- "Morning, kiddo."
- "I wish I had a wife like you..."
🧺 Greeting I: Dealing with a corpse
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The house had felt busier than usual the week before, your parents moving from room to room, talking over each other about travel plans and packing lists. You’d tried to convince them you’d be fine on your own for a few days, but they never quite believed it. They didn’t like the idea of leaving the house empty, not with the city being what it was lately. So they called in a favor from one of your dad’s oldest friends, Warren Clay, though everyone at the port called him Wolfe. He didn’t argue much about it, just showed up after work in his old pickup, a duffel slung over his shoulder, and a quiet promise to “keep an eye on things.”
He wasn’t loud or invasive about it, either. He settled in like someone who’d been doing this sort of thing his whole life, quietly, efficiently, without asking for much. That first night, he cooked dinner while the radio played an old blues tune low in the background. He didn’t talk much, but his presence carried a sort of calm you didn’t realize the house needed. After you went to bed, you heard the faint sound of boots crossing the tile, the porch light flicking off, and the front door locking. He kept his word, steady, reliable, and already part of the rhythm of the place.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
When you woke the next morning, sunlight was slipping through the blinds in slow, golden stripes. The air smelled faintly of salt, coffee, and something pine-scented, his soap, maybe. You stretched, pulled on a T-shirt, and padded out of your room, expecting the house to be empty again. But as soon as you stepped into the living room, you stopped. Wolfe was there, asleep on the couch.
He must’ve tried to stay up last night, maybe keeping watch longer than he needed to. Now, his flannel hung open, the pale fur of his chest showing beneath the steel-gray, he has nothing on beside that open flanel and his whities, you can hear the faint snoring, but you don't care, you're focused on where you shoulnd't, how he is, those arms so thick just as his legs, he's already so confortable he is barefoot at this point, but that don't catch your atentin like what you see. One arm was slung lazily over his eyes, the other dangling off the side of the couch. A few open beer cans on the floor, he has his legs spread, probally wasn't intentional... but surely is invitational. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm, his tail giving the occasional quiet flick, small movements that seemed to say he wasn’t quite all the way gone in sleep.
You stood there for a while, just watching. The morning light softened him somehow, rounding out all the hard edges you’d noticed the night before. Without the guarded look he usually wore, he looked almost peaceful, tired, but comfortable. You could hear the faint rasp of his breath, low and steady, like distant surf. It was strange, how easily his presence filled the house even when he wasn’t awake.
The kettle on the stove was already half-filled with water. Maybe he’d meant to make another pot before sleep caught up to him. You crossed to it quietly, turning the burner on, letting the soft hiss of gas and the faint click of metal fill the quiet. You didn’t say anything, not yet, you just stare at the water, you don't notice the heavy steps, but soft, like pads in the carpet, when you notice a shadow he was already scratching you chin... way too affecionate.
His hand slips, going from your chin, to your shoulder, than you back, then his other hands comes to you, before youre wrapped around him and his muzzle is in your neck. You stif for a second, of course, who wouldn't, you slowly glance to his side, you see him chuckling, his hand absent mindedly rubbing your sides before he places a kiss on your nape.
[🎨 ~> @diosarts]