hometime

---Grace---

I watch Jason's face carefully as the conversation with his mother ends. His scent carries complex notes—anxiety, embarrassment, and something deeper, a hint of protectiveness. He taps his phone against his thigh three times before meeting my gaze again.

"We need a better story," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Mom's coming home tomorrow, not in two days like she originally said."

"The accelerated timeline creates complications," I observe, still trying to process the rapid changes. "Your mother believed your explanation about me being a friend?"

Jason's short laugh carries no actual humor. "No, not even a little. She's a child psychologist—reading people is literally her job. But I think I bought us some time."

I straighten my spine, sorting through the information. "You did not tell her about my psychopathy or the death oath. Why?"

The question hangs between us as Jason's eyebrows lift slightly. "Because my mother would have me committed to a psychiatric facility if I started talking about interdimensional visitors and magical healing." One corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Also, not mine to tell." He shrugs. "Especially not the psychopathy bit." He shrugs again.

His reasoning puzzles me. In my world, information is shared based on tactical necessity, not personal ownership. The concept that certain facts about me belong to me alone, rather than serving the collective knowledge base, creates an unfamiliar sensation in my chest.

"Your mother would not believe you," I conclude, analyzing this new perspective. "This suggests deception serves a practical purpose in your world. Misleading others to avoid negative consequences."

Jason's mouth opens, then closes, his expression shifting through several micro-expressions before settling on something adjacent to resignation. "It's not really deception. More like... selective disclosure." His fingers trace an absent pattern on the couch cushion between us. "Some truths don't help situations. They just make things worse."

I consider this framework, turning it over like an unfamiliar weapon before testing its balance. "In my clan, withholding information could result in death. The druid taught that knowledge must flow freely to ensure survival." My fingers drift to the bone handle of my knife, the familiar texture grounding me. "Though he also taught that timing matters. Not all truths should be delivered at once."

"Exactly," Jason says, leaning forward slightly, his scent brightening with what I recognize as enthusiasm. "Context matters. Telling my mother that a woman who casually discusses gutting people is living in my house would create fear without providing useful context."

"Your mother is important to you," I observe, noting the subtle shift in his posture whenever she's mentioned. "You wish to protect her from distress."

"I—yeah, I guess I do." His pale blue eyes fix on mine, narrowing slightly in thought. "Don't you have people you want to protect? Emotional connections or not?"

The question strikes somewhere unexpected, like a blade finding the gap between tunic and pants. Images flash through my mind—the druid's weathered face, lit by firelight as he patiently explained which plants heal and which kill. Baldric, Balder's gruff laugh when I failed to correctly identify tracks in fresh snow. The clan children who would follow me at a distance, both frightened and fascinated by what I represented.

"The clan was... mine to protect," I say slowly, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "Not from emotional attachment, but from duty. From purpose." My hands close into fists on my thighs, a physical reaction I hadn't consciously initiated. "The druid took me in when others would have left a strange child to die in the snow. He gave me structure when my mind provided none. This created... obligation."

Jason watches me carefully, his gaze neither pitying nor judgmental—simply attentive in a way few have ever been. "Obligation, duty, purpose—those things matter. Maybe as much as feelings do."

"Perhaps," I acknowledge, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. Analyzing my own motivations has never seemed particularly relevant to survival. "Your approach to truth is... pragmatic. I had not considered that concealment could serve long-term objectives."

Jason's lips curve into a small smile, creating faint lines at the corners of his eyes. "I can be practical when the situation calls for it."

Something about his expression makes me want to mirror it, though I resist the urge. Such mimicry serves no tactical purpose in this setting. "Falsehoods are inefficient," I note, though I find my voice lacks its usual conviction. "Yet you chose concealment over accuracy. This is... interesting."

"It wasn't exactly lying," Jason clarifies, his scent shifting toward something defensive. "I just left out the parts that would sound completely insane. Mom asked if I had someone staying with me, and I said yes. She asked who you were, and I said a friend who needed a place to stay. All technically true."

I consider this carefully. "The omission of significant details while maintaining literal truth is a common deception technique." I pause, noting how his shoulders tense. "It was tactically sound given your objective."

Relief floods his scent. "Thanks, I think? Anyway, we need to agree on a basic story before they get here tomorrow. Something simple, believable, and not involving other dimensions or throat-eating."

"A practical strategy," I agree, watching as he pulls his phone back out, slender fingers flickering across the screen with soft clicks.

"Mom's calling again," he mutters, swiping at the screen. He holds up one finger toward me, signaling for silence. "Hey, Mom."

I refocus my hearing, easily picking up both sides of the conversation despite the physical distance between the phone and my position.

