❝"I'm not a puppy," she straightened and looked to him with amusement, because a puppy was exactly what he was to her. A pup that had stumbled into a wolf's den. "I can find my way around just fine."

the cherry pie sits longingly on the kitchen counter, her pale knife digging into the crust with a splurt splurt of red-coloured jam. every splash records the quarter ticks of the long hand of the clock. one, two, three—what could possibly keep the resident? by the fourth timed splat, she reconsiders the benefits of this stakeout.

a pie she bought for her missing disciple. an empty fridge with dust gathering inside (except for the expired milk). and a disappointing state of affairs with a vexing conclusion: she is being purposefully avoided.

the pie is not so fresh anymore, having sat out for an hour. rendering her peace token meaningless; yet another grievance and a point against ever bothering with this diplomacy antithetical to her modus operandi. she cuts a slice and picks it up with her knife. the gooey insides drip back into the tin of the pie. still, the smell of pastry lingers, the almost-burnt from the oven from the forty minutes it took to heat up the sugar and crust represents a waste of effort.

she bites into it and mindlessly chews on the lukewarm pie.