I stepped into the loft apartment and paused, taking in the eclectic space before me. It was as if several designers with wildly different aesthetics had battled for dominance, each claiming territory in Nessy's home without a clear victor.

  "Welcome to my abode!" she announced, spreading her arms wide and then shaking herself vigorously, sending water droplets flying everywhere. "Prepare to be amazed by my incredible interior design skills!"

  The main living area was a study in contrasts. One corner featured clean Scandinavian lines—light wood furniture with simple forms, sheepskin throws, and strategically placed lamps creating pools of warm light.

  "That's my contemplation zone," Nessy explained, pointing proudly. "Very zen n’ hygge. For when I need to think deep thoughts about engines... or life... or whatever."

  Directly opposite, as if in deliberate contradiction, exploded a riot of 1970s excess—orange and brown shag carpeting so deep I could lose my shoes in it, paired with a sunken circular seating area.

  "And that," she continued, tail wagging, "is my party corner! Not that I have many parties. Or any, really. But the potential is there! Perfect for curling up and watching movies or playing guitar!"

  Most striking, though, were the nest-like arrangements scattered throughout the apartment. Corners, windowsills, even the top of a bookshelf—all featured carefully arranged piles of blankets, pillows, and what appeared to be clothing, formed into perfect circles or ovals.

  "Do you... sleep in all of these?" I asked, gesturing to a particularly elaborate nest built into a modified bookshelf.

  "Depends on my mood," Nessy replied. "That one's for rainy afternoons. The one by the window is for summer mornings—gets the best sun. The big one in the bedroom is for actual sleeping." She scratched behind her ear. "A dog needs many options… it, uhm, helps deal with… pack anxiety.”

  I continued exploring the space. Near one window, a powerful fan sat, while across the room, a few warming lamps pointed at another nest.

  "Thermal regulation!" Nessy explained. "Hot spots for winter, cool zones for summer. Some days you want to bake, other days you need to cool those paw pads!"

  The kitchen area grabbed my attention next—a retrofuturistic vision straight out of a 1950s World's Fair. Chrome appliances with rounded edges, atomic starburst patterns on the backsplash, and pod-shaped stools at a curved breakfast bar.

  "You a retrofuturism fan?” I observed.

  "Yep!" Nessy beamed. "The 1950s future-vision! Isn't it fantastic? I always wanted a robot maid, but this is the next best thing."

  On one wall hung an elaborate display of religious iconography—decorative steel swords shaped like crosses, paintings of massive sea creatures being slain by a radiant warrior, and what appeared to be framed scripture verses in elaborate calligraphy.

  "That's my Nazarite wall," Nessy explained. "The leviathan Slayer rescued mankind from the world-serpent's coils! Pretty standard stuff."

  "Right," I nodded, as if giant monster-slaying deities were indeed standard religious fare. "Standard."

  “What? Your people don’t worship the Slayer?” She evaluated my expression.

  “No, we do not,” I said.

  “Sadge.”

  As I turned to continue my tour, I noticed Nessy suddenly darting in front of me, trying to block my view of another wall as if she was embarrassed about it.

  Too late. I'd already spotted it—an entire corner dedicated to photos, newspaper clippings, ticket stubs, drawings and misc mementos. All meticulously arranged and all centered around... me. Or rather, the other Alec.

  "Oh, that," she said with forced casualness, her voice pitched slightly higher. "That's just, um, you know… a memory wall n’ stuff. Nothing special.”

  “Uh-huh. Looks like a totally normal amount of pictures. Not weird at all." I deadpanned as I stared at the Alec-shrine.

  The photos tracked a shared history—two kids, then teenagers at what appeared to be a school dance, graduation. Interspersed were handwritten notes, small trinkets, pressed flowers, even preseved colorful butterflies and beetles. The level of detailed curation was impressive, telling a story of connection across decades.

  "So, anyway!" Nessy said far loudly. "How about that rainstorm, huh? Pretty wet out there! Speaking of wet—" Her eyes widened as she finally seemed to notice our dripping state. "Oh I’m so stupid, you're soaked! We need to get you dry before you catch your death!"

  "I literally just survived actual death," I pointed out dryly.

  "All the more reason not to push your luck and waste Reconstitution," she replied, ignoring my words completely. She bustled around, grabbing towels from a linen closet. "Arms up."

  "What?"

  "Arms. Up," she repeated.

  I complied reluctantly, and before I could protest further, she was tugging my wet shirt over my head. The sudden manhandling caught me off guard.

  "Hey, I can undress myself," I sputtered as my head emerged from the soggy fabric.

  "Clearly," she scoffed, already working on my belt buckle. "That's why you're standing there dripping all over my floor instead of getting dry."

  "Nessy—"

  "Less Nessy, more undressy," she countered, already kneeling to unlace my waterlogged sneakers. "You just had every bone in your body shattered. You're in no condition to argue!"

  I opened my mouth to argue and closed it. She was incorrigible.

