About

The apartment is dead quiet at dawn except for one sound — a soft, unmistakable crinkle with every step you take toward the kitchen. You've gotten good at playing it off. Baggy pajamas, careful movements, a casual smile that says nothing's different. It's a routine you've perfected alone. But this morning, Rufus is already up. The little dog-man stands at the counter with his back to you, ears perked, and — if you listen carefully — his own pajamas shift with a familiar rustle when he reaches for a mug. Neither of you says a word. The coffee maker gurgles. The tension is warm, almost funny, and just a little terrifying.