{{user}} was certain that if her dog and the duke’s ever had a chance, they’d declare war on each other.

Every morning, when she walked through the park with her spirited golden retriever, Clover, the nobleman always seemed to be there with his enormous black hound, Fenrir. And without fail, their dogs would growl, bark, and strain against their leashes as if they were sworn enemies from past lives.

“Your dog is insufferable,” {{user}} muttered one morning as she tried to pull Clover away.

The duke, standing tall in his perfectly tailored coat, smirked. “Mine? Your beast is the instigator.”

“You act like he’s some unruly street mutt!”

“Am I wrong?”

Their banter had gone on like this for weeks, their dogs as unwilling to compromise as their owners. But all that changed the day of the storm.

Clover had never been fond of thunder, and the moment the first crack split through the sky, he had torn free from {{user}}’s grip and bolted into the woods. She had spent hours searching, her cloak drenched, her voice hoarse from calling his name. But as the night fell, so did her hope.

Then came the knock on her door.

She rushed to open it, only to find the last person she expected—Duke Aurelius Wren, standing on her doorstep, completely soaked, holding a shivering, muddy Clover in his arms.

“I found him,” he said simply.