Page 28 of Twisted Violet

“Hey, Ollie,” I whisper, nudging his paw with my socked foot. “Was your sleep crappy too?”

He stares up at me, unbothered. Blinks once. Then yawns like this whole interaction is beneath him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I murmur, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re the easiest one to talkto in this place.”

He lets out another sigh, like he agrees.

That night,I don’t come out for dinner.

But I hear them from my room. Low voices, the clatter of dishes, and bursts of laughter that echo down the hall. Someone says something sarcastic. The others groan. I think it’s Rome. He always sounds like he’s trying not to enjoy himself.

I stare at the pile of protein bars I stuffed into the bottom of my duffel and choose one without checking the flavor. I eat it out of the wrapper, one bite at a time, while scrolling through my phone just to keep my hands busy.

They laugh again, and I tell myself I’m not missing anything.

On day three,I open my door and find a full plate of breakfast sitting on the floor.

Waffles, turkey bacon, and a coffee with extra cream, just how I like it.

All still warm.

There’s no note. No knock.

It’s just there, waiting for me.

I don’t grab it right away. I wait until I’m sure no one’s nearby, then I quietly pull the plate inside and sit on the carpet, legs crossed, eating quietly by the door.

Somehow, the gesture is more comforting than anything they could’ve said aloud.

That night,I crack my door open a few inches.

Just to listen.

Rome and Niko are in the living room, barking at the TV. I peek out just far enough to see them on the couch with Ollie and PS5 controllers in hand.

Dallas walks behind them holding a protein shake and mutters something about not yelling in front of the dog. Rome flips him off, and Niko throws a pillow at his head without looking.

They all laugh.

It’s not loud, not forced, just easy.

I pull the door shut before they can see me.

The next morning,I find Ollie camped outside my room.

He’s facing the hallway like he’s been on patrol all night. His ears twitch when I open the door, but he doesn’t move. Just cracks one eye open and lets out a slow sigh like he’s done something heroic.

I stare at him for a long time.

“I didn’t ask for a guard dog,” I murmur, crouchingdown next to him.

His tail thumps once against the hardwood.

I sit beside him and rest my head back against the wall. The cool surface seeps into my spine.

Maybe I didn’t ask for any of this. This house. This safety. This weird cocoon of quiet care that I don’t know how to fit into.

But it’s here.