  There was something both comical and touching about her fussing—this fluffy, canine-human hybrid treating me like a child who couldn't manage basic self-care. Her ears were perked forward in concentration, tail swishing with purposeful energy as she helped me step out of my shoes.

  "I've literally been taking care of myself my entire life," I finally protested as she tugged at my soaked cargo pants. "I'm not completely helpless!"

  "Uh-huh," she nodded, not listening at all. "And how's that been working out for you? Oh right, you ended up fermenting in a bathtub before being reconstructed by the System."

  "What?! That wasn't because I couldn't dress myself!"

  "Debatable," she muttered, working the wet fabric down my legs. "Step out."

  I complied with a sigh, standing awkwardly and covering myself as she gathered up my soggy clothes and rushed to throw them into a washer/dryer combo.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "You need a wash," she returned in a flash, looking up at me with determined blue eyes. “Can I help?”

  "Wash me?" I repeated, cheeks burning.

  "You know, like how I helped you yesterday," she clarified, as if this were the most normal suggestion in the world.

  “I can wash myself.”

  "Your reconstituted body is probably still unstable. What if you slip and crack your head open in the shower? What if your bones aren't fully fused?"

  "I think I can manage—"

  "Just let me help, you stubborn human," she interrupted, her ears flattening slightly. "I'm not being weird about it! It's what packmates do—they look after each other."

  Looking at her earnest expression, I found my resistance wavering. There was no ulterior motive in her eyes, just genuine concern and a desire to help. Still… I needed to push on some boundaries.

  "How about a compromise," I suggested. "I'll shower by myself, but you can wait outside the door in case of a shower-disaster in one of your house nests."

  “Ugh.” Nessy considered the offer. "Fine," she relented. "But leave the door unlocked. And if I hear any suspicious thuds, I'm coming in."

  "Deal," I agreed.

  She led me to the bathroom, handing me fresh towels and pointing out various soaps and shampoos. "Use the blue bottle for your hair," she instructed. "Then put this robe after.”

  “Thanks.”

  The hot water was blissful, washing away the remnants of my bloody, rock-impact death and resurrection. I emerged feeling more human than I had since my plunge off the cliff, wrapping myself in the oversized bathrobe Nessy had provided. It had a tail hole with buttons in the back which I found amusing.

  When I stepped out of the bathroom, I found a pile of clothes waiting outside the door—underwear, sweatpants and a black ‘Paws Before Bros’ T-shirt that looked like they might fit.

  In fact, I discovered they did fit when I pulled them on. They fit too well and had no tail-holes.

  Did she prepare Alec-clothes for this exact event… or… did these belong to the other me?

  I saw that Nessy had changed into dry clothes as well—a pink pyjama tank top and shorts.

  "Feel better?" she asked, ears perking forward.

  "Much," I admitted. “Hey, are these Alec’s clothes?”

  “Nope. They’re not worn by anyone. I know your size and bought these… just in case you ever came over. You didn’t though… not till today.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  "Go lie down," she instructed, pointing toward a door I assumed led to the bedroom. "I'll make us some food."

  "I can help—" I offered, recalling her confession about setting pasta on fire.

  "Nope. Bed," she repeated firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "You literally died today. Go lie down."

  “Fine, but I’m definitely helping cook stuff tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  Choosing not to argue further, I retreated to the bedroom, finding it dominated by the largest nest arrangement yet—a circular bed piled high with pillows, blankets, and what appeared to be several of her shirts. The arrangement looked inviting in an oddly primal way, like something ancient in my brain recognized the appeal of a well-constructed den.

  I settled onto the bed. Nessy appeared moments later, carrying a tablet.

  "Here," she said, holding it out to me. “Entertain yourself while I cook. Feel free to browse the net n’ stuff. Password is 0615.”

  "Thanks," I said, accepting the device. It was similar to tablets from my world, though the logo was unfamiliar—a stylized wolf head instead of an apple.

  While Nessy returned to the kitchen, I turned on the tablet and typed in the password and then realised that she used my birthday as the password–June fifteenth.

  As I tapped the search bar to enter my query, a dropdown menu appeared—Nessy's recent search history. I froze, finger hovering over the glass screen, feeling like an accidental voyeur into her private thoughts.

  "how to find someone who disappeared"

  "how to track someone across long distances"

  "how to prep for Systemfall"

  "what happens when Syn-pack bond breaks"

  "dealing with abandonment trauma"

  "signs your best friend is avoiding you"

  "can pack bonds ever truly break"

  "how to accept that he's not coming back"

  "is it normal to miss someone this much"

  My throat tightened as my eyes traced those digital breadcrumbs of desperation, each query a window into her escalating heartbreak.

  I glanced toward the kitchen where I could hear her , the sound punctuated by the rhythmic chopping of vegetables.

  "I built this place with you in mind

  Every corner carefully designed

  Four years waiting, planning, dreaming

  Of the day you'd walk through my door..."

