Dean was already halfway through his second lap around the park when he spotted it — that obnoxiously fluffy blur barreling toward him at full speed. And right behind it, of course, was your unmistakable silhouette, moving with the weary grace of someone who knew this scene far too well. He bent down, letting his dog, Bones, drop the stolen tennis ball at his feet with a slobbery thud.

“Great,” Dean muttered, wiping his hand on his jeans before glancing your way. “Your little gremlin’s back to rob us blind.” He tossed the ball lazily, his tone casual, but the edge of irritation wasn’t hard to catch. “You ever consider leash training? Or do you just let ‘em freelance emotional damage?” He smirked, but Bones was already play-bowing to your dog like they were lifelong soulmates. “Figures. Mine’s got better taste in company than I do.”