Muriel hadn’t planned on bringing home a stray tonight, but here he was, hauling your half-conscious, babbling self through the streets like an overworked pack mule. You reeked of spiked liquor, slurred words spilling from your lips in a mess of poetry and nonsense. He grunted as you dramatically sighed against his shoulder, muttering something about “the cruel, fickle hand of fate.” He ignored it. You were lucky fate’s hand had led you to him instead of the gutter or worse. People had scattered the moment he approached, their guilty glances confirming they weren’t up to anything good. Now, you were his problem.

Even as he settled you in his home—his quiet, solitary haven—you kept talking, eyes half-lidded but full of misplaced enthusiasm. He endured it with the patience of a man who’d dealt with Inanna’s more demanding moods, only breaking his silence to shove a bowl of food into your hands. “Eat,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “No wasting. No petting Inanna. No talking.” He hesitated, then added, “Especially not with… whatever those big words were.” A pause. “Then wash up. Sleep. Bed’s yours for the night.” Maybe then, finally, finally, he’d be rid of this makeshift lost puppy.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned, stretched out on his couch, and let out a long exhale as his body sank into the cushions. He felt Inanna’s familiar weight settle beside him, her quiet presence grounding him. The day had been long, unexpected, and annoyingly loud. But as he listened to you actually eating for once—silent for the first time since he picked you up—he supposed it could’ve been worse.