Chapter 3: The Dinner Project
The silence after the computer shut down was a living thing, thick and comfortable. Travis stared at the black screen, seeing his own reflection—the tousled hair, the shadows under his eyes that were a little less pronounced than they had been two hours ago. Mavis stood beside the mouse, a tiny sentinel in the dusk of the room.
“Crackers are a ceasefire,” Mavis announced, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Not a treaty. Your body needs an ambassador. Something with… credentials.”
Travis let out a slow breath. The thought of a full meal still made his insides clench, a residual rebellion from the afternoon’s siege. “I don’t know, Mave. The tea was good. I’m okay.”
“You are ‘okay’ in the way a chair with three legs is ‘okay’. Functional, but prone to sudden collapse.” Mavis leapt from the desk, landing on the arm of the chair with a soft thump. He climbed up Travis’s sleeve, his claws catching faintly on the fabric, until he was perched on his shoulder. He leaned in, his whisper tickling Travis’s ear. “We are making soup. You will chop things. I will supervise. It will be boring and methodical and your brain will have nothing to panic about except my ruthless standards for carrot symmetry.”
A faint smile touched Travis’s lips. The routine of it, the sheer normality Mavis was demanding, was a lifeline. “Ruthless, huh?”
“I have a reputation to uphold. Now, move your bones. The kitchen awaits.”
Travis pushed himself up. The walk from the work room to the kitchen was short, but it felt like crossing a border from one country to another. The kitchen was bathed in the deep, gold-orange light of sunset, long shadows stretching from the jars on the counter. The air was still, waiting.
Mavis hopped down onto the quartz countertop, his tail sweeping a few breadcrumbs into a neat pile. “First, inventory. Report.”
Travis opened the fridge. The cold light illuminated half a bell pepper, a knob of ginger going dry at the edges, a carton of chicken broth, a lone carrot. “It’s… sparse. Brokerage firm sparse.”
“Perfect. We are making ginger-carrot broth with mystery pepper. It will be a culinary enigma. Get the cutting board. The big one.”
Travis obeyed, pulling the worn wooden board from its slot. He placed it on the counter with a solid thunk. He took out the vegetables, the broth, a yellow onion from a mesh bag hanging by the window. Mavis watched, arms crossed, looking for all the world like a tiny, furry foreman.
“Knife. The chef’s knife. Not the paring knife, you are not performing surgery.”
Travis selected the knife, its weight familiar in his hand. He washed the carrot under cold water, the sound a steady rush.
“Now, chop the carrot into coins. Not too thin, not too thick. Think of it as designing a logo for sustenance.”
Travis lined up the carrot. The first slice was tentative, the blade biting into the firm flesh with a clean thwack. The sound was sharp, definite. He did another. And another. The rhythm began to take hold: the lift, the guide, the downstroke, the thwack. A coin, another coin. The world narrowed to the blade’s path, the growing pile of orange discs. His breathing synced with the motion.
“Good,” Mavis said, his voice quieter now. “Consistent. Now the pepper. Strips, not cubes. We are invoking elegance.”
Travis moved to the bell pepper, half-soft in places. He cut away the bad parts, his fingers working automatically. The pepper yielded with a softer, wetter sound. He sliced it into long, uneven ribbons. The onion was last. His eyes stung as he peeled the papery skin, but the tears were chemical, impersonal. He diced it, the pieces falling away in a heap.
Mavis had climbed onto the rim of a large pot Travis had set on the stove. “Now, the alchemy. A little oil. Just a gloss.”
Travis poured a swirl of olive oil into the pot, turned the burner on to medium. The oil shimmered, then began to heat silently. “When it whispers,” Mavis instructed.
A minute later, a faint sizzle rose from the pot. Travis added the onions. They hit the oil with a fierce, immediate hiss, the sound of transformation. He stirred them with a wooden spoon, watching them go translucent. The sharp, sweet smell filled the kitchen, cutting through the last ghosts of lavender and dust from the office.
“The carrots now. Let them meet.”
Travis added the carrot coins. The hiss changed, became a softer sizzle as the vegetables mingled. He stirred, coating them in the glossy oil. This was the meditative part. The stirring. The waiting. The kitchen grew warm. The sunset light deepened to a bloody orange through the window, painting Mavis in silhouette.
