

...

…Mm.

I stayed where I was for another minute before standing.

“Enjoy your… uh. This,” I muttered, retreating.

She didn’t say anything.

My laptop waited on the desk like an old, loyal dog.

Clunky. Loud. Fans that whirred unevenly like they were considering retirement. I’d had it since high school. It ran the original Zoo Tycoon without catching fire, and that was enough.

I opened Indeed from my bookmarks.

Internships. Exciting opportunities. Competitive exposure. Unpaid experience that required you to already have experience.

I’d planned to do one.

Back when I thought I could afford not to eat.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the screen until it blurred. Then my phone buzzed. I opened Messenger.

Max Evans.

> Hey Mum, how are you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Mum.

> Good ❤️
> Gas check soon, so I’ve got to clean up the whole house. 😱

I smiled despite myself.

Max Evans.

> Oooh. Good luck lol.

Mum.

> How’s work? James said you’re house-sitting.

My fingers froze above the keyboard.

House-sitting.

Yeah.

Max Evans.

> Pretty good. Looking after a friend of hiss’s’s’s dog, actually xD
> Very talky.

Three dots.

Mum.

> Oh!
> He’s one of them?

I hesitated.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Max Evans.

> You want to talk to her? I was about to phone anyway because Facebook is crazy laggy.

I stared at the message after sending it.

Mum

> Okay ❤️

Realising what I’d done, I sat there for a full five seconds, lips pressed thin.

Why...?

Why had I offered that?

But backing out now would look weird. Suspicious. Like I was hiding something.

Which, technically, I was.

I grabbed my phone before I could overthink it, hit call, and started walking.

“Yo,” I said, pushing the living room door open with my hip. “How’s the mum?”

Charlotte glanced over lazily at first, mouth open in vague curiosity, and then she saw the phone.

Her jaw snapped shut.

Mum laughed softly on the other end, the background rustle and distant trolley squeak telling me she was still at the supermarket. Disability meant she didn’t have to work. Not couldn’t, just didn’t have to. She always liked being busy anyway.

“The mum is good,” she said warmly. “Just getting some shopping done for the week.”

“That’s good.” I approached Charlotte slowly, like I was carrying a live grenade. “Uhh. Here’s Charlotte if you want to talk to her.”

The poodle’s eyes widened.

Her ears flattened instinctively, her tail going completely still as I lowered the phone toward her. It took both forepaws and both metal thumbs to even hold it steady. After fumbling, she managed to tap the speaker and prop it awkwardly against her chest.

She cleared her throat.

“Hello.”

Like she was opening a board meeting.

“Is this really Charlotte?” Mum asked, delighted.

Charlotte flinched.

I retreated to an armchair a safe distance away, close enough to hear, far enough to claim plausible deniability.

“Yes,” Charlotte replied carefully. “I am a canid, if that’s what you’re asking.” A beat. Then a sly little grin. “...But I like to think of it as me looking after him. He’s very silly sometimes.”

Mum laughed in that knowing way only mothers can. “Yeah. He can be, can be.”

Charlotte’s posture shifted almost immediately. The tension loosened from her shoulders. Her head tilted, thick curls sliding down one side of her muzzle as her voice warmed.

“He never said his mother was so young, though. You sound barely twenty.”

I choked.

Mum made an embarrassed noise. “Oh, stop.”

“He also didn’t say you’d be calling,” Charlotte added, glancing sideways at me with faux suspicion.

“Oh! I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, no, Miss,” Charlotte said quickly, lowering herself onto her stomach and propping the phone against a cushion like she’d done this a hundred times. “But your son was just getting me a tea, so… Maxi?”

I froze.

She didn’t look at me when she said it.

“Would you mind getting to it, dear?”

“Uhhh. Alright…”

“Perfect,” she chimed. “We’ll just chat.”

My stomach dropped.

For one long, tense second we held eye contact.

Her eyes narrowed, not mean, not cruel.

Excited. She was about to have the time of her life.

“At least tell me what about?” I squeaked.

She smiled sweetly. No answer. I fled to the kitchen.

The kettle felt louder than usual. Every second it took to boil was another sentence spoken without my supervision. I paced in front of the counter like a condemned man.

What were they talking about?

