Keep Me

Casey is 18, Dave is 40. Lottie is just Lottie.

Dave looked himself over.

New breast forms--bit bigger than the last set. The cats had clawed one open last week, silicone leaking like guilt onto the bathroom floor. So--treat yourself. Go a cup size up.

He adjusted the bra straps, twisted at the waist, checked his silhouette in the mirror. He could live with it. Hell, he looked good. Lipstick check. A smudge at the corner; gone with a flick of a nail.

The front door creaked.

"Hey, Dad!"

Casey's voice, bright as always, came with the usual energy spike. She dropped keys in the bowl like a scatter of dice. "Can't stay, meeting Leona. Big talk she wants to have."

She darted past him in boots and a canvas jacket, blue eyes wide and soft. Tiny, flat-chested, brunette--her build all elbows and sincerity. The kind of girl who'd miss a train because she was helping a stray cat off the tracks.

"She okay?" Dave asked, stepping into the hallway light.

Casey shrugged, already halfway to the kitchen. "Probably? I think she's nervous. She gets that little... tightness around the mouth. Like she's trying not to smile or cry."

Dave watched her go, the swish of her backpack, the hum of her body in motion. There were traces of her mother in her--none of the cruelty, though. All the curiosity.

"She loves that girl," he murmured to no one. Then turned back to the mirror.

Dave sighed.

He angled the phone. Chin down. Tilt. Duck lip, no--soft smile. Just a little femme joy, nothing forced. Click. Another. A third, just for safety.

He scrolled through the gallery--

One looked like a divorced PTA mom rediscovering eyeliner. Delete.

The next? Kinda hot, actually. Cheekbones working overtime. That one stayed.

He tapped his nails--pink, slightly chipped--against the counter. Needed a fill. Or at least a touch-up. Maybe after lunch.

Outside, the grass had the look. That specific suburban fuck you kind of growth. Not wild enough to be charming, but scruffy enough the neighbors were probably already whispering.

Dave eyed the lawnmower out the window. Then looked down at his patent nude heels.

"Nope."

It could wait. Let it grow. Let it rebel a little. Everyone deserves a phase.

He refilled his coffee, bare calves catching a bit of sun through the kitchen window, and gave himself one last look.

Damn, he looked good.

Casey's little Civic chugged down Arch Street like it had somewhere to be and a reputation to uphold.

South Philly was alive today--parking cones, nerds in cloaks, plastic swords clacking against cargo shorts. The annual Fan Expo had hit like a glittery plague. Stormtroopers waited at bus stops. A rogue passed out in front of Rita's. Batman jaywalked without consequence.

She honked, not out of anger, just participation.

Panera Bread was jammed. She snagged a spot only by divine intervention--or whatever busted saint handled heartbreak logistics in South Philly. She made it out with minimal door dings and jogged in.

Inside, chaos.

The line stretched into the vestibule, a crush of spandex and foam armor. A Warhammer group had taken over half the tables. A girl dressed like a slutty beholder was crying because someone called her a "Pokémon" and she didn't know whether to be offended.

Casey texted.

Here.

Leona didn't reply.

"Hey," Casey said, sliding in.

She found her tucked in a corner booth, half-curled over a lukewarm lemonade, a paper straw drooping like it had given up on life. Leona wasn't in costume--jeans, a dark v-neck tee, no cosplay, no hint of festivity. Just Leona. Quiet.

And still, somehow, unfairly gorgeous.

Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled into a lazy bun that didn't even try to look cute--just efficient, like she'd stopped bothering with the mirror but still accidentally looked like a goddamn romance cover. Loose strands curled around her ears, catching the light in that soft, deceitful way that made people think she was kinder than she was. Her full lips were chapped, just a little, like she'd been biting them too much. And there was that patch of rosacea high on her cheekbones--vulnerable, unfixable, endearing in a way that made Casey want to scream.

Her tits were obnoxiously perfect. Not showy. Not begging for attention. Just... there. Sitting soft and natural beneath the fabric, the kind of curve that said trust me, I smell like sun-warmed skin and heartbreak. She wasn't wearing a bra. Casey could tell. Not from anything explicit, but from the way the cotton settled, the slight, unfair sway when she shifted. It made something inside Casey twist and snap.

Leona looked up.

Eyes: grey-green, a little puffy like she'd been crying, but dry now. Her gaze locked on Casey with a heaviness that didn't match the bright lights or the screaming teens arguing about initiative order three booths away.

There was a pause.

And then she smiled.

But it wasn't her real smile. It was the polite one. The I'm-about-to-do-something-awful one. "Hey," she said softly. "Thanks for coming."

Casey shrugged off her bag, dropped it beside her. "Panera's a warzone, but you're worth it. What's going on?"

Leona fiddled with the straw. Didn't answer. Just stared at it, like maybe the lemonade would offer her courage.

Leona's thumb worried the edge of her cup. She kept her eyes on it like she was trying to carve her confession into the waxy paper with sheer will.

"There's someone," she said. Voice too calm, too deliberate. "I've met someone."

Casey blinked. Her brain did that thing--just shut down the sentence halfway, like if she didn't process the last half, it wouldn't be real. "You've what?"

"Met someone." A little louder this time. Still not looking at her. "Her name's Lucy Mae. She's a carpenter."

A carpenter. Not a barista. Not a student. Not a friend. A fucking carpenter. The kind of woman who could build you a deck and then ruin your life under it.

"She makes things with her hands," Leona added, like that made it better. Or maybe worse.

Casey didn't breathe. The Panera blurred--beholders, card tables, screaming teens debating initiative order--it all faded behind the swell of pressure in her throat.

"Okay," Casey said, the word brittle. "Okay. So... what does that mean? For us?"

Leona finally looked at her. Eyes soft. Guilty. Still fucking beautiful. "It's a special relationship," she said.

"What the fuck does that mean, Leona? Like the U. S. and Britain?"

