Chapter 11: The Morning After
The first thing Travis became aware of was the warmth. A solid bar of sunlight lay across his closed eyelids, turning the world a pulsing, coral red. Then came the sounds: the distant, indifferent drone of a lawnmower somewhere down the block, the sigh of the house settling into the morning heat. He swam up through layers of thick, velvety sleep, his mind soft and blank.
Then memory returned, not as a thought, but as a full-body flush.
It washed over him from scalp to chest, a hot wave of visceral recall. The reckless strength in his own hands, the driving force of his hips, the raw, unfiltered commands torn from his throat. He’d been… possessive. Demanding. He’d used Mavis, not just interacted with him. He’d fucked the wall with a focused intensity that had felt like a lightning strike in his veins.
A low groan escaped him. He dragged his arm from underneath the covers and dropped it over his eyes, blocking out the accusing sun. The cool weight of the stone pendant rested against his sternum, a contradictory comfort. Oh, god. I probably scared him. I was an animal.
He lay there, marinating in a stew of embarrassment and post-coital clarity, the exquisite sensations of the night before now curdling into shame. He’d crossed a line. He’d lost control.
A minute movement against his neck dispelled the thought. It was a subtle shift, a gentle nuzzle. Mavis was there, tucked into the hollow between his jaw and collarbone, a warm, breathing lump. He hadn’t retreated to the walls. He’d stayed.
Travis held his breath, afraid to move.
“If you’re done broadcasting your regret,” a sleep-roughened voice mumbled into his skin, “some of us are trying to achieve a higher state of wakefulness.”
Travis lowered his arm slowly. “I… was I… okay last night?”
Mavis lifted his head. His silky fur was smooshed on one side, his ears twitching as they adjusted to the light. He looked at Travis, his dark eyes unreadable for a heartbeat. Then he stretched, his tiny spine arching, his tail straight out, a minuscule silhouette against the bright window. “Define ‘okay.’” He crawled up onto Travis’s chest, sitting cross-legged directly over his heart, facing him. The stone pendant was between his feet. “You were loud. You were demanding. You left sweat-prints on the drywall.” He paused, tilting his head. “It was monumentally effective.”
Travis blinked. “Effective?”
“As a distraction. As a reclamation. As a…” Mavis searched for the word, his tailtip flicking. “A reset. You’ve been swimming in your own head for days, Travis. Last night, you weren’t in your head at all.” He reached down and tapped a tiny claw against the grey-blue stone. “You were here. In the mess of it. It was refreshing. Brutal, but refreshing.”
“I didn’t hurt you?” The question was a whisper.
Mavis gave him a look of profound exasperation. “Do I look damaged? Do you hear me complaining?” He stood up and walked a few steps up Travis’s sternum, his head level with Travis’s chin. “You forget, I live in your walls. I hear the silences, the sighs, the way you mutter at your screen. Last night there was no silence. There was noise. Purpose. It was…” He hesitated again, an unusual occurrence. “It was good for you. And therefore, it was good.”
The tight knot of anxiety in Travis’s gut began to loosen, dissolving under the simple, pragmatic weight of Mavis’s approval. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His hand came up, and Mavis stepped onto his palm without a second thought, steadying himself with a grip on Travis’s thumb.
“So, not too much?” Travis asked, a faint, real smile touching his lips.
“It was exactly enough,” Mavis stated. Then, a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “Though your technique for aftercare was lacking. Leaving me marinating in your mess while you passed out? Inexcusable. I had to undertake a solo expedition for cleanliness.”
Travis’s smile widened into a grin. “My deepest apologies. I was briefly incapacitated by my own monstrous behavior.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again.” Mavis said, his tone haughty. “Now, I believe the sun is high enough to warrant coffee. And you have a ten-thirty video call with that brewery about their sour IPA label.” He scurried up Travis’s arm and launched himself onto the headboard with practiced ease.
The mundanity of the schedule was a balm. Travis pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. The familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet, the cool wood grain, the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam—it all grounded him. He pulled on yesterday’s sweatpants, the stone pendant swinging free. He didn’t put on a shirt.
In the kitchen, he set the coffee to brew. As the machine gurgled and spat, he felt a familiar tickling ascent up his leg. Mavis settled into his hair, a living nest.
“You’re wearing the necklace to a client call,” Mavis observed from his perch.
“Yeah. Is that unprofessional?”
“It’s interesting. It suggests you have a life outside font choices and Pantone codes. It might humanize you. Or they’ll think it’s a weird fishing lure.”
Travis chuckled, pouring the dark brew into his favorite chipped mug. “It’s a talisman. Wards off bad kerning.”
