The next day Rufus and his mate inspect their new home

The creaky farmhouse door swings open as Rufus struts inside, his tail held high in triumph. The vixen now noticeably round bellied waddles in after him, her nose twitching at the lingering scent of human sweat and motor oil.

"Home sweet home." Rufus croons, kicking off his tattered boots and flopping onto the worn-out couch. The springs groan under his weight, but he just grins, spreading his arms along the backrest like a king on his throne.

His mate sniffs around the kitchen, pawing open the fridge with a critical eye. "Ugh, these humans lived like savages," she mutters, nose wrinkling at the expired milk and half-eaten takeout.

"Hey now, be nice," Rufus chides, though his smirk says otherwise. He pats his mate’s swollen belly, where the Thomson brothers, now reduced to nothing but fox embryos, stir restlessly. "These walls are gonna be full of tiny paws soon enough. Might as well get used to the place."

He hops up and trots to the mantle, where a dusty family photo of Bob and Greg still sits. With a flick of his claw, he knocks it facedown. "There. Now it’s our house."

His vixen rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, already dragging an armchair into a sunbeam to make a proper nesting spot. Rufus watches her, chest swelling with something dangerously close to pride.

"Guess those boys did us a favor," he muses, stretching out on the couch. "Built us a real nice den. And in a few months?" He grins, sharp and satisfied. "We’ll have a proper litter to fill it with."

Outside, the wind rustles through the overgrown fields, fields that’ll soon be full of fox kits chasing mice instead of humans fixing tractors.

Rufus closes his eyes, ears twitching at the sound of his mate’s contented purring.

Perfect.