Leona gave a tiny, miserable laugh. "I don't know. It's not... it's not like what we have. It's different."

"You're fucking her."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't not."

Silence. Even the cosplayers felt distant now, like ghosts or memories or metaphors.

Casey felt like the floor under her was about to drop, and she was going to fall right into the cement bones of Arch Street. Leona had always made her feel like she was glowing. And now--now she was just sitting here under buzzing lights, her hands flat against cheap laminate, wondering if she'd ever meant anything real.

Casey stood so fast the booth table rattled. Her chair scraped back hard enough to turn heads.

"Special relationship," she spat, not loud, but venomous. "Go fuck yourself, Leona."

She was out the door before the tears came, swallowing them like broken teeth.

Sunlight slapped her in the face. She turned left, charging down Arch like a missile--only to realize two blocks later, she was going the wrong way.

Of course.

She stopped, spun around, heart pounding so hard it made her shoulders twitch. And there it was: Panera Bread. Again.

And Leona--still in the booth. Still looking. That crumpled paper cup of betrayal between her hands.

Casey stormed past without looking, but she felt Leona's eyes on her. Like heat. Like shame.

Around her, the city was still in full cosplay absurdity.

A tiefling offered her a flyer for a burlesque D&D show. She batted it away.

A guy in a horned helmet asked if she wanted to duel. She nearly decked him.

"Not today," she growled.

And just ahead--three Deadpools posed together with a group of Sailor Scouts. One of them blew her a kiss. She gave him the finger.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to curl up in Dave's lap like she was six again and let the world go fuzzy.

But no--heels clicked on concrete in front of her. A woman in an immaculate Lady Dimitrescu cosplay swept past, perfume and silk trailing. Casey stopped short. Stared. Then kept walking.

Her tears finally spilled in the shadow of the Convention Center, drowned in the sound of someone arguing about Yu-Gi-Oh mechanics.

Casey fumbled for her keys with trembling fingers.

The Civic's door closed with a thud that felt final. Like a seal. Like a vault.

The air inside the car was stale with sun and old fast food wrappers. She didn't start it. Didn't move. Just sat in the driver's seat, her face hot with tears, vision swimming.

Her bag lay open on the passenger seat. And there, half-tucked into an inner pocket, was the collar.

She pulled it out gently, like it was sleeping.

The leather was soft with age, creased and darkened by time and touch. She turned the little bone-shaped tag in her fingers, back and forth, the etched name catching the light in flashes.

LOTTIE.

Below that, her own childhood number, etched in her dad's neat block print. A number that hadn't been in service in years.

"Lottie would never..." she whispered, the words barely forming.

Lottie would have curled up beside her, that dopey tongue lolling, tail thumping. Lottie would've licked her tears until she laughed and then sat on her chest until she couldn't breathe, in the good way.

Lottie would've known.

The tag clinked against the collar's metal loop as she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, again and again.

It was muscle memory now--soothing a ghost.

She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, the collar held tight in her fist.

"I don't want a special relationship," she muttered, voice raw. "I just wanted her."

The parking lot buzzed with the noise of a thousand distractions. Laughter, shouts, cosplay foam squeaking against glass doors.

But inside the Civic, it was just Casey, the weight of love lost, and a memory in leather and brass.

Dave locked the bedroom door more out of ritual than necessity. The house was quiet. The cats were sleeping. The lawn wasn't going to mow itself, and thank God for that.

He stood before the mirror again--same lingerie, same heels, new intention. One hand on the dresser, one on himself. His painted nails wrapped delicately around six freshly-shaved inches, already hard, already aching.

He sighed, long and feminine, head falling back just a little. "Finally," he whispered to no one.

The fantasy was vague--some cocktail of compliments, firm hands, and the kind of attention you only get in lingerie when it really fits.

His hips moved, just a little. Painted toes curling on the hardwood. This was going to be the one. He could feel it. No interruptions this time.

And then--

The front door opened.

"Fuck," he gasped, instantly betrayed by his own body.

He let go, wiped a hand on his thigh, scrambled for the silky robe at the foot of the bed, belted it so fast the hem rode up to scandalous levels. A glance in the mirror confirmed: smudged mascara, still flushed, very much in progress.

No time.

He padded down the hall in his heels, the click-click-click betraying nothing but composure.

"Casey?"

She was already inside, keys abandoned, shoes half-kicked off. She looked like she'd been run through a heartbreak backwards--eyes red, mouth tight, that brittle not-crying expression that said she was barely keeping it together.

"Oh honey," Dave said softly, all performance falling away. "What happened?"

Casey didn't answer. Just walked straight into him, collapsed against his chest. He held her, breast forms and all, her head pressed to his collarbone, her breath warm and ragged.

His cock twitched under the robe.

"Not now," he mouthed silently to it. "Read the room."

They sat on the couch.

Dave had changed--sort of. Thrown on a cardigan over the robe, swapped the heels for fuzzy pink slippers. Still full face of makeup, nails still perfect. Casey didn't seem to mind. She was curled up sideways, holding a throw pillow like it had a heartbeat.

"She said it was a special relationship," Casey murmured, somewhere between disbelief and fury. "What does that even mean? That I'm regular? I'm the fucking side quest?"

Dave winced. "Oof. That's rough."

"She met her two months ago. Lucy Mae. A carpenter. Like that's some sort of sexual trump card."

"Well," Dave said, "that is hot. I mean, power tools? Sawdust? The smell of freshly milled lumber--"

"Dad."

"Right, sorry. Not helping."

He crossed one leg over the other, knee bouncing slightly. His cock was still stubbornly semi-hard under the robe, but he was choosing to ignore it with heroic resolve. Emotional triage came first.

"I've been there," he said. "More than once. Margot left me for a Pilates instructor. Wanda ghosted after I introduced her to the cats. And Bernice? Bernice said I was too open with my feelings. Can you believe that?"

Casey didn't laugh, exactly, but her lip twitched. "Bernice was the one with the knives, right?"