“Ginger. Grate it. Think of it as exfoliating a root.”
Travis grated the ginger over the pot, letting the fragrant, fibrous snow fall onto the carrots. The scent was a punch—clean, spicy, awakening.
“Now, the broth. Pour with purpose, but not drama.”
Travis opened the carton and poured the rich, golden liquid over the vegetables. It cascaded in, quieting the sizzle to a contented simmer. He added a pinch of salt, a crack of black pepper from the mill. Mavis nodded approval from his perch.
“Now, we wait. Stir occasionally. Think of nothing. Or think of the khaki ghost. But only if you imagine him slipping on a banana peel.”
Travis let out a short laugh. He leaned against the counter, watching the pot. Steam began to rise, carrying the promise of ginger and onion. He stirred. The vegetables tumbled in the bubbling liquid. The anxiety, that buzzing static in his veins, had receded to a faint hum, drowned out by the simple, sensory reality of the stove’s heat, the wooden spoon in his hand, the small watcher on the pot’s rim.
Time passed in bubbles and steam. The carrots softened. The broth took on a warm, orange hue. Mavis eventually declared it ready, his nose twitching at the aroma. “Bowls. The deep ones.”
Travis ladled the soup into a wide, ceramic bowl. He carried it to the small kitchen table. He sat. The aroma wrapped around him, dense and comforting.
Mavis leapt from the stove, crossing the vast expanse of counter and table in a series of quick, precise jumps. He landed beside the bowl, his own tiny dish—a decorative thimble Travis had found at a flea market years ago—already placed there. Travis ladled a minuscule amount of broth, with one carrot coin and a sliver of pepper, into the thimble.
They sat together. The kitchen was dark now, save for the overhead light casting a warm pool over the table. The rest of the house was shadows.
Travis picked up his spoon. His hand was steady. He looked at the soup, at the steam curling up. His stomach, so often a treacherous ocean, was calm. A flat, still lake.
“For you,” Mavis said softly, not touching him now, just being there. “One spoon. Just taste it.”
Travis dipped the spoon. He brought it to his lips. The heat was immediate, the flavor unfolding—sweet carrot, sharp ginger, the deep, savory note of the broth. It was simple. It was good. He swallowed. The warmth spread down his throat, into his chest. It stayed.
He took another spoonful. And another. He didn’t think about keeping it down. He thought about the ginger, the way the pepper had softened to silk. He ate slowly, methodically, matching the pace of the preparation. The bowl steamed. Mavis ate from his thimble, taking small, careful sips of the broth, holding a carrot coin between his paws to nibble.
Travis made it halfway through the bowl. He set the spoon down with a soft clink. He waited, listening to his body. There was no lurch, no clammy warning. Just a gentle, solid fullness. A victory.
He looked at Mavis. Mavis was watching him, his large eyes reflecting the overhead light. Without a word, Mavis put down his carrot sliver. He scampered across the table, climbed onto Travis’s wrist, and walked up his forearm, onto the sleeve of his t-shirt. He didn’t stop until he was at the collar. Then he ducked underneath.
Travis felt the familiar, wonderful intrusion. The soft fur against his clavicle. Then came the nuzzle, a deliberate, loving rub against the base of his throat, right over the steady pulse there. It was a reward. It was a claim. It was Mavis saying, I am here, and you did this.
Travis closed his eyes. He felt the nuzzle, then a series of light, ticklish kisses along the same patch of skin. His breath hitched, but this time in pleasure, in relief.
“You ate the soup,” Mavis murmured, his voice muffled by fabric and skin. “You made it and you ate it. It’s staying. I can hear it staying.”
“Yeah,” Travis whispered, his hand coming up to cradle the small bulge under his shirt. “It’s staying.”
They stayed like that for a long moment. The soup cooled in the bowl. The house was silent. The email from Mullins was a closed door in another room, unimportant.
Finally, Mavis emerged, crawling out and settling on Travis’s shoulder. He looked at the half-finished bowl. “Enough,” he declared. “The treaty is signed. Your body has accepted the ambassador.”
Travis nodded. He felt heavy in the best way, anchored by food and affection. “Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate.
“You chopped the carrots correctly. That’s thanks enough.” Mavis’s tail flicked, brushing Travis’s neck. “Now, the ritual. Dishes. Then, the bed. The day is officially over.”