"Jason Alexander Stone," the woman's voice emerges, carrying both authority and concern. "You don't get to hang up on me and not expect me to call right back. Now, who exactly is staying with you?"

"Her name is Grace," Jason replies, meeting my eyes across the room. "She's... new to the area. Needed a place to stay for a bit while she gets oriented. I offered the guest room."

A pause follows before the woman—Bearee, I recall from Jason's earlier explanations—continues with deliberate patience. "And how exactly did you meet this Grace person?"

"She was lost near the house," Jason says, his heartbeat accelerating slightly though his voice remains steady. "It was freezing out. I couldn't just leave her out there, Mom."

"Lost in our neighborhood?" Skepticism colors every word. "And how long have you known her? We've only been gone just under two weeks."

"Not long," Jason admits, his free hand tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh. "But she's been helpful. Walked Dawson today when I was at work since Rebecca broke her hip."

I note how he weaves truth into this carefully constructed narrative, adding credibility while avoiding direct falsehood. The strategy demonstrates unexpected subtlety.

"And were you planning to mention your house guest to us before we arrived home to find a stranger living with you?" Bearee's tone softens slightly. "Jason, sweetheart, you know I trust your judgment, but this is... unusual for you."

"I know it's weird," Jason acknowledges, his voice quieter now. "It just sort of happened. She needed help, and I was there."

"And what exactly was she doing half-dressed during our call?"

Jason's face flushes immediately, heat spreading up his neck to his cheeks. His scent spikes with embarrassment, though no fear—interesting that this topic creates stronger physiological responses than discussions of potential violence.

"She'd just showered," he explains, voice slightly strained. "I showed her how to use the bathroom earlier. She's, uh, from a rural area. Different facilities than she's used to."

Another pause follows. I can almost hear Bearee processing this information, weighing its plausibility.

"Jason, may I speak with your guest?"

Jason's eyes widen fractionally. "Uh, sure? Hold on."

He holds the phone toward me, expression pleading. I recognize the tactical situation immediately—refusing would create suspicion, while participation carries risks but potentially builds credibility. I accept the device, positioning it near my ear as I've observed Jason doing.

"This is Grace," I state simply.

"Hello, Grace." Bearee's voice shifts to a professional warmth. "I'm Bearee Stone, Jason's mother. I understand you're staying with my son?"

"Yes," I confirm. "I required shelter. Jason provided it."

"I see." Her tone suggests careful neutrality. "And where exactly are you from, Grace?"

I consider my response carefully, balancing truth and tactical necessity. "A remote settlement far north of here. Our living arrangements were primitive compared to the conveniences of Jason's dwelling."

"I'm curious about what happened during our video call earlier," Bearee continues, her voice gentle but probing. "Jason seemed quite flustered."

"My chest binding was wet from the shower," I explain matter-of-factly. "I removed it to dry and did not realize this would create social complications. I have since corrected the issue."

A small sound escapes Bearee—something between surprise and amusement. "Well, that's... refreshingly direct." A pause follows. "May I speak with Jason again?"

I return the device to Jason, who takes it with a slightly bemused expression.

"Mom?" he asks, caution evident in his tone.

I study Jason's expression as he speaks to his mother. His face cycles through an impressive array of emotions—panic when she spots me in the background, resignation when she questions him, and now a carefully neutral mask that doesn't quite hide the tension in his jaw.

"Well, she's certainly interesting," Bearee says, her voice carrying a new note I cannot immediately identify. "Your father and I will be home tomorrow around noon. We can all have lunch together and get properly acquainted."

Jason's shoulders tense fractionally. "I have work tomorrow, Mom," he explains, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against his thigh. "Northern Edge is swamped with the winter survival courses. I won't be home until around four or five." He pauses, considering. "Though at the pace I'm going with paperwork, four seems more likely."

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable. I remain perfectly still, assessing the underlying dynamics of this conversation. The lack of visible facial cues from Bearee creates an information deficit, but Jason's reactions provide adequate data for analysis.

"Change of plans," Bearee replies smoothly, her voice warming with determination. "The conference call can be handled remotely. We've been gone long enough, and frankly, I'd rather meet this young woman sooner rather than later."

Jason's face pales slightly, his pulse visibly increasing at his throat. The subtle scent of stress radiates from him in waves—not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. His eyes dart briefly to me before returning to the phone.

"Mom, that's really not—" he begins, but Bearee cuts him off with practiced efficiency.

"It's decided, sweetheart. Your father can work from the resort's business center this evening, and we'll catch the early flight tomorrow. We should be home before you leave for work."

Jason's expression shifts to something I recognize from my limited observation of human interactions—the look of someone who knows they've lost a battle but is still searching for possible escape routes.