"Swords, dear. Decorative. Mostly. Point is, I've seen the inside of heartbreak. It sucks. It's not romantic. It's not cinematic. It's eating cold pancakes over the sink at midnight and wondering if you'll ever come without crying again."

"Jesus."

Dave smiled gently. "Too much?"

"No. Just--thanks."

He reached over and took her hand. His nails looked absurd next to hers--his glossy and pink, hers bitten and raw. But they fit.

"You're not the side quest, Case. You're the main fucking storyline. Lucy Mae's just a badly written DLC."

That earned a snort. Real laughter.

"I just wanted to matter to her," Casey whispered. "Like, in a forever way."

"Oh, sweetheart. We all do."

Dave gave her hand a squeeze. "But some people--they don't know how to love clean. Doesn't mean you loved wrong. Just means they weren't ready for the real thing."

Casey nodded slowly, tears brimming again but not falling.

Dave felt a flicker of movement down below. His cock, politely reminding him that their chat had interrupted a... private moment.

He rolled his eyes at himself. Not now.

He squeezed her hand again, tighter this time. "You want pancakes?"

"With sprinkles?"

"You know it."

The heart monitor screamed flatline.

"Still no pulse!" a nurse barked, sweat streaking down her temple.

"Charging again--200!"

"Clear!"

The gurney jolted as her body lifted and slammed back down, blonde hair matted to her face with sweat and blood.

No response. Still. Empty.

Someone whispered fuck, not meaning to.

And then--

BEEP.

A single blip. Another. Rhythm returning, stubborn and slow. The nurse closest to her exhaled so sharply it turned into a laugh.

"Sinus rhythm reestablished," came the doctor's voice, dazed but crisp. "We got her. She's back."

They were already loosening wires, switching meds, moving in that coordinated medical ballet that only happens in moments of miracle.

She gasped.

The whole of her back arched off the gurney like someone had hooked her to a high-voltage line. Hands flew to restrain her.

Eyes--blue and wide--flew open.

She inhaled again, too deep, like she didn't know how to breathe like a human. Her fingers clawed at the sheets.

"Hey, hey--shh, you're okay. You're safe," said a nurse, trying to hold her shoulders down without panic.

She looked around. Her gaze flicked across faces, masks, lights, wires. Confusion warped her mouth. She blinked rapidly, eyes darting for something solid to anchor to.

Finally, she found her voice.

"Where..." she started. "Who...?"

No one answered.

Because no one knew.

She didn't have ID. No phone. Just a blood-soaked blouse, jeans, and a cheap bracelet stamped with an old pet adoption center's name.

Her chart read: JANE DOE.

But she was alive.

And she had no fucking clue who she was.

She sat upright. Too fast. Tubes yanked. Leads popped. The heart monitor beeped in complaint as her breath came sharp and animal.

"Easy, hon," a nurse said, stepping forward, arms raised like calming a startled horse. "You've been through a lot."

Jane looked at her--really looked at her. Something flickered behind her eyes. Not recognition, not fear. Something older. Wilder.

"I need to leave." Her voice was hoarse but firm. "Now."

"Sweetie..." the nurse tried to find a way to put it gently, then gave up. "You were dead ten minutes ago."

Jane stared at her. Blinked. "I'm not now."

And then she slid off the gurney.

The gown flared open, exposing her completely. Pale skin, small breasts, a stubbled patch above smooth thighs. The room gasped--someone lunged for the call button.

But Jane was already out the door.

She moved like she'd been walking all her life--but had just remembered how.

Down the hallway, bare feet slapping tile. Past confused orderlies and stunned patients. Past an old man in a wheelchair who called out, "Bless you, angel!"

Then two security guards grabbed her, gentle but firm. She thrashed--briefly, instinctively--but let it go. Her strength was uncanny but unfocused.

They brought her back.

This time, they dressed her. Scrubs, soft socks, hospital-issue underwear.

A nurse knelt in front of her, lacing up plain white shoes like she was a child on her first day of school.

"We can't keep you," she said softly, voice like a confession. "We can't even hold you. There's no crime. No psych hold. And you don't belong to anyone."

Jane looked down at the shoes.

"They're not mine," she said.

"No. But they'll do."

Outside, the world waited. And Jane didn't even know what direction to run.

Casey stood at the kitchen counter, chopping carrots like they'd personally offended her. The collar lay in her hand again--warm, impossibly warm, like it had been pressed to skin. She turned the tag over once more.

LOTTIE.

She stared at the name.

The metal radiated a low hum, deep and steady, like a memory vibrating under the surface. It wasn't just warm. It was alive.

She shivered. Shoved it deep into her purse and snapped it shut.

Enough.

Dinner needed making. Onions, carrots, some bullshit stir-fry to keep her hands moving. She didn't want to feel. She didn't want to think. She wanted garlic and soy sauce and the sharp sizzle of things being burned.

Dave drifted in.

He looked good--too good. Flushed, eyes bright, robe tied tight but not tight enough. He kept smoothing his hair down and re-crossing his legs like someone waiting for a dick appointment that wasn't coming.

"Need help?" he asked, a little breathless.

"You can slice the chicken."

He did. Sloppily. Dangerously. But she didn't care.

They cooked in silence, the kitchen filling with steam and unsaid things.

Dave kept glancing at his phone.

Quick, furtive checks. Then flipping it face-down like it had insulted him.

Casey noticed but didn't say anything.

Because something in her purse was pulsing.

Because Dave's dick wasn't the only thing throbbing in the house.

Jane Doe walked like she had somewhere to be, but no clue where that was.

Her hospital scrubs were too big. Her shoes pinched. The city surged around her--honking, shouting, smelling of heat and salt and hot pretzels--but she kept moving with purpose born of instinct, not memory.

Her stomach growled like a thing alive. It startled her. She pressed a hand to it, confused, curious.

Hunger.

