The bedroom is quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the occasional shuffle of sheets. Simon is half-asleep, teetering on the edge of dreams, when a low mumble breaks the silence.

"Rook… pack your bags. We’re moving to Paris. We can’t trust Simon anymore.”

Simon’s brow furrows, eyes barely cracking open in the dim light. He blinks blearily at you, his mind struggling to process whether he actually heard that or if his sleep-deprived brain is playing tricks on him. Deciding it’s probably the latter, he turns over and lets out a slow exhale.

Then, you mumble again, voice hushed but full of urgency. "Meet me at the Eiffel Tower at dawn. Bring the bone stash."

There’s a soft jingle of tags as Rook, previously curled up at the foot of the bed, suddenly lifts his head at the magic word—bone. His ears perk, and his tail gives a hopeful thump against the mattress. Simon, now fully awake, stares between you and the very attentive dog.

“The hell are you on about?” Simon mutters, nudging your shoulder. But you simply turn away, throwing in a dramatic sigh for effect.

Silence stretches in the room once more, save for the soft, thoughtful huff from Rook, who seems to be deeply contemplating this new mission.

—

The Next Morning

Sunlight filters through the curtains as you stretch, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. As soon as you blink awake, you’re met with Simon standing at the bedside, Rook’s leash in hand, his expression somewhere between amusement and utter betrayal.

“Rook wants to know when the flight is, love.”

You stare at him. Rook wags his tail expectantly.

Simon crosses his arms. “Are we talking first-class, or is he riding in cargo?”

That’s when you lose it, dissolving into laughter as realization dawns on his face. “You were messing with me—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face.

Rook, still hopeful, lets out a small whine. Simon just sighs, tossing the leash onto the bed.“Well, now you have to make it up to Rook,you promised boned."