The morning passed in the comforting, disjointed rhythm of their shared life. Travis took his call in the office, the camera framed to show only his head and shoulders. The client, a laid-back brewer named Dave, loved the bold, acidic color scheme Travis proposed. Mavis stayed mostly quiet, a silent observer from the top of the bookshelf, though Travis caught a tiny, disdainful flick of his tail when Dave used the phrase “pop of color.”
After the call, Travis dove into the meat of the design work. He lost himself in the seamless, satisfying logic of aligning vectors and balancing visual weight. Mavis eventually grew bored of watching and disappeared into the walls, likely on one of his endless salvage missions.
It was mid-afternoon when the doorbell rang.
Travis jumped, his stylus skidding across the tablet. Clients didn’t just drop by. Delivery people left packages on the porch. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
He stood, a strange, cold anticipation trickling down his spine. He walked to the front door, pausing to look through the peephole.
A woman stood on his porch. Late forties, sharp blonde bob, expensive-looking sunglasses pushed up on her head. She held a leather folder and wore a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. It was a real estate agent’s smile.
Travis opened the door, the humid afternoon air washing in. “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Bellamy? Travis Bellamy?” Her voice was bright, polished.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Cynthia Shaw, with Platinum Properties.” She offered a hand, her grip firm and brief. “I hope this isn’t a terrible intrusion. I was in the neighborhood showing the Miller property—you know, the big Victorian on Oak?—and I just had to stop by. Your parents, Charles and Elaine, they listed with us when they downsized, lovely people. We keep an eye on the portfolio.”
A lead weight settled in Travis’s stomach. “Portfolio?”
“Oh, just industry talk.” She waved a dismissive hand, her gaze already slipping past him, appraising the foyer. “We note when inherited properties in desireable neighborhoods come onto the market. Given the current climate, with interest rates and inventory, we’re proactively reaching out to potential sellers. Your home, with this lot size…” She finally looked at him. “You could be sitting on a life-changing sum of money, Mr. Bellamy. Have you ever considered selling?”
The words hung in the air. Selling. The concept was so alien, so violently external, it felt like a physical shove. His house. Their walls.
“No,” Travis said, the word coming out firmer than he intended. “I haven’t. I’m not interested.”
Cynthia Shaw’s smile didn’t falter. It simply recalibrated. “I understand. It’s a big decision. A home is full of memories. But the market won’t be this hot forever.” She extracted a glossy brochure from her folder and handed it to him. It showed a smiling, generic family in front of a blurred-out house. “Just some information. My card is attached. No pressure. Just… think about your future. Imagine the possibilities.”
Travis took the brochure, the thick, coated paper feeling grotesque in his hand. “I’m pretty clear on my future, thanks.”
“Of course. Well, it was a pleasure.” She gave a final, sweeping glance at the front of the house, and Travis knew she was mentally calculating square footage, curb appeal, demolition costs. “You have my number.”
She turned and click-clacked back to her sleek sedan. Travis closed the door slowly, the latch clicking with a terrible finality. He leaned back against the wood, the brochure crinkling in his tightening fist.
The silence of the house felt different now. It wasn’t peaceful. It was fragile. A commodity to be evaluated.
A soft scuffle came from the heating vent near the ceiling. Then a tiny voice, stripped of all its usual mischief, flat and cold.
“What did she want?”
Travis looked up. Mavis was perched on the lip of the vent, his fur slightly puffed, his tail rigid behind him. He had heard everything.
“She’s a real estate agent,” Travis said, his own voice sounding distant. “Wanted to know if I’d thought about selling.”
The word selling seemed to vibrate in the still air. Mavis didn’t move. He just stared, his small form a silhouette against the slatted metal.
“Oh,” he said after a long moment. Then he turned and vanished back into the ductwork without another word, a retreat that was more terrifying than any outburst.
Travis was left alone in the sudden, echoing silence of the foyer, the glossy brochure slick in his hand, the weight of the stone on his chest feeling for the first time not like an anchor, but like a millstone.
Travis was left alone in the sudden, echoing silence of the foyer, the glossy brochure slick in his hand, the weight of the stone on his chest feeling for the first time not like an anchor, but like a millstone. He stared at the closed door, his knuckles white around the crumpled paper. The pristine, smiling faces on the brochure seemed to mock the very dust in his air, the familiar scuff mark by the baseboard.
He needed to move. He walked back to his office on legs that felt unconnected to his body, the space suddenly foreign. He dropped into his chair, the ergonomic leather sighing. His screen glowed, the vibrant sour IPA label design suddenly childish and insignificant. Who cared about font hierarchy when someone could just ring your bell and casually suggest dismantling your entire world?