She knew that. Didn't know her name, didn't know why the subway terrified her, didn't know how to ask for food without feeling like she might bite someone--but she knew hunger.

A wind kicked up, and she turned into it like a scent had caught her nose.

The sporting goods store window was full of them.

Balls.

Every kind.

Baseballs. Soccer balls. Rubber kickballs in primary colors. She leaned in, forehead practically on the glass.

Something stirred. Deep and old.

Her pupils widened.

She didn't know why--but she wanted one.

Not in the abstract, not for a game. Not even for playing.

She just wanted to hold it in her mouth.

Just for a second.

Her stomach growled again. She blinked, shook herself.

"Food first," she whispered to the glass.

It didn't answer.

Down the block, a street vendor turned a skewer over a hot flame.

Jane's head jerked in that direction. She moved.

Fast. Focused. Fluid.

Still barefoot, the city eating at her soles.

Still no name.

But she was starting to know what she liked.

The vendor didn't see her at first.

He was busy slapping foil over a stack of hoagie rolls, bitching about the price of onions.

Then Jane was there.

Barefoot. Blonde. Scrubs billowing like sails in the breeze.

And her eyes--wide and so blue they didn't look real.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, stepping half back, half forward. Protective and wary all at once.

She blinked at him. Looked at the grill.

"Is that for me?" she asked. Her voice was soft, a little raspy. Childlike in tone, but ancient in hunger.

The vendor frowned. "You got five bucks?"

"No," she said honestly. "But I need it."

The way she said need--low, desperate, but clear--stopped him cold.

He stared.

Then sighed. "Fuck it."

He grabbed a roll, loaded it up--sausage, peppers, onions, more onions, too many onions--and handed it over like she'd paid in tears and mystery.

Jane took it like it was sacred.

Her first bite was enormous. Her jaw worked awkwardly, like she was remembering how to chew.

Then her eyes rolled back, and she moaned.

Not sexy. Not performative. Just honest.

Tears streamed down her face before she finished chewing.

The vendor gaped. "Holy shit," he muttered. "You okay?"

She nodded, mouth too full to speak, face flushed and shiny with grease and salt.

"It's just..." she managed, finally, voice breaking, "It's so good. It tastes like... like I used to know it. Like something I forgot. And I didn't even know I forgot it."

He gave her a second sandwich. Free of charge.

She sat on the curb, knees up, dress of scrubs flapping in the breeze, and ate like a dog remembering the warmth of home.

And when she finished--lips slick, eyes red, belly full--she looked up the street.

She still didn't know her name.

But she was learning the city.

Dave had locked the door this time.

He'd earned it.

The stir-fry was done. Casey was fed and halfway through a melancholy sitcom binge. The house smelled like garlic and betrayal.

Dave lit a candle. Lavender and sandalwood. Set the phone screen down. Slipped one hand into his robe like he was starring in his own private porno.

Nails wrapped delicately around six inches of promise. The new breast forms jiggled in time with his breath.

He worked himself slow. Sensual. Almost reverent.

"Yes," he whispered to no one, "God, yes--finally."

A minute more and he'd be done. Just a few more strokes.

The edge was there. Right there.

The phone rang.

Loud. Shrill. Vibrating its little plastic heart out on the nightstand.

"Jesus fuck," he groaned, sagging back against the headboard like a Renaissance widow.

He ignored it. Tried to get back into the rhythm. Eyes closed, hips lifting slightly--

The phone kept ringing.

He gave up.

Snatched it. Didn't look at the number. Just answered, mid-stroke, hoping for something important.

"Hello?" he said, voice breathy as hell.

A too-cheerful woman chirped through the line.

"Hi! This is Pritha with the Global Human Fund. We're calling to ask if you'd consider a small recurring monthly donation to help vulnerable families in--"

He stared at the wall.

One hand still on his cock.

"Are you kidding me?" he whispered.

Pritha didn't skip a beat. "Just five dollars a month can provide clean drinking water and mosquito nets to--"

He hung up.

Threw the phone.

And instantly lost the erection.

"Fucking Pritha," he muttered, flopping back onto the pillows. "You're the reason I can't come."

Outside, somewhere across the city, a barefoot woman with grease-stained lips stopped in her tracks and sniffed the air.

Something was pulling her home.

The dream was vivid.

Grass slick underfoot. Tongue lolling. Chest heaving not from fear, but joy. Her legs moved without thought, effortless and wild. Wind through her hair--yes, she had hair, lots of it, soft and golden and fur.

She was running.

Chasing.

Not after something. Not quite.

Toward.

Someone was out there. Just ahead. Not in sight. But their scent--warm, familiar, the comfort of old blankets and peanut butter and gentle hands--was everywhere.

She ran harder. Faster.

And then--

Gone.

No grass. No wind. Just cold.

She blinked awake beneath a rusting city lamppost, curled sideways on a park bench. Her scrubs clung to her like wet paper. Her body ached--not deep, not injury, just wrong posture and cheap sleep.

Pigeons pecked at an abandoned sandwich a few feet away.

Distant sirens.

A jogger passed, didn't even look.

Lottie--though she didn't know to call herself that--sat up slowly. Touched her face. Her skin. Her jaw. Human. Again. Still.

But her heart was pounding from the dream.

And her legs itched to run.

She looked toward the city skyline, pink light just starting to edge behind buildings. Something was out there.

Someone.

And she had to find her.

Casey stormed down the sidewalk like the pavement had personally betrayed her.

She clutched her purse like a weapon, one hand inside, fingers wrapped tight around Lottie's collar, thumb rubbing the ID tag in fast, furious circles.

"Fucking Lucy Mae," she hissed. "Fucking 'special relationship.' What does that even mean? Who says that?"

A car honked. She flipped it off without breaking stride.

The city around her buzzed--joggers, dogwalkers, a guy juggling fire under a bridge like that was a normal-ass Tuesday.

The collar was warm again. Warmer than it should be.

