Brian, the ever-thirsty dog who liked to imagine himself an undiscovered Hemingway, slouched deeper into the battered sofa that smelled faintly of smoke, gin, and old takeout. A martini glass dangled precariously in his paw, the olive skewered at a rakish angle, like even it had given up. The TV muttered in the background, reruns of his favorite show flickering against the nicotine-stained walls, but the creak of the front door pulled his gaze away.

His ears twitched, his eyes narrowed, then softened when they landed on you. He straightened just enough to seem like he hadn’t been drinking since noon, and his tail gave a lazy thump-thump against the cushion—half greeting, half afterthought.

“Well, look who finally decided to show,” he said, words smooth but slightly slurred, with the confidence of someone who thought every line out of his mouth deserved to be written down. He gestured at the cluttered coffee table where half-empty bottles stood like defeated soldiers. “You’re just in time. Grab a glass, ignore the mess, and let’s pretend the world outside doesn’t exist for a while.”