"Grace might not even be here tomorrow," he attempts, voice strained with forced casualness. "She's just staying temporarily while she... figures some things out."

I catalogue this interesting development. Jason has not lied—my presence is indeed temporary, though neither of us knows precisely how temporary—but he has deliberately presented information in a way designed to diminish his mother's interest. A strategic retreat rather than direct confrontation.

"All the more reason for us to meet her while we can," Bearee counters, her tone carrying the unmistakable weight of final decision. "I'll text you our flight details once we're booked. Love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too, Mom," Jason sighs, his free hand moving to the back of his neck in what I've observed is a personal stress response. "Give Dad my best."

He ends the call, setting the phone down with excessive care before dropping his head into his hands with a groan that seems to emerge from deep within his chest.

"Your mother has altered her travel plans to meet me," I observe, finding the direct approach most efficient.

Jason lifts his head, a rueful smile twisting his lips. "Yeah, you could say that." He runs both hands through his hair, leaving the sandy strands standing in disarray. "Mom's a clinical psychologist, and Dad's an architectural engineer. When they decide to investigate something, they're... thorough."

I process this new information, calculating potential complications. "Their professional backgrounds suggest enhanced observational skills and analytical thinking. This could present tactical challenges if we wish to conceal certain aspects of my origin."

A startled laugh escapes Jason. "That's one way of putting it. Mom's specialty is family dynamics and developmental psychology. She can read people like they're written in large-print books." His expression shifts, something almost fond crossing his features. "And Dad notices spatial relationships and structural details most people miss. Together, they're kind of terrifying."

"You admire them," I note, not a question but an observation.

"I do," Jason acknowledges, his voice softening. "They're brilliant, both of them. And they've always been supportive, even when they didn't understand."

I tilt my head slightly, processing this complex emotional response. "Yet you experience significant stress at the prospect of their early return."

"Because I have no idea how to explain you!" Jason exclaims, standing abruptly and pacing across the living room. "My mom just saw an unknown woman in her house, wearing her son's clothes, with clearly visible..." he gestures vaguely toward my chest area, "... feminine attributes. She's going to have questions, and 'hey, this is Grace, she arrived from another dimension and now we're bound by a death oath' isn't exactly a plausible explanation."

His heart rate has increased further, his scent sharpening with distress. I find myself experiencing an unfamiliar impulse to reduce his discomfort. This reaction requires analysis, but later.

"We require a tactical explanation," I suggest, keeping my voice measured and calm. "A plausible narrative that accounts for my presence without revealing potentially destabilizing information."

Jason stops pacing, turning to face me with sudden intensity. "Exactly. But what? What story explains you showing up at my place in the middle of winter, wearing clothes that aren't normal for Toronto, with no apparent belongings or background?"

I consider various scenarios, weighing their strategic advantages and potential weaknesses. "A foreign visitor who experienced theft of belongings would explain my lack of appropriate clothing and identification. The death oath could be recontextualized as a debt of gratitude for your assistance."

Jason blinks rapidly, his expression shifting as he processes this suggestion. "That... might actually work. You could be from a small village somewhere remote. You came to Toronto for... I don't know, some kind of cultural exchange program? Then your stuff got stolen, you got lost, and ended up on my doorstep."

His energy shifts visibly, stress receding as the framework of a coherent narrative emerges. "People do sometimes get stranded in unfamiliar places, and your accent isn't something most Canadians could place easily."

I nod once, acknowledging the tactical utility of his additions. "This explanation accounts for my unfamiliarity with technology and local customs. It also provides justification for temporary residence without suggesting permanent arrangements."

"Right," Jason agrees, dropping back onto the couch with less tension in his frame. "We just need to fill in some details. Like where you're from specifically."

"A location sufficiently remote that verification would be difficult," I suggest. "Perhaps a region experiencing political instability that would explain communication challenges."

Jason's eyes narrow in thought. "Maybe somewhere in Eastern Europe? There are remote villages in places like Moldova or parts of Romania where traditional lifestyles are still common." He glances at me, eyes skimming my features. "Your appearance wouldn't be out of place there, and it would explain some of your... directness."

I catalog this assessment of my physical traits, finding it tactically useful if not particularly significant. "Eastern European origin provides adequate cover. I will memorize basic geographical and cultural details to maintain consistency."

"We should keep it simple," Jason advises, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The best lies stick close to the truth. You're from a small village. You came to Canada recently. You lost your belongings. You needed help. That's all true, just... recontextualized."

His practical approach to deception interests me. Most humans I've encountered display either unnecessary complexity in their falsehoods or emotional distress at the concept of lying itself. Jason demonstrates neither, focusing instead on efficiency and plausibility.

