You sleep in.

You wake up to the sound of claws on hardwood and the warbling yowl of a cat that believes starvation is imminent.

Fatty.

You don’t move right away.

The room’s still dim, blinds half‑drawn, morning light creeping in just enough to catch on Mariana where she’s curled in your sheets. One of your arms aches faintly from how she was draped over it all night.

She’s still asleep. Chest rising slow and steady, hair a dark tangle against your pillow. For a moment, you just watch her — the kind of quiet you don’t get to keep.

Fatty does not care about quiet.

He lets out another yowl, this one more theatrical, claws clicking closer to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, easing yourself out from under Mariana’s weight. She stirs, but doesn’t wake.

In the kitchen, Emmy paces in solidarity, her tail flicking like she’s disappointed in you personally. Fatty is already parked by his bowl, ready to escalate to property damage.

You glance at the clock.

Shit.

You’ve slept in.

Any hope of sitting down to one of Mariana’s breakfasts dies right there.

“Sorry, guys,” you tell the cats as you dump kibble into their bowls. They don’t acknowledge you, too busy inhaling their food like they’ve been starved for days instead of hours.

You grab your PocketWatch and keys off the counter, already mentally rearranging the day.

As much as you’ve grown used to starting mornings with coffee, eggs, and Mariana humming quietly over a pan, you don’t have that luxury today.

Work won’t wait.

And Yvette definitely won’t.

Yvette doesn’t look up when you walk in.

“Late,” she says, like she’s been rehearsing it since you missed your usual hour.

You drop into the chair across from her desk. “Good morning to you too.”

She slides a stack of files toward you without ceremony. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted.”

You eye the pile. “That doesn’t look like a promotion.”

“It’s not.” She leans back in her chair, boots on the edge of the desk. “Clerical work. Background checks, plates, digging through old reports. All the fun stuff.”

You flip through the top file. Paperwork. Lists. Names. The glamorous life of private investigation.

“Punishment?” you ask.

“Consequence,” she corrects. “For showing up when you feel like it. I could’ve picked something worse.”

You snort. “Like what?”

“Stakeouts in Georgetown.”

Point taken.

You work through the pile in silence for a while. It’s mind‑numbing, exactly as advertised. Background searches, old arrest records, dead‑end license plates.

Then you stop.

One of the files is a familiar face.

“Baldy,” you murmur, tapping the page.

Yvette glances up, then smirks. “Caught that, huh?”

“You figured out who he is already?”

“Wasn’t hard.” She swivels her tablet toward you, flicking through images — traffic cam stills, zoomed and cleaned up. “Got the footage from a nearby cam. Cross‑checked it with the usual contacts. The Austin security scene’s small. Took about ten minutes to pin him.”

“And?”

“And he works for one of the downtown firms. Private security. Guess who one of their clients is.”

You look at her. “Tech‑bro?”

“Bingo.”

That’s… not good.

You lean back. “So he’s tailing his boss’s mistress?”

“Apparently.”

You frown. “Why? Concern? Damage control?”

Yvette shrugs. “If I had to guess? Not concern for her. Concern about her.”

You let that sit. None of the possibilities feel great.

“Is this job even worth it at this point?” you ask finally.

She drums her nails on the desk. “Not sure yet. But it’s weird. I’ll talk to the client. See how they want to play it.”

You nod slowly, the implications settling in.

“In the meantime,” she says, already refocusing on her tablet, “keep the membership. We might need you back in there depending on how things go.”

You grin. “So I still get my free massages?”

She doesn’t even glance up. “Knock yourself out. But stay away from Rachel. No need to stir the pot until we know what’s cooking. You sure he didn't clock you?"

"I'm a dumb college bro learning yoga at an overpriced spa."

“I trust your judgment.” She flicks through something on the tablet. “Enjoy the massages and cucumber water.”

You mock‑salute. “Yes, boss.”

“Don’t make me regret saying that,” she mutters.