The ramen place is small—warm wooden interiors, steamed-up windows, the scent of miso broth and grilled pork hanging thick in the air. We get a table by the window. Mellow collapses in the booth beside me like she's run a marathon. Her body is sprawled, belly up, paws twitching slightly in her sleep. She must've spent all her energy launching herself over poodles and getting body-slammed by golden puppies.
Noah orders for both of us after I mumble something about not trusting myself near the spicy menu. When the waiter leaves, silence settles between us, but it's not awkward. Just mellow. No pun intended.
"So," I say after a bit, fiddling with my chopsticks. "After this, should I go to your place right away?"
Noah pauses mid-sip of his tea. He sets the cup down with a small clink. "If that's okay with you. I figured we'd swing by your place first, though. So you can pack."
"Right," I say. "Right, of course."
