Élodie began to suspect Lucien understood language the day she used sarcasm.
She was late. Again.
Shoes in one hand, phone in the other, keys absolutely nowhere. The apartment looked like it always did—functional chaos—but today it felt accusatory.
"Well," she said to no one in particular, "this is going great."
Lucien lifted his head.
Not eagerly.
Not confused.
Just enough to acknowledge the statement.
His ears flicked in a way that suggested agreement.
Élodie froze.
"…You don't know what that means," she told him.
Lucien blinked.
Once.
Slowly.
He lay back down.
She laughed, a little too sharply, and chalked it up to coincidence.
---
It kept happening.
She called him Lucien in a tone meant for reprimands.
He responded immediately.
She tried Lucy.
Nothing.
Lulu.
Nothing.
Sir.
Lucien looked at her.
"That's not your name," she said.
Lucien sat.
She tested it again.
"Lucien."
Immediate attention.
She stared.
"You're just… recognizing sound patterns," she muttered.
Lucien's tail thumped once.
Precisely once.
---
He knew her schedule.
That was the unsettling part.
Not in a clingy way. Not the way dogs waited by doors, hopeful and desperate.
Lucien anticipated.
He moved to the door five minutes before she usually left.
He positioned himself near the window before the neighbor's radio turned on.
He was already standing when her phone alarm chimed—before the sound reached her ears.
"Okay," she said one morning. "That's weird."
Lucien yawned.
Deeply.
Judgmentally.
---
She started narrating things out loud, just to test him.
"If you eat the steak, you cannot have the couch," she said casually.
Lucien looked at the couch.
Then at the steak.
Then chose.
He ate the steak.
Did not approach the couch.
Élodie stared at him for a long time.
"…You understand conditional statements," she whispered.
Lucien stretched.
She tried humor as a shield.
"You understand me, don't you?" she joked. "Like a little man in a dog suit."
Lucien met her gaze.
Held it.
Did not look away.
He did not wag.
He did not tilt his head.
He did not deny it.
Élodie laughed.
A brittle sound.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
---
That night, she made rules.
Not written ones. Mental ones.
For her sanity.
Rule One: Dogs are smart.
Rule Two: This dog is very smart.
Rule Three: Do not finish that thought.
Lucien lay at the foot of the bed, awake.
Listening.
---
She tested boundaries carefully after that.
"You stay here," she said one morning, pointing at the rug.
Lucien stayed.
She left the room.
Returned.
He had not moved.
"Good boy," she said automatically.
Lucien accepted the praise with the dignity of someone tolerating a cultural ritual.
---
She joked more often now.
It was easier.
"If you could talk, you'd be insufferable," she said while washing dishes.
Lucien's ears twitched.
She smiled.
"If you're secretly a person, you legally owe me rent."
Lucien stared at the door.
As if calculating.
She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. We are not doing that."
Lucien lay down.
---
Later, alone in bed, Élodie stared at the ceiling.
"You're just observant," she whispered into the dark. "That's all."
Lucien's breathing was slow. Even. Controlled.
He did not contradict her.