The Side We Lean On

“He’s clever,” she said, flustered but smiling. “But cheeky. I caught him yesterday trying to unzip my cardigan. I mean, full-on paws and nose manoeuvre.”

Pippa raised one brow, expression unreadable.

“I suppose that’s bonding,” Angela went on. “Or at least enthusiasm.”

Pippa set her mug down.

“Mine prefers not to embarrass me.”

At her side, Marlow yawned.

Angela laughed, not quite sure whether it was a joke.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Some of them come on a bit strong.”

Pippa reached down — her hand moving instinctively now — and found the soft spot just behind Marlow’s ear. Her fingers brushed there for a moment, and he responded only with a slow blink, then shifted his weight to lie more squarely beside her wheel.

There was a crash near the tea station — a metal spoon clattering to the tile. A few dogs stirred. One barked once before being quieted.

Marlow didn’t flinch.

His eyes stayed on Pippa.

She noticed.

Didn’t comment.

Just picked up her mug again and leaned back.

“Which is more than I can say for most people,” she murmured, low enough for no one but Marlow to hear.

Angela, now back to fussing with Toby’s lead, didn’t catch it.

The room filled with the small, rhythmic sounds of trust in progress: mugs clinking, paws shifting, voices warming. Laughter bubbled in corners. Someone told a story about socks. Another about slippers. Someone mentioned the smell of fur in the car.

Pippa stayed quiet.

She wasn’t ignoring the room. Just choosing her orbit.

At her feet, Marlow stretched out a paw slowly, nudging it forward so it brushed the rubber edge of her wheel.

Not clinging. Not needy.

Just there.