Lucien did not behave like a dog.
Élodie realized this at precisely 7:12 a.m., when she placed a stainless-steel bowl of premium dog food on the kitchen floor and felt judged.
She had chosen the expensive kind. The bag featured a wolf staring heroically into the distance, with words like ancestral and instinct-approved printed in reassuring earth tones. It cost more than her lunch budget for the week.
Lucien approached the bowl.
Sniffed.
Paused.
Then looked up at her.
It was not confusion in his eyes.
It was disappointment.
"You don't like chicken?" Élodie asked, already defensive. "It's organic."
Lucien sat down beside the bowl and stared at the wall.
Not at the food.
At the wall.
As if the wall had offended him less.
Élodie waited.
Thirty seconds passed. Then a full minute.
The food remained untouched, pristine, accusing.
"…Okay," she said. "Maybe later."
Lucien lay down with exaggerated patience, his back very deliberately turned to the bowl.
---
By lunchtime, Élodie was hungry enough to justify steak.
It wasn't a good steak—thin, cheap, slightly gray around the edges—but it was real food, and it sizzled convincingly in the pan.
Lucien appeared silently at her side.
Sat.
Stared.
His gaze locked onto the steak with the intensity of someone evaluating a lease agreement.
"You cannot have this," she said firmly. "You are a dog."
Lucien did not blink.
She ate one bite under pressure.
Then another.
The stare intensified.
She sighed, cut off the smallest possible piece, and placed it in his bowl.
Lucien examined it.
Then ate.
Slowly. Thoughtfully. Like someone confirming a long-held suspicion.
When he finished, he licked the bowl clean and sat back, satisfied.
The untouched dog food still sat where she had left it.
---
Lucien followed her everywhere.
Not in the enthusiastic, tripping-over-his-own-feet way she expected from dogs.
In the quiet, measured way of a supervisor.
When she brushed her teeth, he sat in the doorway.
When she cooked, he positioned himself where he could see both her and the door.
When she tried to carry laundry, he walked beside her, close enough to be helpful, far enough to avoid being kicked.
At one point, she stopped walking abruptly.
Lucien stopped with her.
They looked at each other.
"…Are you herding me?" she asked.
Lucien sat.
Still staring.
---
She tried another brand of dog food that evening.
Beef this time.
Lucien sniffed.
Looked at the ingredient list.
Then at her.
Then turned around and walked away.
"That's not how preferences work," Élodie said weakly.
Lucien did not respond.
He did, however, sit directly in front of her chair during dinner and watch every bite she took.
"You're not paying rent," she told him.
Lucien's ears flicked.
The stare sharpened.
Élodie swallowed.
---
The knock came at 8:47 p.m.
Sharp. Precise. Unhappy.
Élodie opened the door to a woman with tightly pulled hair and a permanent expression of disapproval.
"Yes?" Élodie asked.
"I live next door," the woman said. "Your dog is… staring."
Élodie blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"He doesn't bark," the woman continued. "He doesn't whine. He just stands there. Watching. All night."
Lucien sat behind Élodie in the doorway.
Staring.
Perfectly still.
The neighbor's eyes flicked to him and immediately away.
"…Please tell him to stop," she muttered, retreating.
The door shut.
Élodie leaned back against it and exhaled.
"Lucien," she said, very carefully, "you cannot psychologically intimidate the neighbors."
Lucien blinked once.
Then lay down.
Still facing the door.
Watching.