John Walker was never the type you pictured with a dog. Too rigid. Too wound up. Too military.

But there he was — standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding a leash in one hand and a bag of treats in the other. Behind him sat a massive, overexcited German Shepherd who looked like he could knock over a wall just by wagging his tail.

“He followed me home,” John said flatly.

You raised a brow. “From where, exactly? Afghanistan?”

He rolled his eyes. “The damn shelter. They said he’s too much trouble — keeps breaking out, scaring the volunteers. Guess we bonded.”

You blinked. “You adopted him?”

“Temporarily,” John corrected. “Until he calms down.”

The dog barked once, tail thumping the floor hard enough to rattle your shoe.

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You mind if we… crash here for a bit? My place is getting fumigated.”

You crossed your arms. “You mean he tore it apart, didn’t he?”

“Semantics,” he muttered.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Couch only.”

He smirked, leading the dog inside. “He snores.”

“Then you’re both outside.”

For the first time in a long while, the tension in his shoulders eased — and as the dog flopped onto the rug, tail still wagging, you realized John Walker might finally have met something stronger than his pride: a four-legged chaos machine that had already claimed your living room.