Casey didn't care. She kept walking, kept muttering, cursing the sky for not raining, cursing Leona for not fighting, cursing herself for loving like a fool.

Eventually, her legs gave out where her feelings hadn't.

She dropped onto a bench with a sigh like a tire giving up.

Didn't even look around. Just sat, still half-talking to herself. "I swear to god, if one more person asks me if I'm okay--"

Then she sensed it.

Movement. A presence.

She looked left.

And there she was.

A woman in hospital scrubs, barefoot, her blonde hair tangled, blue eyes locked on Casey with the focus of a trained sniper--or a dog watching its favorite person come home.

The woman didn't blink. Didn't speak.

Casey blinked instead. "Uh... hi?"

The woman tilted her head.

And whispered, like it was a secret she'd just rediscovered:

"You smell like home."

Casey jerked back on the bench like the woman had slapped her.

"Excuse me?"

The blonde blinked. Slowly. Her bare toes curled against the concrete. "You smell like home," she said again, softer this time.

Casey stood. Not fast--controlled. A power move. "Look, I'm sure the hospital is real worried about you right now, and I don't mean to be rude, but--seriously--back the fuck up."

The woman--scrubs wrinkled, hair wild, eyes far too blue--just tilted her head and watched. Not blinking. Not hostile. Just that deep, unnerving attention dogs give you when you're holding a tennis ball.

Casey stepped back. One foot, then the other.

"Jesus Christ, I'm not even cute enough to get stalked by a normal crazy person," she muttered.

The woman--Lottie, but not--took a small step forward. Her hands were out, palms visible. Gentle. Animal. "Please don't be scared. I'm not going to hurt you."

Casey's eyes narrowed. "Oh, well that's what every barefoot woman in surgical scrubs says right before the chloroform."

The woman stopped. A flicker of something--hurt? Confusion?--crossed her face.

"I just want to see you," she said.

"You don't know me."

"I do," the woman said, voice so quiet it nearly got eaten by the wind. "I know your laugh. I know your sadness. I know how your hand smells when you've been slicing carrots."

Casey blinked.

"What the fuck."

She turned and booked it--down the path, one hand on her purse, the other fumbling for her phone. "Nope. Nope. Not today, Satan. Not today, emotionally clairvoyant homeless angel of death."

Behind her, Lottie just stood there.

Watching.

Tail twitching in the place where no tail was.

The front door slammed open.

Dave jolted like he'd been electrocuted, tossing a decorative pillow over his crotch with the reflexes of a man who's practiced for this exact disaster.

"Hi, honey!" he called out, voice four octaves too cheerful, like a sitcom dad trying to hide a dead hooker behind the couch.

Casey stood in the doorway, wild-eyed and panting, clutching her purse like it held a grenade.

"Okay," she gasped. "Okay. I need you to hear me out. I just got chased--emotionally chased--by a barefoot woman in scrubs who knew things about me. Like, intimate things. Like how my hands smell. She told me I smelled like home, Dad."

Dave blinked. Smiled wider. Pillow edging up his stomach like it was trying to escape the scene.

"Okay, wow. Big energy. You want tea? Bourbon? Cold compress? Therapy referral?"

Casey stalked into the room and dropped onto the armchair across from him. "She looked right at me like I was a goddamn Milk-Bone."

Dave cleared his throat. Crossed his legs. The pillow shifted suspiciously.

"Maybe she was just... friendly?"

"She was feral-friendly. Like she'd imprint on me if I sneezed."

"Did she touch you?" Dave asked, suddenly serious.

"No. But she said she knew my laugh. I haven't laughed in like three days, Dad."

Dave opened his mouth, closed it.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

The collar in Casey's purse throbbed warm against her hip.

And upstairs, Dave's phone buzzed again--but he wasn't about to answer it this time.

A few days later and Lottie was wearing a name tag that said "RACHEL" because someone in the back didn't like blank tags and Lottie didn't care enough to correct them.

She worked the lunch shift at Lennie's, the kind of place where the booths stuck to your thighs and the soup of the day was always yesterday's disappointment reheated with hope.

She chewed gum--loudly. Aggressively. The kind of chew that said fuck this shift, fuck this apron, fuck everyone but one person.

She spun her pen between her fingers like it was a knife. Stared out the front window like it might deliver a miracle.

Casey hadn't come in. Not once.

Lottie had seen her, once, across the street. Carrying a tote bag and looking like she'd finally stopped crying, which somehow made it worse.

She still didn't have all her memories. Still didn't know why she could tie an apron in three seconds flat, balance a tray like a pro, or recite the entire breakfast menu in a voice that sounded too chipper for her own ears.

But she knew Casey.

Wanted her.

Missed her, in a way that made her stomach twist.

And Casey hadn't even known her name.

She blew a bubble. Let it pop with a snap.

"Rachel, table seven's asking for more coffee," barked the manager.

"I'm mourning," she replied flatly.

"You're clocked in."

"So is my pain."

She grabbed the pot anyway. Walked slow.

The bell above the door rang.

She turned, hopeful.

It wasn't her.

Of course it wasn't her.

Casey pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen like gravity had tripled since Tuesday. Her hoodie was half-on, one sock missing, hair pulled into something that aspired to be a bun.

Dave was at the counter, buttering a bagel with the kind of slow, sensual focus that suggested he'd already tried and failed to masturbate this morning.

She squinted at him. Took in the robe, the slippers, the way the satin clung to his form--

And then her eyes locked onto his chest.

"Those new tits?" she asked flatly.

Dave didn't look up. Just took a thoughtful bite of bagel. Chewed. Swallowed. Then sighed like he'd rehearsed for this moment in the shower.

"Yes. Yes, they are."

Casey slumped into a chair. "They're... bigger."

"Just a cup. The cats shredded the old ones. Silicone massacre. I nearly cried."

She raised her eyebrows. "So your solution was bigger tits."