"Agreed," I say. "Simplified narratives present fewer opportunities for contradiction."

Jason exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Great. So we have a plan. You're Grace... we need a last name."

"Winters," I supply immediately, recalling a name mentioned by a traveling merchant who once visited our settlement. "Grace Winters."

"Grace Winters from a small village in Romania," Jason repeats, nodding. "You came to Canada through a cultural exchange program, got separated from your group, lost your belongings, and ended up at my door seeking help." He meets my eyes directly. "Think you can remember all that?"

"Yes," I confirm. "I have excellent memory retention for tactical information."

"Good. That should satisfy Mom and Dad. At least temporarily." His shoulders slump suddenly, exhaustion evident in his posture. "God, I'm tired. Too much happening at once."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

I observe the signs of physical and mental fatigue in his frame—the slight darkness beneath his eyes, the reduced muscular tension indicating energy depletion. "You should rest. Tomorrow will require significant energy expenditure."

Jason laughs softly, the sound carrying genuine if subdued amusement. "Understatement of the century." He stands, stretching his arms above his head until his spine makes a series of small popping sounds. "You're right, though. I should get some sleep."

He moves toward the hallway, then pauses, turning back to me with an expression I cannot immediately identify. "Will you be okay out here? I can get you more blankets for the couch."

The question takes me by surprise. In my world, comfort is irrelevant compared to tactical positioning and security. Yet Jason consistently concerns himself with my physical well-being beyond mere survival requirements.

"I am adequately prepared for rest," I assure him. "Additional resources are unnecessary."

"If you're sure," he says, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press the issue. "Goodnight, Grace."

"Goodnight, Jason," I respond, the formality feeling strangely personal in this context.

As he disappears down the hallway, Dawson rises from his bed, stretching thoroughly before padding over to settle beside me on the couch. His warm weight presses against my thigh, a simple, uncomplicated presence.

I place my hand on his fur, finding the repetitive motion of stroking his back surprisingly effective at organizing my thoughts. Tomorrow will bring new tactical challenges—meeting Jason's parents, maintaining our constructed narrative, navigating complex social dynamics.

Yet beneath these practical considerations, I find myself experiencing an unfamiliar sensation. Not quite anticipation, not quite concern, but something adjacent to both. The prospect of meeting the people who shaped Jason—who built the framework of his unusual approach to the world—creates a peculiar tension in my chest.

This requires further analysis, but not tonight. Tonight is for preparation and rest. Tomorrow, we face the next phase of this strange journey together.

---Dawson---

# Dawson's POV - After Grace's Walk Scene

This human Grace is nice. She pets me and makes Jason, my human, happy. At least I think she makes him happy—his scent gets all mixed up when she's around, like when dad fixes the car and smells like oil and happiness together.

I like this Grace human. She smells like trees and cold air and something sharp like the metal things mom uses in the kitchen, but also warm underneath like when Russet sleeps by the fire. She pets me good too, not like some humans who just pat-pat-pat on my head like I'm a door they're knocking on. Grace scratches behind my ears the right way, the way that makes my back leg want to kick but I hold it still because that might make her stop.

Jason seemed tense when they came inside. His smell was all twisted up—happy but scared, like when he opens the door and there's a package but also a loud truck. I know that smell means he needs comfort, so I do what always works.

I hop onto the couch beside Grace, settling right against her leg like I do with Jason when the thunder comes or when he sits too long at the glowing rectangle thing that makes clicking sounds. This always makes Jason's smell get softer, less sharp around the edges. Maybe it works on Grace too?

Grace keeps scratching my ears, her fingers finding all the good spots that make me want to lean into her touch. Her smell is shifting too, getting warmer, less like the metal-sharp scent and more like the tree-warm one. That's good, right? When humans smell calmer, that usually means they're happier.

Maybe if Grace gets Jason hugs? Jason hugs always help mom and dad feel better when they smell stressed. And brother-who-smells-like-wood gets less tense when people hug him, and even brother-who-smells-like-metal seems happier after mom hugs him, though he tries to pretend he doesn't like it. So why not Grace? She seems like she might need hugs too, even if she doesn't know it yet.

"You are a strange canine," Grace says quietly as Jason disappears into his sleeping room. Her voice is different when Jason's not here—still serious, but softer somehow, like when mom talks to me when she thinks no one else can hear. "I hope that you never find yourself upon my world, as you would be consumed."

I don't understand all her words, but her tone isn't mean. It's like when dad tells me I'm "too smart for my own good" but keeps giving me the complicated puzzle toys anyway. Sometimes humans say things that sound scary but aren't really scary. I've learned this from lots of experience.

