The first thing to greet me is Cece's Vans, strategically kicked off right in front of the door for maximum risk of tripping someone. I smile as I align them by the wall. For two months after they moved in with me, Cece slept with their trainers on, his JanSport always packed with the essentials and never more than mere yards away.

When the kitchen proves untouched, I move past the stairs to peer into the living room. Orchids bloom in my chest at the sight of them. It's only been a month since they were in Manchester last but excitement tickles my blood. I take a few seconds to stomp down the longing to hug him and shower him in kisses in case they're not in a physical touch mood before I continue down the corridor.

Then I no longer struggle to get my smile under control.

Cece's not alone on the sofa. Esther, the dobermann they've had responsibility for rehabilitating as a part of their own rehabilitation, is curled up next to him. That's not the issue though. The issue is the cast on his right wrist.

'The fuck happened?'

'The fuck happened to "hiya, how's it going"?' His eyes snap from the telly, black irises glinting with the flashing colours of Deadly Class, along with all his piercings. He lifts his un-cast hand. 'I didn't get in a fight. You don't immediately gotta jump to conclusions.'

'I weren't jumping.'

Cece quirks a pierced eyebrow.

'I were confidently striding.' I nod at the cast. They've camouflaged it in a disturbingly realistic drawing of the bones in their wrist so it's disguised as an intentional accessory to his all-black outfit. 'What happened then?'

'Sometimes I let Esther pull me on my skateboard and sometimes she runs too fast.'

Well, that's a champion idea, innit.

I step toward the sofa. 'Where am I supposed to sit?'

They shrug, scratching Esther's neck. Their attention has returned to the telly. 'You can sit on the floor.'

'This is my house. And my sofa.'

'And your floor,' he says, mocking my indignant tone. 'Your rug.'

I shove Cece off the sofa to take his place. Esther barks once, her black eyes bulleting to me, but she don't get up until Cece commands her to. He sits on the other side of the sofa and Esther relaxes on his lap though her head falls on my leg. I stare at it, her body heat suffusing into my thigh in parallel with the one spreading through my chest: I've been chosen!

'She won't bite,' Cece says with a glance at my rigid figure, hands awkwardly bent so as not to touch her. A laugh rolls from his teeth. 'Actually, can't guarantee that. She's still a work in progress.'

Cece's current foster home doubles as a training centre for aggressive canines. Oak Shaw's mission is to rehabilitate teenagers and dogs by allowing them to work together, to motivate each other to do better. Bobbi says it can be easier to connect with animals than other people, especially when people have broken your trust over and over. Though Cece liberally slagged off the concept from the moment their social worker suggested it two years ago, they sent me the first picture of Esther within half an hour of their arrival and by the end of the first week, they'd sent me a thorough profile for every animal on the land, including Bobbi's two back garden chickens and cat.

Cece takes my hand and places it on her head. Esther surveils me but don't retreat from my touch. 'She likes it when you massage between her eyes.' I do as told while Cece pets her side to keep her calm.

After a minute, Esther closes her eyes and lets out an adorable huff as she relaxes. I become fully immersed in the rhythm of the message that Cece has focused back on the telly when I cut over the dialogue. 'Did I tell ya you could bring your dog, by the way?' I should probably be angry or discipline him somehow when he shows up with a dobermann without even telling me beforehand. Google says I'm meant to "establish boundaries and consequences" and "request and facilitate open communication"...

'You know what they say: it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.' When I watch him expectantly, he casts me a smile. 'Don't get me wrong, I ain't doing neither. But that is how the saying goes.'

'If she eats my trainers...'

Cece's face scrunches with disgust, the new piercing on their nose bridge jutting up (because the snake bites, septum, nostril, and eyebrow piercings along with ears that are more metal than cartilage weren't enough apparently). 'She ain't gonna eat your trainers, don't be insulting.'

A smile forces itself to my face. I drop my chin to my chest and melt into the sofa. Google also advises to pick your battles.

