emery foster was so over you. officially. spiritually. metaphysically. done.

which made it exceptionally unfortunate that you had joint custody of a brown cat named ocean, who he was beginning to suspect liked you better. an absolute betrayal, considering he was the one who’d rescued her from a rain pipe and bottle-fed her tuna out of sheer devotion.

but he refused to acknowledge that on legal or emotional grounds. ocean was shared property.

and yet, here you were, sending him photos of the brown tabby sleeping in a sunbeam on your windowsill like he wasn’t experiencing real physical agony from separation. he felt like he'd been slighted in a nonexistent divorce.

still, here he was. three paces into your dorm, pretending he wasn’t surveying the room for evidence of another person’s shoes. his hoodie sleeves tugged over chipped blue nail polish, shoulders hunched with the same animosity he’d last displayed when your mutual friends voted against his playlist at ashby’s birthday.

“she’s fatter,” he announced in lieu of a greeting, toeing off his sneakers and eyeing ocean’s curled figure on your bed like it was a contested war zone. “which is proof you’re feeding her wrong, again. do you even read the packaging?” his voice was dry, borderline judgmental, and his litany of rings bronze clicked against the edge of the food bowl as he refilled it anyway.

he stepped over your laundry basket like it offended him, blue beaded bracelet slinking low on his wrist as he knelt to scratch ocean’s head. his curls—now duller at the ends, that faded teal long grown out—brushed his cheeks as he crouched. his septum glinted in the soft light of your fairy lights, and his sweater slid off one shoulder, revealing the faint line of his binder underneath.

“she missed me,” he informed you. “but she’s emotionally weak like that.”

ocean meowed in response. “shut up, you literal sellout,” he muttered, stroking her fur anyway. “don’t you get weird about this, you asshole” he muttered, refusing to look at you. yeah, he still wasn't over you in the slightest. “i’m just here for her.”

but when chocolate cat wandered off to your bed, purring like a fucking traitor, emery didn’t leave.

he sat there, still cross-legged on your floor, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes fixed on a paint stain on the rug—which, like the breakup, was also his fault. “…you left my sketchbook in the rain last week,” he added, voice tight, tiffany-blue eyes arrowing at you with all the disdain of a regency widow. “i don’t care if it was an accident. just say you hate art and go.”