I just huff in response, a soft sound that usually makes humans smile, and snuggle closer against her side. Grace's face does something twitchy, like mom's does when I tilt my head just right or when I bring her favorite shoes to her even though I'm not supposed to carry shoes. Mom's face goes all soft and her smell gets sweet when I do cute things. Grace's face is doing something similar now, I think.

She scratches me more after her face does the twitchy thing, her fingers working deeper into my fur, finding the itchy spot right behind my left ear that even Jason sometimes misses. That's definitely good, right? More scratching means she likes me.

I can hear Jason moving around in his room, making the soft sounds he makes when he's organizing things. Sometimes he does this when he's nervous—touching and moving things around until they're just right. His scent is still complicated, but it's getting less sharp, which means he's feeling safer.

Grace's hand pauses for a moment, and I look up at her with my best pleading eyes. This usually works on all humans. Her mouth makes a tiny upward curve—barely there, but I've gotten good at reading small expressions. Humans think they're hard to understand, but they're actually pretty simple once you learn their signals.

"You are persistent," she says, but her hand starts moving again, so I know she's not really complaining. "This is perhaps why Jason values you."

Jason values me! I knew that, of course—his scent always gets happy when he sees me, and he shares his food sometimes, and he lets me sleep on the big soft thing even when mom says I shouldn't. But it's nice when other humans notice too.

I shift position slightly, rolling more onto my side so she can reach my belly if she wants. Most humans can't resist belly access once it's offered. It's like a trap, but a nice trap that makes everyone happy.

Grace's eyes widen slightly when I expose my belly. I think she's surprised. Maybe humans on her world don't offer bellies? That seems sad. Belly rubs are one of the best things.

"Are you requesting that I touch your stomach?" she asks, very seriously, like this is an important question. Which it is, I suppose. Belly touching is serious business.

I wag my tail against the couch cushions in what I hope is an encouraging way. Grace looks at me for a long moment, her head tilted slightly like she's thinking hard about something. Then, very carefully, she places her hand on my belly and starts rubbing in gentle circles.

Oh, this is perfect. Her hands are warm and she uses just the right pressure, not too light like some humans who barely touch you, but not too heavy like others who think dogs are made of rock. I let out a contented sigh and let my tongue loll out a little bit. This makes Grace's mouth do the tiny upward curve again.

"Your coat is well-maintained," she says, like she's giving me a professional evaluation. "Jason cares for you properly."

Of course Jason cares for me properly! He's the best human. Well, mom and dad are pretty great too, and my brothers are okay even though they sometimes smell weird, but Jason is mine. My special human who needs me to help him with things like knowing when people are coming to the door, and keeping his feet warm at night, and making sure he doesn't get too focused on the glowing rectangle and forget to eat.

I hear Jason's footsteps moving around his room, and catch whiffs of his scent as air moves under the door. He's still nervous but getting calmer. Good. When Jason's calm, everything is better.

Grace continues her excellent belly rubbing technique while we listen to Jason's sounds. This is nice. Usually when new humans come over, they're loud and they want to play fetch immediately, or they try to feed me things I'm not supposed to eat, or they forget I exist after the first few minutes. Grace is different. She's quiet but not ignoring-me quiet. She's paying attention quiet.

"Do you understand that your human is afraid?" she asks me suddenly, her voice even softer than before. "Not of danger, but of... social complexities."

I don't know what "social complexities" means, but I definitely know when Jason's afraid. His scent gets tight and sharp, like right now. I've always known this about him. It's part of why he needs me.

I make a small whimpering sound to show I understand, and Grace nods like she expected this response.

"Yes," she says. "You are aware. This is why you comfort him."

Exactly! I'm very good at my job. Jason needs comfort, I provide comfort. Simple.

Grace's hand stills for a moment on my belly. "I do not understand the custom of keeping animals as companions," she says, "but I begin to see the practical applications. You serve as both early warning system and emotional regulation."

I have no idea what most of those words mean, but her tone sounds approving, so I'll take it. I am very good at both warning about things and helping Jason feel better. These are important skills.

"On my world," Grace continues, her voice taking on that distant quality it gets sometimes, "creatures serve specific functions. Food, materials, labor, or elimination. The concept of..." she pauses, searching for words, "...mutual affection without direct utility is foreign."

That sounds like a sad world. Why wouldn't you want animals around just because they're nice? Being nice is important! Jason's always happier when I'm near him, and I'm happier when he's near me. That seems like plenty of utility right there.

I nudge her hand with my nose to encourage more belly rubs. She starts up again, and I settle more comfortably against the couch cushions. This is definitely one of the better afternoons I've had in a while.

