Pyro

VIII

Sunny

These past few days have been a special kind of hell - the kind where your mind becomes your worst enemy. I've lost track of time, lost in the maze of my thoughts. Talking to Sol feels impossible. I wanted clarity first, but clarity's a cruel mistress when your world's been turned inside out.

That first protein shake DJ made me turned out to be a revelation. I tried to maintain my scepticism, but his intense stare broke me down - those hazel eyes fixed on me until I admitted defeat and praised his concoction. He hasn't let me live it down since, the smug bastard earned his Dipshit nickname honestly.

His "special" dish was another story entirely. The taste defied its questionable appearance - something you'd scroll past on a menu but regret not ordering. Every time I asked what was in it, he'd give me that infuriating half-smile. "If I tell you, it defeats the purpose of calling it my special, cara."

The hours melted away in that kitchen. The conversation flowed as freely as the drinks, starting with his stories about the Italian military. His face darkened when he spoke about following his father's footsteps, only to discover the medals his father claimed were stolen from his grandfather. "Bastardo bugiardo," he'd muttered, knuckles white around his glass.

I tried lightening the mood with stories from home - memories of Sol and me, my friends, anything to chase away the shadows. But then I mentioned Kleedus, and DJ's eyes lit up with dangerous interest.

"Who's Kleedus?" His shoulder bumped mine deliberately, grin widening. "Boyfriend back home?"

The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. "Yeah..." I bit my lip, watching his expression. "If they legalise dating your dog, then absolutely."

He nearly toppled off his barstool, catching himself at the last second. I almost regretted his quick reflexes - watching him fall might have been worth it.

"Wait- wait, a dog?" He leaned closer, eyes dancing. "What kind?"

"Kind?"

His brows furrowed adorably, accent thickening with frustration. It had happened throughout our talk - English words slipping just out of reach. Earlier, he'd been self-conscious about it, but my patient explanations seemed to ease the tension. Now there was something almost intimate about these linguistic stumbles.

"The breed specifics determine appearance and behaviour," I turned to face him fully, hands moving as I spoke. "Like this-" I opened my palm. "Golden Retrievers in one hand." Closed it, opened the other. "Dalmatians in this one. Different breeds, different traits."

He watched my hands with intense focus, processing. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, the space between us charged. "Capisco... thank you." His voice had dropped lower.

"Kleedus is a brown Dobermann."

His head snapped up. "Dobermann? Aren't they-" He paused, correcting himself with a small smile, "Isn't that breed aggressive? Protective?"

"Only if you believe Hollywood," I shifted closer unconsciously. "Those movies ruined their reputation."

"Not good guard dogs?"

I couldn't help laughing at his confused expression. "They're natural protectors, sure. But they're not the mindless attack dogs movies portray." I leaned in conspiratorially, close enough to catch his scent - gunpowder and something distinctly Italian. "Want to know a secret? They're actually giant cuddle bugs."

His laugh vibrated through the small space between us.

"Kleedus is brilliant, loving... sometimes too smart for his own good." My smile faded. "My mom helped train him..." The words caught. "We spent much time getting it right, making sure he'd break those stereotypes."