My childhood? Absolutely not.

Primary school? I’d moved schools twice.

Ex-girlfriends?

Oh Christ.

I fed brown sugar into the cup too fast, stirred the loose leaves like they’d spat on me and rushed back in the second the water settled.

Charlotte was giggling.

Actually giggling.

Paw raised delicately to her lips in mock secrecy.

“Heya, Maxi,” she called out brightly, waving me over. “We were just talking about you.”

“I-I figured.” I set the tea down in front of her. “Nice things, right?”

“She said you were very dependable,” Mum said, and there was genuine pride in her voice. It hit harder than it should’ve. “And that your cooking’s gotten better.”

Charlotte waggled her brows at me.

With actual brow movement.

It shouldn’t have been possible. She didn’t have any. It was.

“He’s been a big help since he came here,” Charlotte continued smoothly. “I find everyday things hard, and he’s very good with his hands.”

I nearly dropped the teaspoon.

Too obvious.

Way too obvious.

My face went cold.

Unless you were my mother, for reasons beyond my understanding.

“Aww,” Mum exhaled. “That’s very sweet of you, Max. You, um… you find certain things hard being a… you, Charlotte?”

There was a pause.

A real one.

“Sometimes,” Charlotte admitted, and the levity softened. “Not having proper thumbs is difficult. But my father bought me these prosthetic ones.”

She lifted a paw and flexed the metal digits deliberately near the phone. The tiny motors whirred faintly.

“They were very expensive.”

“Oh, really?”

“About as much as a car.” She rotated them again, gears whirring audibly. “But they’re essential for gripping. It lets me hold my phone. Text. Type. A classy poodle like me might struggle otherwise.”

Mum made an impressed little hum. “It’s adorable that dogs can be their own little people now.”

The words were kind.

They still felt wrong.

I saw it immediately, the way Charlotte’s muzzle tightened just slightly. The flicker in her eyes.

“Your owner must have a good job,” Mum added gently.

I slid the bowl of tea closer to Charlotte, trying to calm the energy.

“Yes,” Charlotte said slowly. Too slowly. “He does. And I’m very happy he was able to get me Maxi. We have fun together.”

Her teeth showed briefly.

“Lots of fun.”

“Charlotte,” I muttered. “Tea.”

“That’s nice,” Mum said, completely oblivious. “I’ve got to go now, though. I’m at the till. Love you, Max.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended with a soft beep.

Silence filled the room.

Charlotte stared at the blank phone screen for a second before setting it aside.

“She’s nice,” she said eventually. “Actually felt like one of the girls for a second there.”

“You are,” I replied too quickly. “You’re also just—”

“A dog?” she finished flatly. I winced. “I didn’t notice until she reminded me.”

I reached out instinctively to pat her shoulder and stopped myself mid-motion. The hesitation was worse than the touch would’ve been.

Her eyes dropped to my suspended hand.

“…What am I doing wrong?” she asked quietly.

Not angry.

Not sarcastic.

Actually asking.

That throb in her voice. That crack in the armour. Not a pet. Not a novelty.

A person trapped in fur.

“Nah,” I said finally, bumping her gently with my elbow instead. A nudge. “Mum’s just old. Don’t listen to her. She grew up with actual dogs.”

Charlotte huffed softly, but some of the tightness left her shoulders.

“You were very sweet, though,” she added, glancing at me sideways. “Offering me up for gossip like that.”

“I panicked.”

“I know~”

She picked up her tea bowl and blew across the surface delicately.

“She likes you,” she went on. “She sounded proud.”

“She is,” I said quietly.

Charlotte studied me for a moment, just one.

“We should do that again,” she decided. “I haven’t had girl talk in ages.”

My eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”

She grinned. “Oh, Maxi.” Her metal thumbs clicked together softly. “We are just getting started.”

#

The next few nights fell into something dangerously comfortable.

Cold air outside. Curtains drawn. Low lights. A bottle between us.

Not enough to be stupid. Just enough to sand down the sharp edges.

She’d sprawl across the rug or the sofa, tail lazily sweeping the carpet while we talked about nothing and everything; her bank job, my half-hearted job searches, the absurdity of Victorian dramas, and the fact that the estate had no visible security despite looking like it housed lesser royalty.