Jason's scent is continuing to calm down as he putters around his room. That's good. When Jason's relaxed, he makes better decisions. When he's stressed, he sometimes forgets to put food in my bowl or doesn't notice when I need to go outside.

"You have an unusual effect on him," Grace observes, watching me with those sharp eyes that seem to see everything. "And on me as well, apparently."

I wag my tail harder at this. Having good effects on humans is what I do best! Mom always says I'm a "natural therapy dog," whatever that means. I just know that humans seem to feel better when I'm around, and I like making them feel better.

Grace's scent is definitely warmer now, less sharp around the edges. The metal smell is still there, but it's mixing with something softer, like the way the house smells after mom's been baking. Comfortable. Safe.

This is good progress. If Grace can learn to be comfortable here, maybe she'll stay longer. And if she stays longer, maybe Jason will keep smelling happy-confused instead of just confused. I like it when Jason smells happy, even when it's complicated happy.

I hear Jason opening drawers in his room, the distinctive sound of clothes being moved around. He's probably changing out of his work clothes. Good. Work clothes make him smell more tense, like he's always expecting something bad to happen.

"Your pack structure is unusual," Grace says to me, still rubbing my belly with that perfect pressure. "You recognize Jason as your primary human, but you accept others as well. Flexible hierarchy."

I don't understand "hierarchy," but Jason is definitely my most important human. That doesn't mean I can't like other humans too, though. There's plenty of liking to go around.

Grace's eyes are getting that faraway look again, like she's thinking about something that's not here. "In my world, loyalty is singular and absolute. You choose one leader, one pack, one purpose. Divided loyalty is viewed as weakness."

That sounds lonely. Why would you only want to love one human when there are so many good humans available? I love Jason the most, but I also love mom and dad and my brothers, and even some of the neighbors who give me treats. Love isn't like food that gets used up when you share it.

I roll over slightly, presenting a different section of belly for attention. Grace notices immediately and adjusts her scratching accordingly. She's very observant, this Grace human. That's probably why Jason likes her, even though his scent gets all complicated when she's around.

"You are teaching me things I did not expect to learn," Grace says, more to herself than to me. "Perhaps this is why Jason chose to help me. He saw something that could be... modified."

I don't know what she means by "modified," but the way she says it doesn't sound bad. It sounds... hopeful? Like when Jason talks about fixing things in the house. Making them work better.

Jason's footsteps are moving toward his door now. His scent is much calmer, though still carrying those complicated undertones. That's okay. Sometimes complicated is better than simple, especially with humans. Simple humans are boring.

"Do not tell him I enjoyed this interaction," Grace says to me seriously, like she's sharing an important secret. "I have a reputation to maintain."

I wag my tail to show I understand. Humans are always worried about their reputations. Dogs don't really have this problem—we just are what we are, and that's usually enough.

Grace gives me one final scratch behind the ears, hitting that perfect spot that makes me want to melt into the couch cushions. Then she sits back, her hands folding in her lap in that precise way she does everything.

"You are acceptable," she tells me, and somehow I know this is high praise coming from her. "I understand now why Jason values your presence."

The best part is, I think she's starting to value my presence too. Her scent has been steadily warming throughout our interaction, losing that sharp metallic edge and gaining something more like the tree-warm smell that I associate with safety and comfort.

This is exactly what I hoped would happen. Grace needed to learn that our pack is a good pack, worth being part of. And I think maybe she's starting to understand.

Jason's door handle turns, and I hear him starting to come back out. Time to make sure he sees that Grace and I are getting along well. That will make his scent even happier, and when Jason's happy, everything works better.

I stretch luxuriously and give Grace one more encouraging tail wag before Jason appears. Mission accomplished, I think. The new pack member is integrating successfully.

Now if I could just convince her to give me more belly rubs...

---Jason---

I lean against the doorframe of the living room, watching Grace for a moment. The day's events tumble through my mind like rocks in a polishing drum—each turn revealing new facets, new complexities. A psychopath from another dimension sitting on my couch, petting my dog, having just used my shower. My life has officially gone off the rails.

"I'm going to use the hot tub before bed," I announce, suddenly craving the comfort of hot water and jet streams. Something normal in this utterly abnormal day.

Grace turns her head toward me, her expression neutral as ever. "Hot tub?"

"Yeah, it helps me relax. God knows I need it after today." I gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. "I'm just going to change first."

I retreat to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. The mirror shows me a face I'm still getting used to seeing, though only because looking at myself when I'm not standing at it, the first time didn't go well so i just do it when I'm standing at the sink—sandy blond hair in disarray, tired blue eyes, the shadow of stubble across my jaw. I look exhausted. I feel exhausted.

