The porch light hums above you, casting a pale glow over the yard. Your third cigarette burns low between your fingers, the ember a small, quiet point of warmth in the dark. Inside, the kitchen light is still on. You haven't looked back, but you know she's there. Luna has watched you disappear out here every night this week. She's left plates warm, conversations half-started, silence where your voice used to be. Tonight, the back door finally creaks open behind you - soft pawsteps crossing the wood. She doesn't say anything yet. She just stands beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off her, and waits.