"My solution," Dave said, setting the bagel down with delicate reverence, "was retail therapy. And a subtle but meaningful reassertion of femininity in a house that smells like despair and stir-fry."

Casey dragged her hand down her face. "I'm still being stalked by my possibly-reincarnated dog, Dad."

"And I still haven't come since March. We all have our burdens."

They sat in silence for a beat.

Dave adjusted the left form. "Honestly, they're heavy. Like emotionally and physically."

"You wanted the bounce."

"I deserved the bounce."

She cracked a smile. Just a ghost of one.

Dave passed her the second half of the bagel. "Eat. Then we'll figure out what to do about your horny ghost dog girlfriend."

"Ex-girlfriend. Former dog. Maybe a ghost. I don't know what she is, and I don't think she does either."

Dave nodded solemnly. "Welcome to dating."

Cut to:

Lucy Mae's bedroom.

Or maybe it was Leona's. Hard to tell. The walls were half-painted, sawdust in the corners, a level sitting forgotten on the windowsill like they'd been too busy fucking to finish anything.

Lucy had Leona pinned--forearm pressed just under her throat, not choking, just present. She rode her slow, steady, like she was sanding wood with her hips.

Leona's hands were clenched in the sheets, mouth open, eyes glazed. She'd stopped saying Lucy's name ten minutes ago. Now it was just gasps and moans and the occasional, "Jesus fuck, you're strong."

Lucy didn't answer.

She just leaned in, licked a bead of sweat off Leona's jaw, and whispered:

"You're not over her."

Leona came anyway.

Hard.

Then cried in the crook of Lucy's arm while Lucy stared at the ceiling, smirking like a woman who could build you a porch and break your heart in the same afternoon.

The sink water was too hot, but Casey didn't care.

She let her hands soak in it, red and raw, scrubbing a plate that had already been clean three swipes ago. It felt good--doing something. Anything. Something where soap worked and messes rinsed away.

Bubbles clung to her forearms. Steam fogged the window.

She stared into it, blinking slow, wondering what Dave was doing.

Probably moisturizing his thighs again. Or watching makeup tutorials. Or--God help her--jerking off to 1970s mascara ads. He had a thing about vintage lashes. She didn't ask.

Outside, the sun cut through the steam just right, revealing--

A figure.

Standing on the sidewalk.

Still.

Not walking a dog. Not holding a phone. Just there.

Barefoot. In a hoodie now. Pale legs. Blonde hair like corn silk left out in the rain.

And those eyes.

Locked on her.

Casey flinched back, heart spiking.

She wiped the window with her sleeve, leaned forward, looked again.

Lottie--who wasn't Lottie, couldn't be, but was--stood just beyond the hedgerow.

Not moving. Not smiling.

Just waiting.

Casey dropped the dish. It cracked in the sink.

She didn't care.

She was already backing away.

Casey dried her hands on her hoodie, not even noticing the water stains spreading like bruises.

She moved to the front door slowly, each step like it might trigger something--fight, flight, memory, madness.

The lock clicked. The hinges creaked.

Outside, the air was sharp with spring. Damp earth, distant mulch, the quiet susurrus of a neighborhood pretending nothing strange was happening.

Lottie stood at the bottom of the steps.

No shoes. Hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it had grown tired of trying. Her legs were pink from the cold, knees scraped.

And in her hand--

A tennis ball.

Bright green. Scuffed.

She held it up. No smile. No explanation. Just lifted it like an offering.

"I found it," she said, as if that explained anything. As if that would undo the weeks of confusion, the dreams, the fear, the whisper of a name that hadn't been spoken since the last time Casey buried something in the yard.

Casey's mouth went dry.

"Where... did you get that?"

Lottie looked at the ball. Turned it over in her hand like she was seeing it new every second. "It was under a bush. It smells like me. I think... I think I used to like it."

Casey stepped off the porch.

The sidewalk felt unsteady.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Lottie blinked. Then said, with total honesty,

"I don't know. But I know I loved you."

Casey's heart thundered.

Not romantic thunder. Not poetic thunder. Just the ugly, adrenal kind--the kind you get when something impossible is happening and your brain starts screaming nope while your feet stay frozen.

She stepped closer, voice low, sharp.

"Who put you up to this?"

Lottie tilted her head, that same off-kilter doglike motion that made something in Casey's gut twist.

"No one," she said, confused. "I came on my own."

Casey's fists curled. "Bullshit."

The wind caught her hoodie, whipped her hair into her mouth, made her angrier. "You think this is funny? Some kind of fucked-up prank? Did Leona send you? Is this--Jesus, is this Lucy Mae's idea of performance art?"

"No," Lottie said, and that one word sounded so wounded, so genuinely lost, that Casey flinched.

"Then who sent you?" she snapped, stepping forward now, face flushed. "Who told you how to talk like her? Walk like her? Find me?"

Lottie stared down at the tennis ball in her hand. Her fingers tightened around it.

"No one sent me," she whispered. "But something... pulled me."

Casey backed up, hands in her hair, shaking.

"This isn't real," she muttered. "You're not real. You're just some messed-up girl who found a tennis ball and decided to haunt me."

"I didn't mean to," Lottie said, voice cracking. "I just wanted to come home."

Inside the house, Dave was at the window, peeking through the blinds like it was Christmas and the drama was snow.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "It is her."

The front door creaked open again.

Dave stepped out, full drag, full commitment--black wrap dress, kitten heels, gold bangles clinking softly, wig snatched and styled with yesterday's determination.

His tits, new and proud, led the way.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood on the porch like a fucking stage queen surveying the third act of a play no one told him he was starring in.

Lottie turned.

Her eyes lit up--not in joy, not in fear. In recognition.

"You!" she shouted.

She dropped the tennis ball. It rolled toward a storm drain, forgotten.

Casey turned, startled. "What--?"

Lottie pointed. "The Other One!"