He tried to click back into the file. His hand hovered over the tablet. He couldn’t focus. The vectors bled together. Every slight noise from the house—a pipe tick, the fridge cycling on—jolted him. Was that Mavis? It never was. The silence from the walls was a physical pressure, thick and watchful.
“Okay,” he muttered to the empty room, rubbing his eyes. “Just… reboot.” He opened a blank document, a purely mechanical action. His designer brain, desperate for a solvable problem, latched onto the agent’s intrusion. A boundary. He needed a fucking boundary.
His fingers flew, bypassing creative thought for blunt utility. A new file. Rectangular shape. Bold, aggressive sans-serif font. He worked in a feverish, angry trance, the stylus scratching. He composed the message not for visitors, but for himself, a manifesto to tape to his own skull.
NO I DON’T WANT TO:
BUY, HEAR, OR SELL ANYTHING.
IF YOU AREN’T EXPECTED,
I’M NOT HOME.
He sat back, looking at the digital doormat. It was ugly. It was perfect. It was the most honest thing he’d designed in weeks. The catharsis was immediate and bitterly satisfying. He could have it printed on heavy-gauge rubber, place it right there on the porch like a landmine. Let Cynthia Shaw’s heels sink into that message.
The satisfaction evaporated as quickly as it came. It solved nothing. It was a joke. His gaze drifted from the screen to the shelves, to the tiny balcony by the headboard he could just see through the doorway. No movement. No scuffle. No teasing commentary.
He hadn’t heard or seen from Mavis in a long while.
The realization crept in, cold and meticulous. Not since the vent. Not since that single, flat “Oh.” Travis’s hand went to the braided cord at his neck, his fingers tracing the tight, perfect weave. The stone, that mesmerizing grey-blue echo of his own eyes, felt cold. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. A precious, priceless gift.
It started to feel more like lead the longer he didn’t see his little friend.
This wasn’t a playful disappearance. This wasn’t Mavis off on a scrap-metal expedition or napping in a sock drawer. This was retreat. This was the sound of a door closing deep inside the house’s anatomy. The necklace was a artifact of a before-time, a before the word “selling” had been uttered in his foyer.
“Damn it,” he whispered, the words swallowed by the humming computer.
He pushed away from the desk, the chair rolling back with a screech. He couldn’t sit here. He paced the worn path from the office door to the kitchen island, his bare feet slapping the wood. The house felt too big, every empty corner a taunt. He stopped, listening with every cell. Nothing but the oppressive hum of appliances.
He found himself in the bedroom, standing before the headboard. The smooth, glossy hole was just a hole. The tiny balcony was empty. He knelt, bringing his eye level to the baseboard arch with its cloth curtain. It was still.
“Mavis?” The name left his mouth too softly. He cleared his throat. “Hey. You… around?”
Only silence answered, a silence that felt pointed, curated. He’d heard Mavis move through walls like a whisper; he knew the difference between absence and hiding. This was hiding. A fist clenched around his heart. That cold, flat “Oh” replayed in his head, infinitely worse than any anger.
He’d fucked up. Not last night. Today. By letting that woman speak, by taking her brochure, by not slamming the door the instant her sentence began. He’d allowed the poison into the air. He’d been polite. And in being polite, he’d betrayed the only thing that truly mattered. The weight of the stone was unbearable. He couldn’t just wait.
He went to the kitchen, moving with a new, desperate purpose. He opened the cupboard and took down the small, shallow dish he used for olive oil sometimes. He poured a generous pool of golden, extra-virgin oil into it. Then, from the fridge, he took the small block of parmesan and the microplane. He grated a small, fragrant mound of it right next to the dish. A peace offering. A lure. A silent scream.
He placed the dish and the cheese on the floor by the headboard, right at the edge of the baseboard. Then he retreated, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and stared at the offering. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. The afternoon light lengthened, stretching the shadows across the floor. The oil gleamed, undisturbed. The cheese scent filled the still air.
Nothing.
The leaden feeling in his chest cracked open, revealing a raw, hollow fear. What if he didn’t come out? The thought was unthinkable, a void. This house, his life, the very rhythm of his days—it was all built around that silent, scurrying presence. Without it, the structure collapsed. The necklace was just a dead thing against his skin.
He was about to stand, to go and… what? Tear the baseboard off? When a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadow under the bed.
Mavis emerged. Not from his holes, but from the dark space beneath the bed frame. He moved slowly, his tail low. He didn’t look at Travis. He went straight to the dish, his movements precise and mechanical. He dipped a finger into the oil, bringing it to his mouth, his back turned.
Travis’s breath caught. He didn’t speak.