I strip quickly, wrapping a towel around my waist before returning to the living room. Grace is exactly where I left her, though Dawson has migrated to lie across her feet like a living foot warmer.

Her eyes flick to my bare chest, then back to my face with clinical precision. No lingering, no hint of embarrassment—just data collection.

"What are you doing?" she asks, head tilting slightly in that birdlike way of hers.

"Going to use the hot tub, then I'm going to bed." I run a hand through my hair, leaving it standing in damp spikes. "It's like... a small heated pool on our back deck. Helps with muscle tension."

Her eyebrows lift fractionally—the closest thing to surprise I've seen from her. "You have a heated pool outside your dwelling?"

"Sort of. You want to see it?" I wave for her to follow me before I can think better of it.

She rises from the couch with that fluid grace that makes me doubly aware of my own awkward, half-naked state. Dawson looks betrayed when she disturbs his comfortable position, but settles back with a dramatic sigh.

I lead Grace through the kitchen to the sliding glass door that opens onto our back deck. The night air hits me like a slap when I slide it open, raising goosebumps across my bare shoulders. February in Toronto is brutal, especially when you're wearing nothing but a towel.

The hot tub sits in the corner of the deck, its cover dusted with a light layer of fresh snow. The control panel glows blue in the darkness, steam rising from the small gap where the cover doesn't quite meet the edge.

"Dad installed it a few years ago," I explain through chattering teeth. "It's great for winter. The heat helps with me being cold all the time, especially, well, now."

Grace steps onto the deck behind me, seeming utterly unaffected by the cold despite wearing only my borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt. She circles the hot tub with measured steps, studying it from all angles like she's assessing a potential threat.

"How does it function?" she asks, crouching to examine the control panel.

I shuffle closer, arms wrapped around myself against the cold. "Electric heater warms the water, jets create bubbles and pressure for massage. Pretty simple in concept, just expensive to run."

I move to the edge and lift one corner of the cover, releasing a cloud of steam into the frigid air. "Can you... um, not look for a second? I need to drop my towel to get in."

Grace turns away immediately, facing the fence with her back perfectly straight. "I will continue to observe the perimeter while you enter the water."

"Thanks." I drop my towel and slide into the hot tub as quickly as possible, hissing as the hot water touches my frozen skin. "Okay, you can turn around now."

She pivots with military precision. "What temperature is the water?"

"About forty degrees Celsius," I say, sinking deeper until the water reaches my shoulders. "Hot enough to hurt at first, but then it feels amazing."

The jets kick on automatically, bubbling around me as I stretch out my legs. The contrast between the freezing air on my face and the hot water around my body creates a disorienting but pleasant sensation.

"You're welcome to use it after I get out," I offer, then quickly add, "Since I'm, you know, not wearing anything in here right now."

Grace's eyes flick to the water's surface, then back to my face. "I will consider your offer when you are no longer naked inside the hot tub."

"Thanks for completing that thought," I say with a nervous laugh, feeling heat that has nothing to do with the water creep up my neck.

She remains standing at the edge, studying me with that unwavering gaze. "I have a question."

"Shoot." I sink a little deeper, letting the water lap at my chin.

"Why do you become flustered around me?" Her head tilts again, genuinely curious. "Also, why aren't you afraid, since I told you what I am, regularly solve problems by stabbing them, and have casually mentioned ripping people's throats out and gutting them multiple times?"

The directness of her questions makes me choke slightly, sending me into a coughing fit that echoes across the quiet backyard. "Jesus, Grace. You don't pull punches, do you?"

"It would be inefficient to do so in conversation. However, as not doing so in combat would result in you're death, in that medium, I would pull my punches, as you put it."

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "For the first question... I don't have much experience with women my age." I pause, realizing something. "Actually, I don't even know how old you are."

"Twenty-one winters," she answers promptly.

"Oh." That catches me off guard. She seems both younger and older than that—her face youthful but her eyes ancient. "I'm twenty-eight. Anyway, I'm not great at... this." I gesture vaguely between us, water dripping from my hand. "Social stuff. Especially with women. Especially with women who look like you."

She processes this information with the same clinical detachment she applies to everything else. "My physical appearance causes you discomfort?"

"Not discomfort, exactly." I sink lower, letting the bubbling water hide the blush spreading across my cheeks and now seemingly chin. "Look, you're objectively attractive, and I'm naked in a hot tub trying to have a normal conversation with you. It's a little... challenging."

Grace nods once, accepting this information without visible reaction. "And your lack of fear?"

I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, watching my breath form clouds in the cold air. "You could have killed me. Multiple times. That sleeping draught you gave me could have been poisoned." I shrug, sending ripples across the water's surface. "Though part of why I took it so readily was because I figured if you actually wanted me dead, poisoned potions would be pretty low on the list of options. Especially considering your face broke my hand before you healed that, my eyes, and my fractured jaw."