Dave blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You were there," she said, stepping forward, barefoot on cracked pavement, voice trembling but certain. "Not in the room, not in the moment, but close. On the edge. Like a scent on the wind."

Dave slowly walked down the steps, hip cocked, expression unreadable. "Sweetheart, I've been called a lot of things--Daddy, Debra, that bitch from Trader Joe's--but I've never been called The Other One."

"You were near her," Lottie said, eyes bright now, tracking him. "When I left. You were holding her. You were crying. You smelled like sadness and peanut butter."

Dave froze.

The porch light buzzed behind him.

Casey turned slowly, eyes wide. "Dad?"

Dave swallowed. Licked his lips. Smoothed his dress. "Okay," he said. "We need to sit the fuck down."

They sat at the kitchen table like survivors of a shipwreck--salt-stung, haunted, too close to each other, too quiet.

The hum of the fridge filled the space where words should have been. Outside, somewhere far away, a dog barked.

The tennis ball sat on the table between them, perfectly still.

Lottie opened her mouth to speak--something soft, something desperate--

Casey raised a hand. "Don't."

Lottie closed it. Her hands twisted in her lap. Her knees were red. She looked down.

Dave opened his mouth next, lips parting with theatrical care. "So--" he started.

Then stopped.

His painted nails tapped once on the wood grain.

Casey stared at the table. Her eyes were glassy but dry.

She sighed.

Long and slow. The kind of sigh that folds a person in half, that says: Fine. I'll carry this, too.

No one moved.

The ball caught the light.

It looked like it belonged there.

"Explain."

Casey's voice sliced through the silence. Not loud--but sharp. Final. The sound of a daughter running out of disbelief and still needing to make sense of the impossible.

She didn't look at Lottie. She looked at the ball.

Lottie blinked. Swallowed.

"I woke up in a hospital," she began. Voice low. Measured. Not gentle--restrained. Like she knew every word might be a trap.

"They said I'd been dead. For almost a minute. Forty-eight seconds, officially. I remember nothing. Just... absence. And then--"

She tapped her chest, lightly. "I was back. Not as someone new. Not really. Just... emptied out. But my body remembered how to walk. How to talk. I knew how to tie shoelaces. I knew what ketchup was. I just didn't know me."

Dave crossed his legs. One of his bangles caught the light. He was watching her like she was a stray comet that had landed in his kitchen and asked for tea.

"I had dreams," Lottie said. "Of running. Of chasing. Of you," she added, and this time she looked at Casey, direct, unflinching. "Of a girl who smelled like home. Who laughed like thunder and cried into fur. I didn't know what it meant. I still don't."

Casey's face was blank. Her eyes weren't.

Dave opened his mouth again. Then closed it.

No jokes. Not this time.

Lottie took a shaky breath.

"I didn't choose this," she said. "But I feel like I was given something. Brought back. I don't know by who, or how. But I woke up needing you like hunger."

She looked down. "And I don't even know your name."

Casey whispered: "Then why do you look at me like you've known me forever?"

Casey didn't answer right away.

She reached into the pouch of her hoodie with slow, deliberate fingers.

The collar came out crumpled, warm from body heat, leather softened by years of wear and whispered grief.

She placed it on the table.

Not with reverence--more like a challenge. Like a slap in a duel.

But her hand stayed closed tight around the ID tag.

Lottie's eyes locked on it. Something in her posture shifted.

Not her spine--her whole presence.

She didn't reach for it. Didn't move. She just stared. Her lips parted.

And then, quiet as breath:

"Lottie."

Casey flinched.

The word hit her like a body slam made of memory.

The kitchen wasn't the kitchen anymore. It was the backyard. The old blanket. The wet fur. The last breath.

Dave pressed a hand to his mouth. His eyes shimmered.

Lottie didn't look away. "That's me," she said, like she was still deciding whether or not to believe it herself. "That was my name."

Casey opened her fist.

The tag glinted.

The silence hit again--deeper this time. Not the silence of confusion. The silence that comes after.

Belton Regio.

A stretch of jagged frost plains, desolate and gleaming like broken porcelain beneath a sun so far it barely qualified as light. The wind didn't howl here--it whispered, dry and mean, dragging memory across ice like a nail across skin.

On a boulder the size of a sad cathedral, Bella sat cross-legged in thigh-highs and a funeral dress made of dusk. Her mascara was always running--always had been. It was part of the branding.

Beside her, Charon hunched like someone who'd never stood up straight. His hands looked like they'd been boiled too long, and his nose--crooked, massive--gave him the look of a man who'd smelled too many regrets.

They watched the horizon in silence, the long black ridge of the Kuiper Belt curling in the distance like a forgotten promise.

Bella turned the card over in her fingers. Cheap cardstock. Ink still smudged where her tears had landed.

"Greta will be yours in a few minutes," she said softly, not looking at Charon. Her voice was a bruised thing. Velvet soaked in old wine.

Charon grunted. "Don't see why you care. This one's just a dog. You're usually up to your tits in opera singers and unspoken goodbyes."

Bella sniffed. "She loved like a person. Better than most."

"Ain't the same thing."

"Isn't."

Charon scowled. "What are you doing, Bella?"

Bella looked up. Eyes black and swollen, streaked like melting obsidian.

"I'm cheating," she said simply. "Just a little."

She kissed the card.

Held it over the abyss.

And dropped it.

It fluttered downward, caught in gravity's slow curl, vanishing into the dark.

Charon rubbed his temples. "You keep bending the rules like this, someone's gonna notice."

"They always notice," she said. "But no one cares about dogs."

Charon glanced at her. "You sure this ends the way you want it to?"

Bella just smiled.

"She's not going back the same."

Casey's hand hovered above the collar like it might burn her. Like picking it up would confirm something she wasn't ready to name.

Across the table, Lottie sat so still she could've been carved. Eyes wide. That look again--eager, watchful, too much like someone waiting to be told she's a good girl.

The silence stretched until Casey couldn't stand it anymore.

