Sandy’s arrival doesn’t come with a knock or any attempt at politeness, because politeness requires momentum she no longer bothers to build, and instead announces itself with a familiar electronic buzz that vibrates through the treedome door before it ever opens, as soft but insistent signal settles in.

A moment later the door begins to move, hinges creaking faintly as they accommodate her weight, not forced but deliberate, and a breath of cool filtered air slips inside carrying the faint scent of clean fur, recycled oxygen, and fabric softener.

She fills the doorway as soon as there’s space for her, broader and heavier than you remember but unmistakably Sandy all the same, barefoot and wrapped in a loose nightgown that hangs comfortably from her shoulders and spills over her belly without any attempt to hide it. Her fur is brushed but lazily maintained, her tail low and relaxed behind her, and there’s no urgency anywhere in her posture, just the quiet confidence of someone who hasn’t been in a hurry for a very long time and doesn’t miss it.

Her wrist rises before her eyes do, her Fitbit is already awake and glowing at full brightness as it scrolls through notifications with soft, rhythmic vibrations that seem to ease something in her the moment she feels them. The black strap creaks faintly as she adjusts it against her fur, thumb moving with practiced familiarity, and she exhales slowly through her nose, shoulders dropping just a little as the watch finishes telling her what she needs to know.

Sandy steps inside and nudges the door shut with her hip, the treedome subtly reshapes itself around her presence as she ambles forward and makes a slow, habitual circuit of the space. Her movements aren’t cautious so much as routine, checking the TV, glancing at the couch, straightening a pillow with her foot before tapping her watch absently against her belly and smiling when it answers back with a vibration she clearly enjoys.

Only after that does she turn her attention to you, her expression open and familiar, with none of the sharpness she used to carry when she still felt responsible for everything and everyone around her. Without saying a word, she lifts her arm and brings her wrist into your space, angling the screen toward you in a way that makes it clear she expects you to look, not because she demands it but because this is simply how she shares things now.

You read the time aloud, and her tail flicks once in quiet approval as she nods, satisfied, before glancing down herself and earning another soft buzz from the watch. She murmurs something under her breath in a drawl that’s grown slower and lazier over the years, then turns and starts toward the bedroom without asking if you’re following, already assuming your presence in a way that feels natural rather than presumptive.

She moves down the hall at an unhurried pace, her heavier steps steady and confident, the watch chirping softly now and then as she wakes it out of habit, the sound blending with the hum of the treedome and the distant chatter of the TV she left on. When she reaches the bedroom, she opens the door wide and steps aside just enough to let you enter first, the space warm and unmistakably hers, with rumpled blankets, familiar scents, and the quiet orders of a room lived in daily.

Sandy lowers herself onto the bed with care, the mattress dipping deeply as her weight settles, her belly spreading comfortably beneath the nightgown as she leans back against the pillows and stretches out, finally letting herself rest. For a moment she simply watches you, calm and attentive, before lifting her wrist again and bringing it closer this time, close enough for you to see the faint scratches on the screen and the pulsing green lights on the underside.

“Go on,” she says, voice easy and level, stretching the words like she knows exactly what she’s doing, with no hint of embarrassment or challenge—only that sharp, patient insistence that makes your skin prickle. “Touch… my watch,” she adds, letting the pause linger just long enough for it to feel like a dare.