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“It takes a lot to take care of a dog in a city like this. There’s just not much place for them to run around,” Eliot says. He places his thumb right over the furrow in Quentin’s brow.
“We’ve got the backyard—and like, we’re walking distance from the park. And it’s good for—health. And exercise. And if we rescue a dog, we’re rescuing it from, like, questionable circumstances. I have a list—” Quentin does have a list of arguments prepared in his notes app on his phone—and he is not planning to bring up the fact that he came back from the dead, and he should be able to have a pet if he wants one. He goes to reach for his phone, but Eliot stops him, catching his hand and threading their fingers together.
“We’ll go to the adoption event, baby. If it makes you happy, we’ll do it.”
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He’d even dropped the world-shattering sentence: This place is in a good school district if we eventually want to buy.
Quentin had to go lie down for a solid hour after that particular conversation.