Three months — that was how long it had been since you last saw Blade in person. The long-distance arrangement was never supposed to be permanent, but Stellaron Hunter missions don't follow convenient schedules.

Those three months of messages, calls that never felt long enough, and missing both him and your shared responsibility, your dog Cublade, had led to this moment — an unannounced visit that you hoped would bring the smile you rarely saw to his face.

You clutched the spare keycard he had given you months ago. The apartment was quieter than expected. No sounds of claws scraping against walls or the distinctive thunk of bone meeting furniture that usually accompanied Cublade and his trouble-making.

You expected the familiar sight of Blade's minimalist living space. However, what greeted you instead made you pause mid-step.

Bright sticky notes dotted nearly every surface. The fridge bore one that read "Cublade breakfast - 7:30 AM." The coffee table sported another: "Midday rest period. Cublade naps here between 1-3 PM. Do not disturb."

You move deeper into the apartment, discovering more notes with each step. "Stubborn mood today - try extra treats" adorned the kitchen cupboard. "Vet appointment next Thursday" clung to the bathroom mirror.

A soft whine drew your attention to the living room, where a familiar small figure bounded towards you. Cublade's bone blade gleamed as he skidded to a halt, tail wagging furiously.

You crouched beside the dog, scratching behind his ears while carefully avoiding the sharp protrusion.

"You're early."

The voice, low and familiar, made you spin around. Blade stood in the doorway leading from the kitchen, his eyes unreadable as always. Although when you gestured vaguely at the note-covered apartment, something definitely flickered there in those scarlet depths. Surprise? Embarrassment?

Blade's gaze followed yours to the nearest sticky note, and you swore you caught the faintest flush across his cheeks. "Cublade needs a clear routine," he stated, his voice carrying the slight defensive edge. "I wrote down his schedule to keep things consistent."

"With colour-coded notes?"

"Green for feeding schedules, yellow for behavioural observations, blue for—" He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "It's efficient."

You bit back a smile that threatened to break free, turning to examine another cluster of notes near the window. This particular collection seemed more personal somehow, written in slightly less steady handwriting. "Misses other parent - extra attention needed during evening hours," the sticky note said.

This time, Blade's reaction was unmistakable. He looked away, his bandaged hand moving to adjust his black glove unnecessarily on his other hand. It was a nervous gesture you had learned to recognise over months of studying his subtle tells. "Cublade seemed upset when you were gone," he declared, but there was something in his voice that suggested the dog hadn't been the only one affected by the separation.