Travis stood, carrying his bowl to the sink. He washed it slowly, the hot water soothing on his hands. He washed the pot, the cutting board, the knife. Mavis watched from the safety of the drying rack, perched on the handle of a spatula. The domesticity of it was a balm.
With the kitchen clean and dark, they moved through the quiet house to the bedroom. Travis didn’t turn on the light. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes on the rumpled comforter. The framed hole in the wall behind the headboard was a darker square in the shadows.
Travis shed his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor—chaotically organized—and slid into bed. The sheets were cool. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Mavis didn’t go to his hole in the wall. He climbed the bedside table, then made the leap to the vast plain of the bed. He walked across the comforter, his tiny feet making no sound, until he reached Travis’s side. He didn’t ask. He simply climbed onto Travis’s bare stomach, finding a flat spot just below his sternum. He curled there, a warm, living poultice over his core, his tail wrapping loosely around himself.
Travis placed a hand over him, feeling the rapid, contented heartbeat against his palm.
“Tomorrow,” Mavis yawned, his voice thick with sleep. “Tomorrow, we open the email. We design a new direction. We make the khaki ghost eat his words.”
“Okay,” Travis whispered.
“But not tonight,” Mavis sighed, snuggling deeper. “Tonight, you are full. And I am here.”
Travis felt his own eyes grow heavy. The anxiety was a distant memory, a story from another day. Under his hand, Mavis’s breathing evened out into sleep. The last thing Travis felt before he drifted off was the gentle rise and fall of his own stomach, undisturbed, with the weight of a tiny, steadfast guardian keeping watch over the peace he’d earned.
The last thing Travis felt before he drifted off was the gentle rise and fall of his own stomach, undisturbed, with the weight of a tiny, steadfast guardian keeping watch over the peace he’d earned.
He woke to a sensation both alien and deeply familiar, a thread of pleasure unraveling from the very center of him. Soft, meticulous laps, like the brush of a warm paintbrush, traced the deepest contours of his navel, followed by the faint, thrilling sting of careful nips from needle-sharp teeth. It was a practiced, intimate reveille, pulling him from sleep not with urgency but with a slow, sensual insistence.
“Time,” Mavis whispered into the hollow he was tending, his voice a husky vibration against Travis’s skin.
Travis groaned, stretching, his muscles protesting from yesterday’s rigid anxiety. Sunlight cut across the bed, too bright, promising a day he wasn’t ready to claim. “The email,” he mumbled, the words thick.“Is still an email.It can wait five more minutes. Your spine, however, cannot.” Mavis finished his ministrations with a final, pointed lick and clambered up Travis’s torso, his damp paws leaving faint trails. “You’re clenched like a fist.A hot bath.Now. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m better.I’m free and I make house calls. Move.”
The bathroom was small, tiled in clean white subway patterns. Travis started the faucet, pouring in a capful of eucalyptus-scented bath soak he kept for exactly this purpose. The room began to steam, fragrant and dense. He slid out of his boxers and tested the water with his toes, then slowly sank into the scalding embrace.
A hiss escaped his lips as the heat needled his skin, then seeped into the tight knots of his shoulders and lower back. He leaned his head against the cool porcelain edge, closing his eyes. The world narrowed to the lap of water, the scent of eucalyptus, the dissipating tension in his muscles.
Mavis perched on the curved rim of the tub, tail dangling over the side, watching him.“See? Basic human maintenance.Not so hard.”
Travis nodded, sinking deeper until the waterline kissed his chin. The heat was a solid weight, a blanket, a return to the womb. But then, as his body fully relaxed, a memory surfaced, unbidden and precise. His father’s voice, flat and disappointed, from a decade ago: “You’re too soft for real work, Travis. You’ll always need coddling. Look at you, hiding in a bathtub.”
It wasn’t just the words. It was the context—the searing heat of a childhood fever, the comfort of a bath his mother had drawn, his father’s silhouette in the doorway, a judgment carved from shadow.
The present-tense heat of the water suddenly fused with that old, shaming memory.His lungs seized.The steam felt solid, clogging his throat. He couldn’t pull it in, couldn’t push it out. A sharp, metallic panic lanced through his chest, and his hands gripped the sides of the tub, knuckles white. He was going to drown in six inches of water and his father’s ghost.