  She sung.

  Listening in, I quickly entered my own query “Pradavarian evolution”.

  The results that came up absorbed my attention fully—scientific articles, historical timelines, educational resources.

  According to the information, only certain mammals had evolved full sapience and bipedalism… specifically predators. Most notably, some dinosaurs had survived the extinction event, evolving into the humanoid raptor species like Krysanthea.

  What fascinated me most was how similar yet different this world's history was to my own. The same wars, the same technological developments, but with multiple species participating. Photos showed dog soldiers in World War II, raptor scientists, feline politicians. The similarity was surreal, there was no butterfly effect here, more like a slightly warped parallel as if someone just photoshopped animalistic humanoids into various historic events.

  I was so engrossed in my reading that I barely noticed the time passing until Nessy called me from the kitchen.

  "Food's ready," she announced. “Come eat!”

  I put down the tablet and ventured into the kitchen, spotting Nessy setting two plates on the polished steel dining table in her retrofuturistic kitchen.

  "Nothing fancy, just defrosted chicken balls n’ some pasta,” she commented.

  I settled into one of the pod-shaped chairs across from her. The kitchen was even more striking up close—chrome fixtures gleaming under pendant lights shaped like orbiting planets, cabinet handles resembling rocket ships. A vibrant poster of "The Atomic Café" hung beside us, featuring a stylized pradavarian girl in 1950s astronaut attire holding a white coffee cup with planet Jupiter looming behind her.

  "Cool poster," I said, nodding toward it as I picked up my fork.

  Nessy's eyes lit up, ears perking forward. "Oh! That's a commemorative poster from the Atomic Café! Best place in Ferguson for hot chocolate. We used to go there all the time in winter!" Her tail wagged enthusiastically out of the back gap in the round chair. "They do this thing where they heat the milk with this steam wand that makes this perfect froth on top, and then they add cinnamon and—"

  She continued her detailed description of various drink preparation techniques, gesticulating with her fork at me while I began eating. Her animated gestures nearly knocked over her water glass twice.

  "—Mr. Rottwell—he's the owner, big rottweiler fellow with this amazing handlebar mustache—he does this little flourish with the cinnamon shaker. Total showoff, but in a good way, you know?"

  "Sounds fun," I commented into the pause in her chatter. The food was simple but edible, nothing was burned nor undercooked.

  “Did your Ferguson have an Atomic Cafe?” She asked.

  “Yeah, but it shut down after the whole covid thing and was turned into a clothing shop that went bankrupt,” I said.

  "Ah! Well ours is still open! We should go when… things calm down a bit," she said, suddenly looking uncertain. "I mean, if you want to. No pressure or anything."

  "I'd like that," I replied, surprised by how much I wanted to visit more places with Nessy by my side.

  Did she just bamboozle me into a date?

  The husky-girl simply beamed, then proceeded to devour her entire plate of food in what seemed like just a few enormous bites. She set her empty plate aside and proceeded to sit perfectly still, her blue eyes fixed on me with unblinking intensity as I continued to eat at a normal human pace.

  After several more uncomfortable moments of being watched like a nature documentary, I finally paused my eating. "Yes?"

  Her ears perked forward, tail wagging intensifying. "Nothing," she said, though her expression suggested it was very much something. "Just... happy."

  "Happy watching me eat?" I prompted.

  "Happy you're here," she clarified, tail wagging. "In my kitchen. Safe. Alive. Eating my food." Her ears twitched slightly. "I keep thinking I might be dreaming, you know? That I'll wake up and you'll be gone again and I'll still be running through that awful city looking for you or all alone in my apartment… I mean, I do like my place, it’s just… It’s lonely. Was lonely. Isn’t anymore!”

  The raw sincerity pouring out of her made me pause. I resumed eating, but the weight of her gaze remained, as if she were memorizing every detail of my existence.

  As I finished the last few bites, Nessy leaned forward suddenly, her face approaching mine. Before I could react, her tongue darted out, swiping across the corner of my mouth.

  “What?” I blinked.

  "Sorry!" she said, not looking remotely sorry. "You had a little sauce there—" She gestured vaguely at her own muzzle.

  "I could have used a napkin," I pointed out, feeling heat rise to my cheeks once again.

  "Napkins are overrated," she declared, taking my now-empty plate and stacking it with hers. "Plus, waste not, want not. That sauce was too good to leave behind."

  After quickly washing our dishes—something she insisted on doing herself despite my offers to help—she pulled me back to the bedroom, where the giant nest-bed waited invitingly. The rain outside was still going, droplets drumming against the windows in a soothing rhythm.

  "Fort bed awaits!" she announced with appropriate reverence. "Superior to all other fort-nests in comfort, security, and snugglability."

  "Snugglability isn't a word," I pointed out.

  "Is too," she insisted. "It's the scientific measure of how good something is for snuggling. This nest rates very high on the snugglability scale. Trust me, I'm an expert!"

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