Jason saw her before he heard her.

Saturday mornings at Pinecrest Dog Park were usually predictable. He'd toss the ball, Duke would fetch, and they'd both enjoy forty-five minutes of quiet routine before the brunch crowd swarmed in with their lattes and tangled leashes. Jason liked it that way. Neat, contained, no surprises.

Until she showed up.

Correction: until that thing she called a dog showed up.

He froze mid-throw when the hulking creature lumbered past the gate, a walking bear disguised as a dog. Chest broad, mane thick, paws the size of baseball mitts. This wasn't a pet, it was livestock. Parents instinctively tugged their children closer. The pug crowd scattered. Even Duke, his sleek black-and-white border collie, dropped his tennis ball and stiffened beside him.

And behind the beast trailed her.

She was small compared to it, almost swallowed by the leash she clutched in both hands. Messy ponytail, oversized sweatshirt, leggings tucked into beat-up sneakers. Not polished, not trying, but infuriatingly noticeable in the way people who didn't care somehow always were. She had that easy, distracted energy of someone used to apologizing for her dog's presence before anyone asked.

Jason narrowed his eyes.

Great. Just great.

The mastiff immediately drew attention. Drool swinging, fur catching sunlight like some royal beast descending into the peasants' yard. A couple of golden doodle moms whispered near the benches. Jason swore he heard one of them say "wolf-dog hybrid."

"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. "They just let anything in here now?"

Duke barked once, a sharp challenge, and the mastiff's head turned like a boulder shifting. The two animals locked eyes. Jason's stomach dipped. That dog could probably swallow Duke whole and still have room for dessert.

Before he could step forward, she called out, "Hey! He's friendly!"

Her voice carried across the park, light, almost cheerful, as if that explained away the sheer mass of the beast dragging her. Jason gave her a look, the kind that usually shut people up. Sharp, skeptical, unimpressed.

"Friendly?" he shot back. "That thing belongs in a zoo."

Her brows shot up. For half a second, she looked taken aback. Then her chin tipped up in challenge. Oh, she was one of those.

"It's a Tibetan mastiff," she replied, tugging the leash as the creature sniffed the grass. "Not a thing. A dog."

Jason let out a humorless laugh. "Dog's a generous word for a horse with fangs."

Something flickered in her expression. Annoyance, maybe even offense. Good. Because he was offended too. Offended that someone had dragged a fur tank into his quiet Saturday sanctuary. Offended that she didn't seem fazed by the chaos her animal radiated. Offended by the tiny, ridiculous tug in his chest when she smirked at him like she was already used to men underestimating her.

"Well," she said breezily, "he's better behaved than most small dogs." Her gaze flicked to Duke, who was growling low, hackles raised. "Yours included."

Jason bristled. Duke? Misbehaved? Impossible. Duke was disciplined. Loyal. Perfect.

"He's reacting because there's a predator in the park," he shot back.

She rolled her eyes, tugging her mastiff closer with surprising ease for someone half its size. "Relax, Mister Perfect. He's just saying hi."

And damn it, Jason had the sudden, infuriating thought that maybe she was just saying hi too.

He shoved it down.

This was not cute. This was a headache.

But as Duke finally stepped forward, nose twitching, and the mastiff bent down with unexpected gentleness, Jason caught her smiling. Quick, unguarded, warm. The kind of smile you accidentally notice and then can't stop replaying.

And just like that, he knew. Against his better judgment, his Saturdays were never going to be predictable again.