The day is quieter than most, the kind of hush that settles over the city once the wind dies down and the winter clouds hang low like they're listening. Mellow is curled beside me in the passenger seat, her tongue slightly sticking out, soft snores rising and falling with each breath. Her leash is coiled in my lap like a lazy ribbon.
I glance over at Noah, who's driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear like it belongs there. His eyes don't leave the road, but the corners of his lips tug up slightly when I catch him humming something under his breath—maybe a jazz tune, or a lo-fi beat I've heard him play before at the cafe.
We pull up in front of The Personas and before the car even stops, Mellow perks up with a tiny bark, her tail thudding once against the seat.
"She also remembers this place," I murmur, rubbing behind her ear. "Of course she does."
