Chapter 27: Puddles and Promises
Lina had just poured herself the first sip of coffee when she heard it.
That unmistakable sound.
A gentle slosh… followed by her own bare foot stepping into something warm and wet.
"Samba!" she yelped, hopping back like the floor was lava.
Across the hallway, the oversized puppy blinked innocently from her curled-up nest near the front door, her ears flopping slightly as if to say, What did I do now?
Jonas appeared from the hallway, hair still tousled from sleep, a toothbrush dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Everything okay?"
Lina pointed dramatically at the puddle. "She peed. Again. Right where I walk every single morning."
Samba thumped her tail once. Guilty but cute.
"She's just a baby," Jonas said around a laugh, removing the toothbrush. "She's still figuring out plumbing."
"She's figured it out perfectly—she aims for my foot every time."
Jonas grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up while Samba waddled over, enormous paws flopping as she leaned her head against Lina's thigh in apology.
"Oh no. No manipulation with those puppy eyes," Lina warned, though her hand was already in Samba's fur. "This is emotional blackmail. I know it."
Jonas returned from tossing the paper towels. "We need help," he said. "Or at least a battlefield strategy."
"You mean…?"
"I signed us up for puppy school. First session is on Saturday."
Lina blinked. "Seriously?"
"She needs it. We need it. Also," he added with a grin, "I think she already peed on my work shoes. That's a declaration of war."
Lina sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. Fine. But you're carrying the poop bags."
"Deal," Jonas said proudly. "But you get the honor of being the favorite parent."
Lina looked down at Samba, who was now gnawing on the belt of her robe. "At this point, I'm just happy if she doesn't eat my socks."
That afternoon, they took Samba out for her first proper walk—collar, leash, and all.
It didn't go well.
She refused to walk. Then she galloped. Then she saw a butterfly and practically dragged Jonas into a shrub trying to catch it.
A group of kids pointed and laughed from across the street. Jonas held up a hand like a rodeo rider barely holding on.
"I don't think this is walking," he said, pulling leaves out of his sweater.
Lina was doubled over with laughter.
When they got back, breathless and slightly bruised, Lina flopped onto the sofa, Samba curled like a too-big croissant at her feet.
Jonas joined her, lying on his side, propped on one elbow. He traced circles on the back of her hand.
"She's chaos," Lina said. "But cute chaos."
"Like someone else I know," Jonas teased.
Lina turned her head, mock serious. "Are you calling me chaotic?"
"Only in the best way," he murmured, brushing a kiss to her shoulder. "I like chaos. Especially if it means mornings like this."
She smiled, letting her head rest against his chest. Samba let out a sleepy grunt from the floor.
And in that moment—with the warm fuzz of coffee, puppy yawns, and someone's soft breathing against her neck—Lina realized: even in puddles, there was peace.
Especially when shared.