Sometimes she’d get that glassy, warm look in her eyes and start oversharing, sitting too close.

Sometimes I would. It was, as I told myself repeatedly, easy. Harmless.

Which... should’ve been my first warning, as three days after the phone call, I walked into the living room and stopped dead. Every bottle from the cabinet was lined up on the coffee table.

Every. Single. One.

Vodka. Gin. Whisky is older than me. Wine with labels I couldn’t pronounce. Stuff in crystal decanters that looked like they’d been poured for kings. Charlotte stood behind the table like a general surveying her troops. I hadn't a clue as to how she'd even carried it all in.

“What...” I said slowly, “Are you doing?”

She didn’t look at me. “I was thinking,” began the hound.

“That’s never followed by something safe.”

Her tail flicked once. “You said,” she began carefully, “that we have a lot of stuff.”

Ah.

I leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah. Because you do.”

“And you said, last night,” she continued, metal thumbs adjusting a bottle so it sat perfectly straight, “that most of it just sits there.”

“Because it does.”

Her ears twitched. “It’s wasteful.”

“It’s expensive.”

She finally looked at me.

“I want to indulge.”

My stomach dipped. “That’s a sentence rich people say before buying yachts,” I revealed sagely.

She ignored me, naturally. “I’ve been… good,” she went on. “I follow my meal plan. I behave when working. I represent the ‘brand’. I sit in this massive house with its massive rooms, and I am very, very well-kept.”

“And?” I prompted, sensing heat and bundled-up tension.

“And I’m bored.” She stepped around the table. “And I don’t want to be well-kept tonight.”

Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. I frowned. “...What did you do?”

She didn’t respond; she just grinned. The doorbell rang again. Then again. Rapid-fire.

I walked down the hallway, past the kitchen and too many rooms, venturing into the entryway, where, after buzzing in a car, I opened the door to find a delivery driver staring at me like I’d personally offended him. Behind him: bags. So very many bags.

“Uh. Order for… Charlotte?”

I looked back slowly.

She, at the very least, had the decency to look smug.

Ten minutes later the coffee table in the drawing room was buried.

Pizza. Burgers. Boxes of fried chicken. Fries in paper cartons. Milkshakes. Desserts. Things were drizzled in sauces that probably violated health codes in three countries.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, feeling how wide my eyes had gotten.

“I am extremely serious.”

“You don’t even like greasy food.”

“Il y a longtemps, maybe,” she corrected, slipping into more of her fake language and hopping up onto a chair badly, nearly tipping it before catching herself with a quick grab of the table edge. Metal thumbs digging into wood. "Plus I've always liked burgers. It was the very first thing I ordered when father left. Now... Pour,” she ordered.

I stared at her.

“Charlotte...”

“Now.”

There was something dangerous in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Power and freedom I couldn’t help but oblige. I picked up a bottle at random. Expensive-looking whisky. Poured two fingers into a glass.

She clicked her long tongue, whiskers twitching.

“Three.”

“You don’t even have-”

“Max.”

I poured three.

She didn’t sip it.

She drank it.

Actually drank it.

Winced. Shuddered. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah…”

“Again.”

“Again?”

She lifted her head slowly, curls shifting around her narrow muzzle. “Oh, don’t chicken out on me now, Max,” she began, eyes dark. “Come indulge.”

I hesitated.

She shifted closer on the sofa, forepaws braced on the cushion, hindlegs tucked beneath her in that loose sprawl she loved. The movement pressed her flank nearer to my thigh. Not quite touching.

Her metal thumbs clicked softly against the glass as she reached for it again. Her eyes didn’t leave mine this time.

I poured.

My hand brushed her; her paw pads, her steel, and her soft fur, and she didn’t pull back. Neither did I.

She drank slower this time, watching me over the rim. A drop clung to the fur at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wipe it away.

My stomach tightened in that stupid, lonely, male way it sometimes did when there was nothing to do and nowhere to go and someone warm was sitting far too close.

She leaned back, letting her shoulder rest lightly against my knee.

“That’s better,” she murmured.

I lifted my glass and she mirrored me.

The clink between them was soft.

Not playful.

And when we drank, neither of us looked away.