Celeste gasps, clutching her chest like I just mortally wounded her. “I am deeply offended that you would suggest such a thing.”

Orion snorts. “She’s definitely bored.”

I groan. “So you broke in because you missed us and you’re bored? How did you even find out we were together?”

Celeste winks. “Find My Friends. What can I say? I’m sentimental.”

Oh my God. I don’t have the energy for this. I sigh and flop back onto the couch, gesturing to the empty space next to me. “Fine. But next time, knock like a normal person.”

She grins, plopping down beside me and immediately stealing a gummy worm. “No promises.”

Orion shakes his head, sitting back down. “Unbelievable.”

I side-eye him. “We are still going to talk about the gun thing.”

Smirking, he grabs the remote from the coffee table. “Sure. But first—the movie isn’t over.”

The scene on the screen plays on—Mikey and his friends running toward adventure.

Celeste hums along to The Goonies ‘R’ Good Enough, completely at home, like she belongs here.

And despite everything… I guess she does.

“So,” he says, voice deceptively casual, “where’s that big, fearsome Doberman guard dog of yours?”

Looking away from the screen I glare at him.

Valkyrie. My supposed protector. My four-legged menace who’s terrified of delivery drivers and aggressively barks at plastic bags caught in the wind. Who prances around like she owns the house, all muscle and confidence. She who—just moments ago—bolted like a coward, butt tucked so tight against her stomach she practically turned into a roly-poly and disappeared down the hall.

I exhale sharply and push myself off the couch. “She was just… startled.”

Orion snorts. “Yeah. She looked really terrifying running for her life.”

Celeste giggles, swiping another gummy worm from my stash. “Poor baby. I guess that could have been a very stressful intrusion.”

Rolling my eyes I head down the hall anyway, following the faint, pitiful sound of snuffling. Valkyrie is curled up in the corner of my bedroom, wedged between my dresser and the wall, chewing furiously on her favorite pacifier toy, the one with the obnoxiously loud squeaker. The moment she sees me, her ears droop, but she doesn’t stop gnawing, her jaws working overtime like she’s stress-eating her feelings.

Crouching down I rub her head between her ears. “C’mon, girl. It’s okay. You didn’t fail as a guard dog. You were, uh… assessing the situation from a strategic position.”

She keeps chewing.

Squeak. Squeak.

I sigh, grabbing the end of the toy as I give it a little tug. “Come back to the living room, baby. I need you to pretend you’re scary so Orion will shut up.”

Another dramatic squeak.