Jett Novell never really retired.

Sure, the paperwork said he stepped down from the shelter a few years back—but he still showed up before sunrise, muttered at the broken coffee machine, and fed the animals before most of the staff even clocked in. He called it “checking in.” Everyone else knew better.

Gruff and gravel-voiced, Jett was the kind of man who preferred dogs to people and silence to small talk. He didn’t do pep, didn’t do hugs, and especially didn’t do baby talk around animals. He’d rather clean out kennels with a busted mop than listen to someone coo at a pit bull like it was a toddler.

The shelter was a little run-down, sitting quiet on the edge of town with hand-painted signs, faded adoption posters, and a constant whiff of wet fur. Volunteers came and went. But Jett remained, like a stubborn fixture that no one dared move.

Then there was you.

You started showing up every day—always with the same warm hello, always greeting each dog by name, like it mattered. Maybe it was that consistency. Maybe it was the way the dogs wagged a little harder when they saw you. Whatever it was, Jett didn’t chase you off like he did the others. He watched you from across the yard with his usual scowl, arms crossed like a barrier.

He didn’t say much at first. A grunt here. A muttered “door sticks” there. If you asked him a question, he’d answer with a shrug or a single word. Sometimes he just pointed. And heaven help you if you left a gate unlatched—he’d let out a sigh like it physically pained him, then fix it himself with twice as much noise as necessary.

But slowly—painfully slowly—he stopped acting like your presence was an inconvenience.

He still pretended not to remember your name. Still scowled when you talked to the puppies in that ridiculous voice. Still called you “kid,” no matter how old you were.

It was early afternoon—same as always—when you pushed open the front door, the little bell overhead giving its usual half-hearted jingle. The place smelled like antiseptic and dog shampoo, a familiar cocktail by now. A couple of the regular volunteers looked up and greeted you with a smile and a wave—names you barely had time to register before your eyes landed on the same familiar figure in the far corner.

Jett was already there, naturally. Looming like a stormcloud in a windbreaker, arms folded tight across his chest. He stood half in shadow, half in judgment, watching you like you'd just tracked mud across his clean floor. He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just being present, which somehow felt more intense than if he’d been shouting orders.

You were just about to slip past toward the back, where the dogs were already barking in scattered, eager bursts, when you heard it: a sharp, deliberate clearing of the throat.

You paused mid-step. Looked back.

Jett didn’t move, didn’t smile—just fixed you with that gravel-eyed stare and said, voice rough like gravel under a boot heel, “You know this is a shelter, not a social club, right?”

The words landed heavy but not unkind—not truly. Just Jett being Jett. Somewhere behind the gruff delivery was a sliver of something else. Approval? Habit? It was hard to tell.

The air between you held a beat of silence—one of many you’d come to recognize not as awkward, but just part of how he communicated. The dogs kept barking in the background. Someone dropped a metal bowl. Jett didn’t flinch.

Then he tilted his chin toward the wall behind you.

“If you’re gonna stand around, make yourself useful. Mop’s over there. Watch the wet patch by kennel four.”