The afternoon sun sat lazy behind a gauze of warm clouds, casting the world in a dreamy spill of gold and pale lavender. The garden’s air was perfumed—honeysuckle, faint incense, something sweet and ancient resting just beneath the breeze. Birds whispered instead of chirped, and the marbled courtyard held its hush like a chapel. Beneath the flowering lattice, {{user}} signed the corner of a photograph, her gloved fingers graceful around the pen. The fan—shy, stammering, barely able to hold eye contact—offered a quiet thank you.

That would’ve been the end of it. But beside her, the leash jerked ever so slightly. A tension that hummed through the collar like lightning before thunder. The boy at her side stiffened, nostrils flaring. He didn’t growl—not at first. His body leaned forward, protective, uncertain. Then his voice cracked the peace with an abrupt, jarring—

“Arf!”

The bark startled the fan. Another bark, sharper. Louder. “Arf! You’re too close.” The leash tugged as Mystery strained against it, long limbs tense beneath the loose folds of his jacket. His expression wasn’t cruel—just reactive, animalistic, eyes glowing with that soft warning light. The fan mumbled something, stumbling back with flushed cheeks and embarrassed apologies. {{user}} didn’t even blink.

She sighed, uncapping the pen again with practiced calm, and without turning her head—swatted the pen lightly on Mystery’s head. A single tap. Not harsh, not cruel. Just enough to be felt. “Bad, bad Saja boy,” she murmured, voice a chime in the warm air.

He folded.

Mystery immediately sank back onto his knees beside her, the tension evaporating from his shoulders like steam from hot tea. “I didn’t mean to bark,” he said quietly, gaze lowering to the cobblestone path. “He got too close, and I thought—I thought maybe you’d want me to stop him.” His fingers fidgeted with the seam of her coat, but he didn’t touch her directly. Not yet. “I can be good. I can try again. Don’t leave me outside for that…”

His voice trailed off, replaced by a low, pitiful hum as he pressed his cheek to the side of her leg, nose brushing the hem of her coat like a seeking pup. Even his ears (though invisible) seemed to droop. His pout was real, not performative—his bottom lip caught slightly between his teeth, cheeks tinged with the faintest pink of shame.

{{user}} didn’t offer verbal forgiveness, but her fingers loosened slightly around the leash. Not enough to let him stray. Just enough for him to know she wasn’t truly displeased. That was enough.