He heard a tiny, fierce curse from the rim.Then a splash.
Mavis broke the water’s surface not with grace but with ferocious purpose, a small, sleek missile cutting through the suds. He paddled fiercely to Travis’s chest, his fur plastered dark, and without hesitation, climbed directly onto Travis’s sternum. He pressed his entire body, a sodden, determined poultice, directly over Travis’s pounding heart.
“No,” Mavis stated, his voice impossibly steady against the thunder of Travis’s panic.“You are here.With me.This water is ours. This house is yours.Breathe with me.In.” Mavis took an exaggerated, audible breath.
Travis’s vision swam, but the small, absolute pressure on his chest was a focal point. He tried to match the breath.“Out,” Mavis commanded, his tiny ribs contracting.
Travis exhaled, a shuddering, broken thing.“Again. In.” Mavis’s breath was warm against Travis’s wet skin.“This is our water.This is my heat. Not his.Never his.”
Another breath, slightly deeper.The vice around his ribs loosened one notch.
“Out.Good.You are the least soft person I know. You eat fear for breakfast and keep it down half the time. That’s a warrior.”
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, bubbled from Travis’s lips.He was crying. The tears mixed with the bathwater and the sweat of receding panic. He brought his hands up, cupping them around Mavis’s shivering, dripping form, and lifted him gently from his chest.
He brought the tiny creature level with his face. Mavis looked bedraggled, water beading on his whiskers, but his gaze was unwavering, fierce with loyalty.
Travis pressed his lips to Mavis’s soaked head, a kiss of profound gratitude onto the wet fur. He held him there for a long moment, feeling the rapid, birdlike heartbeat against his mouth.
“Anchor,” Travis whispered, the word for Mavis he never said aloud.
He stood up carefully, water sluicing off him, and stepped out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around his waist and fetched a hand towel, the softest one. Gently, meticulously, he began to pat Mavis dry, starting with the large, expressive ears.
“You dove in,” Travis said, his voice raw.
“You were sinking,” Mavis replied simply, leaning into the gentle patting. “I had the lifeline. Basic protocol.”
Once Mavis was mostly dry, a fluffier, grumpier version of himself, Travis finished drying his own body. The panic had left a hollowed-out, clean feeling in its wake, like a storm had passed and scoured the air. The memory was still there, but its power was washed up on a shore somewhere else, manageable.
He looked at the steamy mirror, at his own reflection—pale, but clear-eyed. He looked at Mavis, now perched on the sink, grooming a paw.
“Okay,” Travis said, a new decisiveness in his tone.“Let’s go make tea. And then we’ll open that email.”
Mavis’s tail gave a single, sharp flick of approval.“Now you’re talking.But I’m adding the sugar. Your negotiating position is still compromised.”
The kitchen was quieter than usual, the only sound the metallic click of the spoon against ceramic as Travis stirred honey into his tea. Mavis monitored the sugar addition from his shoulder, a damp but vigilant co-pilot. Steam carried the scent of lemon and ginger up into the still air, a smaller, simpler comfort than the previous night’s soup.
Travis cupped the warm mug in both hands, letting the heat bleed into his palms. He took a slow sip. The sweet, sharp liquid traced a deliberate path down his throat, a conscious mapping of calm. Mavis’s tail flicked once, a silent metronome against his collarbone.
“Brave heart,” Mavis murmured, the words vibrating softly against Travis’s neck.
They didn’t speak as they walked back to the work room. The morning light was clearer now, harsher, exposing every dust mote dancing over the Wacom tablet. The red email icon on the dark monitor screen pulsed in Travis’s peripheral vision like a fresh wound.
He didn’t sit immediately. He stood before the chair, his breath feeling thin again. The memory of the bath, the clenching fear, was a cold stone in his gut. He could still feel the ghost of his father’s disapproval in the sterile, expectant silence of the room.
Then, a shift. Mavis moved, crawling from his shoulder, down into the back of his hoodie. His small weight settled, a deliberate pressure across the tight cords at the nape of Travis’s neck. It wasn’t a nuzzle or a kiss. It was a grounding, a physical claim on the junction where stress gathered and took root. Mavis was a constant, anchoring weight across the nape of Travis’s neck as he settled into his work chair, now dressed in a loose hoodie and his boxer-briefs.