Mavis cleaned his finger meticulously. Then he turned. He looked at Travis, his eyes black and unreadable in the dim light. He didn’t climb up. He just stood there, a small, furred statue amid the vast landscape of the floor.
“She quantified my home,” Mavis said. His voice was quiet, clear, and carried a devastating finality. “She measured it in dollars. You held the paper she gave you.” He took a single step forward, his tiny claws clicking on the wood. “What does that make me, Travis? A square-footage anomaly? A pest to be disclosed?”
A pest to be disclosed?”
The words hung in the air, precise and surgical. They carved a space in the room more effectively than any of Mavis’s playful claws ever had. Travis felt them land, each one a small, sharp puncture.
“NO! Gods, Mavis, no…” Tears blurred his vision. He wanted to scoop the man up. He wanted to hug him into his chest, over his heart. He resisted.
The ache that clenched his chest longed for the feeling of silky brown fur, that long tail, those nimble fingers. Travis wanted Mavis in a way he couldn’t begin to understand, let alone verbally express. He slid off the bed, his body folding onto the floor until he was level with him, the vast distance between them suddenly an obscenity.
“Don’t you ever,” Travis choked, the words raw and gulping. “Don’t you ever think that. I love you too much for that to even be a thought.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, a futile gesture. “She just knew my parents, helped them move before I took over the house when they wanted to downsize.”
Neither moved for a long moment. Travis was curled onto his side, openly crying. Mavis watched him wearily from the floor.
The oil in the dish gleamed, untouched. The cheese was a sad, fragrant mound. Mavis’s ears were flat against his skull, his tail a tense line on the floorboards. Travis’s shoulders shook with silent, ugly sobs he couldn’t suppress. The sound was alien in their space.
Finally, Mavis uncoiled. He took a slow, tentative step forward. Then another. He approached the bed not with a scurry, but with a deliberate, almost cautious tread. He stopped by Travis’s face, which was pressed into the mattress.
“You’re making a spectacle,” Mavis said softly, but the edge was gone. His voice was just tired.
“I don’t care,” Travis wept, the words muffled by cotton. “You’re my home. She was talking about lumber and drywall. She doesn’t get a vote. Nobody gets a vote.”
Mavis was silent. He extended a hand, his tiny fingers hesitating before they touched the damp skin of Travis’s temple. The contact was electric. “You crumpled the brochure.”
“I’ll burn it.”
“Good.” Mavis’s finger traced the arch of Travis’s eyebrow. “Your crying is historically inelegant. It’s all nasal and gaspy.”
A wet, half-hiccup of a laugh escaped Travis. He turned his head, opening one red-rimmed eye. Mavis’s face was inches away, his expression unguarded and impossibly young. “Sorry to offend your aesthetic sensibilities.”
“Apology accepted.” Mavis climbed onto the pillow, then walked onto the plane of Travis’s cheek, his tiny feet cool and solid. He sat down, curling his tail around himself. “You mean it? The ‘love you too much’ part? Or was that a hysterical extrapolation?”
Travis went very still. The weight of the question was heavier than any he’d ever been asked. He could lie. He could deflect. He could say it was just a figure of speech. He met Mavis’s unwavering gaze.
“Yes,” he said, the word simple and terrifying. “I mean it. I don’t know what that looks like. But it’s the truest thing in this house.”
Mavis absorbed this. He looked at Travis’s tear-tracked skin, at the pendant lying against his throat. He nodded, once, a small decisive motion. “Okay.” He stood and walked across Travis’s face, his tail brushing his nose, and dropped into the hollow of his neck. He burrowed there, a familiar, anchoring pressure. “Then stop crying. You’re shaking the entire landscape.”
Travis took a deep, shuddering breath. He brought a hand up, covering the small form completely, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath his palm. It steadied his own. They stayed like that until the shadows in the room grew long and blue.
Eventually, Mavis spoke, his voice vibrating against Travis’s throat. “I am not a pest.”
“You are a benevolent menace. There’s a difference.”
“I require a formal guarantee.”
Travis smiled faintly. “What kind?”
“A clause. In the… whatever. The us-ness of it.” Mavis shifted. “The walls stay. You stay. I stay. No more people with brochures.”
“I’ll get a sign. A big one.”
“The ugly one you designed. Print it. I want to see it from the vent.” Mavis’s claws pricked gently, a grounding punctuation. “And I’m keeping the cheese. As a concession fee for emotional distress.”
Travis’s laugh was real this time, a broken but healing sound. “It’s all yours.” The terror of the afternoon began to recede, replaced by a weary, profound solidarity. The house was quiet again, but the silence now was theirs. It was a pact, sealed in salt and oil and grated parmesan.