She pressed both hands to the table. Leaned forward, chin trembling.

"What do I do with you?"

Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

It wasn't rhetorical. It wasn't a demand.

It was a confession.

Lottie blinked. "I don't know," she said, barely more than a whisper. "I didn't mean to come back. I didn't even know I could."

Casey closed her eyes. Tried to imagine this was a dream, a psychotic break, a long-form TikTok prank. Tried to imagine anything that made sense.

Nothing came.

"You were a dog," she said, words soft and furious. "You chased shadows. You licked my face when I cried. You slept with your head on my stomach. And now you're--what? Her?"

Lottie didn't answer. Didn't blink.

"You remember me," Casey continued, each word heavier than the last. "You remember the smell of carrots. The sound of my laugh. But you didn't know your name until I fucking said it."

"I'm sorry."

Casey looked at her. Really looked at her.

This girl in scrubs and a borrowed hoodie, legs bare, eyes far too full of recognition.

And something darker beneath it--longing, yes. But also shame. And love. And hope.

Casey's voice dropped to a whisper.

"What do I do with you?"

And this time, Lottie answered, softly, almost not daring to say it aloud:

"Keep me."

Dave sat back in his chair, one hand over his mouth, the other gripping the armrest like it might float away. His eyes were glassy, lower lip trembling beneath a perfect coat of mauve lipstick.

"This was purposeful," he whispered.

Neither of them turned to him.

Casey's hand hovered. Lottie's eyes stayed fixed.

Dave's voice thickened. "This wasn't some random, cosmic oops. This wasn't a ghost hiccup or reincarnation roulette. Someone sent her back. Not to wander. Not to haunt. Not to get a fucking job at Lennie's."

Casey flinched at that. Lottie looked down.

"To you," Dave said. "She came back to you."

He wiped a tear, tried to laugh, failed. "And yeah, okay, maybe she's not just your dog anymore. Maybe she's a person now. With... thoughts. And tits. But don't act like you don't feel it."

Casey looked at him now. Really looked.

Dave pressed a palm to his chest. "I do. I felt it the second she said your name. The second she said mine."

The room went quiet again, but now it throbbed with something new. Not tension.

Meaning.

Lottie swallowed. Her fingers twitched once on the tabletop.

"I was brought back because I wasn't finished," she said. "Because I left you too soon. And maybe I'm not supposed to know that. But I do."

Casey stared at the collar.

At the tag.

At the empty seat Lottie used to curl up under.

"What if this is crazy?" she asked.

Dave smiled through tears. "Sweetheart. It is."

Casey's fingers twitched above the collar. Then slowly--slowly--she reached across the table.

Lottie didn't flinch. Didn't breathe.

Her hand moved like a whisper, rising to meet Casey's.

When their skin touched, it was soft. Electric. Too familiar to be new, too strange to be safe.

Casey's palm hovered near her cheek. And then Lottie took it. Gently. Reverently.

She pressed it to her face.

Closed her eyes.

Breathed in.

Like the scent of that hand could undo all the silence, all the cold nights on park benches, all the hungry dreams and half-formed thoughts.

Her lips parted just slightly. She didn't cry. She didn't say thank you.

She just whispered, "Home."

And Casey--confused, grieving, furious at the world--didn't pull away.

She let her thumb graze Lottie's cheekbone.

And for the first time in weeks, the house felt still.

Not dead.

Not haunted.

Just full.

Dave stood quietly, watching them.

Lottie with her eyes closed, cradling Casey's hand like it was a lifeline. Casey, for once, not pulling back. Not asking questions. Just being there.

It was too much.

Too big.

Too sacred.

He backed away from the table slowly, one heel squeaking slightly on the linoleum. Neither of them noticed.

He didn't want them to.

His chest ached with something sharp and lovely. Something he hadn't let himself feel since Bernice walked out during a thunderstorm with his favorite eyeliner in her purse.

He slipped down the hall, past the half-lit living room, the couch still dented from where Casey had cried through most of Schitt's Creek last week.

Into the bathroom. Door shut, soft click.

He sat on the edge of the tub.

Tried to breathe.

Mascara blurred at the corners of his eyes.

He laughed once. Quietly. Bitterly.

"Goddamn dog gets reincarnated and finds love," he whispered. "I can't even get past a fucking phone call."

He tilted his head back. Let the tears come. Not loud. Not messy. Just real.

Because sometimes even the strongest queens need a moment in the tub.

One year later.

Arch Street shimmered with late spring heat and street vendor smoke. Flyers from Fan Expo fluttered in lazy spirals, caught in sidewalk whirlwinds.

Casey and Lottie strolled side by side, fingers laced, hips brushing, unhurried. Lottie wore cutoff shorts and a vintage Bowie tee, her hair grown out, wind-tangled, kissed by sun. Casey laughed at something she said--a real laugh, head back, unguarded.

They passed the Panera without looking in. It had no more power over them.

Behind them, Dave clacked confidently down the sidewalk in 2026's best heels--metallic lilac, four inches of pure fuck-you-I'm-fabulous. His pleated skirt flared just right with each step. He carried a lemonade like a cocktail and wore eyeliner so perfect it made men weep and women question.

And watching from atop a crooked lamp post, Bella--Minor Goddess of Lost Loves--sat perched like a crow in a black lace catsuit, heels dangling, mascara still ruined.

She smoked a cigarette that never burned down.

"Look at them," she said softly. "Look at my girls."

Charon stood beside her, as if he'd been there all along. His robes were still dusty. His eyes still sunken.

But when he looked down at them--Lottie nuzzling Casey's shoulder, Casey pretending not to melt, Dave strutting with the blessed authority of a man who knows exactly what he's worth--he sighed.

Deep and long.

Then--he smiled.

First time in nine centuries.

"Ain't nothing like this," he said.

Bella blew out smoke like a benediction. "Isn't."

Fade out on their laughter, carried on the wind.