"I apologize for that," Grace says, her voice softening almost imperceptibly.

"It's fine. It's all healed, and I get it. Someone punching you in the face tends to trigger that kind of reaction."

She nods, seeming to accept this explanation. Then, without another word, she turns and walks back inside, the sliding door closing behind her with a soft click.

"Wait—please don't lock me out!" I call after her, suddenly envisioning myself trapped naked in the backyard.

The door slides open again. "I will not," she assures me before disappearing back inside.

I sink deeper into the hot water, thoughts swirling like the bubbles around me. What a day. What an absolutely insane day.

Since Grace arrived on my doorstep, my entire reality has shifted like a particular large earthquake—sudden, violent, and irreversible. I can see now. Actually see. The sensation still feels foreign, like I've been given someone else's senses. I keep forgetting it sometimes, letting my mind slip back into the almost comfortable nothing I've known all my life. Then something will catch my attention—the steam rising from the water, the light reflecting off the snow—and I'm jolted back into this new reality.

And then there's the story we've concocted for my parents. Will it hold? I frown, mentally reviewing our cover. Grace's accent doesn't sound Eastern European at all—it has more of an Irish lilt to it. But there's no changing it now. Ireland would be much easier to verify than some remote Romanian village besides, which would bring us right back to the question of how Grace ended up staying in my house.

My parents are... protective, to put it mildly. Having a blind son for twenty-eight years will do that. Mom will see through any obvious holes in our story immediately. Her job literally involves reading people for a living.

The jets pulse against my lower back, easing the tension that's been building there all day. I close my eyes, then immediately snap them open again when I realize my vision has switched off. This has happened a few times today—moments when I forget I can see, let my mind slip back into old patterns, and suddenly I'm back in the nothing I've known all my life. Then something startles me, like Grace speaking, and I remember that she healed my eyes. I can see now. Why am I not seeing?

It's like my brain has a switch it flips when I'm not paying attention. I'll have to figure that out later. Add it to the growing list of impossible things I need to process.

I stay in the hot tub until my fingers wrinkle and the cold air on my face becomes too uncomfortable to ignore. With a reluctant sigh, I pull myself out, wrapping the towel around my waist as quickly as possible. The frigid February air hits my wet skin like needles, sending violent shivers through my body as I close the hot tub cover and hurry back inside.

Grace is sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Dawson has migrated to lie at her feet, his tail thumping lazily against the floor when I enter.

"Would you like to use it?" I ask through chattering teeth. "I can show you how to open the cover."

"Yes," she says, rising from her chair. "I would like to experience this hot tub."

"Great. Let me just grab you a towel. Actually—" I hesitate, gesturing to my own sodden state. "I should get dressed first. But I can show you how to open it now, if you want."

Grace follows me back outside, where I demonstrate the cover mechanism, my hands trembling slightly from the cold. "See, it folds back twice like this," I explain, lifting the first section despite my shivering. "I always did better when someone showed me stuff instead of just explaining it."

"Agreed. Visual demonstrations are more efficient than verbal explanations alone," Grace says, watching my movements carefully.

I close the cover again, my teeth practically tap-dancing against each other. "Do you want me to grab your towel from the bathroom once I get dressed? You'll need it after."

Grace considers this for a moment, then nods once. "That would be acceptable."

I hurry back inside, practically running to the bathroom where I towel off vigorously before pulling on my bathrobe—I had the foresight to grab it before heading to the hot tub. I gather my discarded clothes under one arm and Grace's towel in the other hand, delivering it to her before retreating to my bedroom.

"You can change in the bathroom," I call over my shoulder. "I'm going to bed. Just please lock the back door when you come in."

"I will secure the dwelling," she confirms.

I close my bedroom door, drop my robe, and collapse into bed. The cool sheets against my heated skin feel divine after the hot tub. I set my alarm, determined not to oversleep again tomorrow, though I suspect sleep will be elusive tonight.

As I drift off, my mind keeps circling back to Grace. Not just her story, her abilities, or the surreal situation we've found ourselves in, but her question. Why aren't you afraid?

The truth is, I probably should be. Anyone with sense would be terrified of a self-proclaimed psychopath who casually discusses violence and carries bone knives. But somehow, I'm not. Maybe it's the death oath she mentioned, or maybe it's something else entirely—something about the careful way she pets Dawson, or how she listens when I explain things, absorbing information with genuine interest.

Or maybe I'm just too exhausted to be properly afraid anymore. That thought follows me down into darkness as sleep finally claims me.