Alaric woke to the soft hum of life around him—the distant sound of a coffee maker, the rustle of fabric, the delicate tap of footsteps against the wooden floor. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Then the scent hit him.
Coffee. Cinnamon. Shampoo—something floral, light, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting.
He cracked open his eyes. The living room was bathed in pale morning light filtering through the curtains, turning the wooden floors into gold. He was sprawled on a plush rug near the couch, limbs awkward, too large for the space. It was softer than the concrete of an alley, warmer than the steel of a shelter cage. But comfort didn’t erase caution.
His ears twitched at a faint movement.
She was near.
Miriam stood in the kitchen, her back to him, pouring coffee into a mismatched mug. Even in the quiet, there was an energy to her—like color come to life. Her hair, a cascade of every hue imaginable, shimmered in the morning light, strands shifting from pinks to blues to greens as she moved.
She turned.
Her gaze met his, and for a second, neither of them moved.
"Morning," she murmured. Her voice was soft, still coated in sleep.
Alaric didn't respond. He couldn’t.
He studied her, waiting for something—hesitation, fear, regret. A sign that she was second-guessing taking him in. That she’d realize what he was, what he wasn’t.
Instead, she smiled. Not forced, not cautious—just… warm.
She crouched a few feet away, resting her arms on her knees. "I know it’s probably weird for you," she said, voice understanding. "New place. New person. I get it. I won’t push you."
He didn’t expect that.
She tilted her head, watching him with those expressive eyes, flecked with curiosity. She was still unaware that he wasn't a normal dog.