Travis exhaled, a long, ragged stream of air. The weight held him to the chair, to the present. He reached for the mouse. The click was deafening.
The email opened. Mullins’s words were brusque, bullet-pointed.
– New direction attached. Less “artisan,” more “direct response.”
– Primary colors. Bold fonts. See examples.
– Revised budget reflects reduced creative scope. 40% cut.
– Assets required in 72 hours for new agency review.
– Acknowledge receipt.
Attached was a PDF. Travis opened it. It was a mood board of garish stock photos—smiling people in headset, glowing thumbs-up icons, explosive graphics in fire-engine red and cobalt blue. It was everything his initial, subtle design was not. It was cheap. It was loud. It was the visual equivalent of Mullins’s voice.
A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, rolled up from his stomach. It wasn’t anxiety this time. It was rage. A pure, clean fury that burned away the lingering fear. His hand tightened on the mouse.
“He can’t,” Travis whispered, his voice low and rough.
“He did,” Mavis said, his own tone flat. The weight on Travis’s neck didn’t lift. If anything, it pressed down more firmly, a reminder to stay. “He’s a vandal. He sees a stained-glass window and wants to replace it with a security shutter.”
“Forty percent. And this… this garbage.” Travis gestured at the screen, his movement jerky. “He’s not just changing it. He’s pissing on it and calling it rain.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You can,” Mavis stated. His tiny hands began to move, not kneading, but making slow, firm circles on the tense muscle beneath his feet. “You can do exactly this. You can open the original files. You can look at your work. And then you can write a reply.”
Travis stared at the ghastly mood board. The fury settled into a cold, hard knot in his chest. He minimized the PDF. He opened his original project files. The elegant, custom-drawn illustrations loaded. The careful, balanced typography. The muted, earthy color palette that spoke of heritage and care. It was good. It was so damn good.
Mavis was silent, letting him look.
Travis opened a new email. His fingers hovered over the keys. The professional, appeasing words he usually used—Thank you for your feedback, Let’s explore this direction—tasted like ash. He deleted them. The anchoring pressure on his neck felt like a fulcrum, a point of leverage.
He typed.
Edward—
The attached direction is not a refinement of the agreed scope. It is a different project entirely, one that does not align with the brand equity we initially defined. The 40% budget reduction for a complete creative overhaul is not acceptable.
I am willing to discuss reasonable adjustments to the existing approved direction. I am not willing to execute the work attached. Please advise how you would like to proceed.
Travis Aldridge
He didn’t read it over. He didn’t second-guess. He moved the cursor and clicked ‘Send.’
The sound of the whooshing send-mail signal filled the room. It sounded like a guillotine. Or a door slamming.
For a second, there was only the blank, hollow silence after the note. Then the trembling started, deep in his thighs, working its way up through his core. He’d just potentially torched his biggest contract. The cold rage evaporated, leaving behind the stark, skeletal frame of consequence.
“Oh, god,” he breathed, his head dropping forward into his hands. The movement dislodged Mavis, who slid down onto his shoulder.
Mavis didn’t scold or panic. He scrambled, quick and purposeful, down the front of Travis’s hoodie. He pushed under the fabric, past the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and disappeared into the dark, warm space against Travis’s lower abdomen. He curled into a tight, warm ball right over the center of the trembling, a live coal of solidarity against the sudden chill of fear.
Travis gasped at the intimate contact, the sheer physical truth of it. He felt Mavis’s breath, quick and hot, against his skin. He felt the tiny, firm pressure of his body, a radical anchor in a suddenly untethered world.
“You were perfect,” Mavis’s muffled voice came from under the fabric, firm and absolute. “You drew a line. It was a clean line. Now you wait. And you breathe. And I am right here.”
Travis forced air into his lungs. The trembling in his legs slowly subsided, replaced by a strange, buzzing stillness. He leaned back in the chair, his hands resting on the desk, palms down. He could feel the faint, quick pulse of Mavis against him, a second heartbeat in the vulnerable heart of his body.
He stared at the sent message in his inbox, a little digital monument to his own limit. The terror was still there, a wide-open plain of ‘what now.’ But beneath it, under his clothes, pressed directly against the source of his fear, was a five-inch fortress. The email was sent. The line was drawn. The wait began.
And for now, the wait had a warmth to it, a secret, defiant heat that refused to be extinguished.