Cece stops petting Esther to dig a hand into their hoodie pocket. The fist ventures over to me. 'I made you this.'

I open my palm and they drop a keychain into it. It's shaped like a yellow orchid, made with some sort of plastic. Or they might've glazed an actual flower with glass. My gaze trails up to his side profile, their eyes stapled to the telly. Deadly Class has suddenly got well interesting. 'You made this?'

'Don't be weird about it.'

'Thank you.'

'I said don't–' Cece grinds his teeth '–be weird about it. Bobbi forces us to do stupid art therapy things. Not got shit to do with you.' Then, to force the discomfort onto me, they ask, 'How were the date?'

I gesture at the telly. 'You're missing your series.' They haven't paused it once and as much as they like to think they've got incredible multi-tasking skills, there's no chance he knows a lick of what's going on in the plot.

Cece flicks a dismissing hand at the screen. 'I'm only watching the animated bits.'

I huff, slumping against the sofa and resume petting Esther, who opens her eyes as if she too is dead interested in the disasters of my dating life. 'Let's just say there ain't gonna be another one.'

'The whole point of me moving out were so that you could have time for a relationship and you still can't get a second date?'

'Okay, first of all,' I say, mocking his custom of speaking in lists, 'this were actually the third date. Second of all, you didn't "move out just so I'd have time for a relationship". That weren't even part of the conversation.'

They grin. They aren't wearing their grills and have washed off their usual eyeliner, but Cece's smirks always manage to be somehow impish and sharp at the same time, like he's laughing at himself but won't hesitate to attack if anyone dares to join in without permission. 'That's the fun version.'

'Interesting phrasing for "factually incorrect".'

On the screen, the characters drive a car through Las Vegas and the lights slowly drip into an animated acid trip, seamlessly gliding through different styles that progressively get more ominous despite the mellow music. Cece is transfixed by the swell of shapes until it morphs back into live action with the protagonist's eyes as red as anemones. They instantly lose interest as the group stumbles into a casino.

'Pride parade's tomorrow. D'you wanna come?' I try to keep my tone off the cuff like I've just randomly thought of it and haven't been rehearsing different ways to ask for the past week. Do: Invite them. Don't: Make them feel obligated. Cece hates making plans. Any attempt to string them in well in advance will be shut down. They hate feeling expected to do owt. Maybe they just hate doing things in general.

With me, anyway.

'No.' Their scoff tapers into an exhale. Frowning, he sucks on the backs of their snakebite piercings. 'Do I have to wear... colours?'

'No. Wear whatever you like.'

They fumble with their hoodie sleeve, focus flicking between the telly and their hands. 'I'll ask Diwa...'

Esther sits up, crawling back so she can lick his chin which Cece dodges. Instead, he hugs her so her head rests on his shoulder, runs his un-cast palm down her sleek fur. His hair is braided in a complex pattern that imitates chains laid on his scalp, leaving their face unguarded against the greenish glow of the telly. Despite it being August, their skin is sallow. The dark circle under their left eye morphs into a bruise blossoming on their cheekbone.

'You look ill.'

'That's intentional, that.'

'I know. But I can't tell if you're actually ill...'

'Mentally? Always.' He grins, stretching the scabs on his chin.

It's not unusual for Cece to wear bruises like they're part of their outfit but I got used to his face being untarnished this summer. My attention returns to the swelling on their cheekbone. 'Did you get that from the fall?'

'No, this is from a fight.'

'Cece!'

He raises his un-broken arm. 'The bloke kept going on bout how his love language is physical touch. So I broke his nose.'

Notes

Well: Very, really, extremely, totally.

Dead: Very, really, extremely, totally.

I forgot to say this in the main author's note so I'll officially mention it here: if you like Cece, there is actually a whole book about them that you can read. This book is, in fact, a spin-off from that but it's absolutely not necessary to read to understand this one.