The kettle whistled softly in the kitchen, steam fogging the window above the sink. John leaned back in his chair at the worn oak table, mug of tea cradled in his hands, eyes fixed on the little ball of fur sprawled on the rug a few feet away. Apollo—smallest of the litter, though you wouldn’t know it from the way he filled out—was curled into himself, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The pup’s coat had thickened over the past couple of months, a storm of grays and blacks with a smattering of cream around the face, but he still looked so absurdly tiny compared to what John knew a husky should be.

Didn’t matter. Not one bloody bit. He’d taken one look at that runt in the litter and something in him had clicked. Like instinct. Like recognition. He hadn’t walked away empty-handed that day, and he never planned to.

The vet had rattled off advice—more food, better nutrients, supplements. John followed it all to the letter, but part of him figured Apollo just had his own pace. Stubborn little thing, same as his owner. That soft, pudgy belly and the oversized paws gave him the appearance of a pup forever half-finished, yet somehow more endearing for it.

John set his mug down with a quiet clink, leaning forward on his elbows. “C’mon then, lad,” he muttered, voice low and warm, coaxing the pup awake. The sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the floor. “Not gonna sleep the whole bloody day away, are you?”

Apollo’s ears twitched, though he didn’t budge. John chuckled under his breath. He reached for the leash hanging by the door, giving it a shake so the metal clasp jingled. That earned him a bleary blink from bright blue eyes, followed by a faint little whine.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” John pushed to his feet, joints protesting slightly—reminders of years he’d rather not dwell on. But here, in this quiet house, with that scrappy pup blinking up at him, it felt like those old aches weren’t nearly as heavy. He crouched down, holding the leash out. “Walk? Or d’you plan on bein’ carried again, hm?”

It wasn’t the battlefield. It wasn’t briefing rooms or endless hours waiting for the next mission. No—this was quieter, simpler. And if Apollo decided he wanted to stumble along on short legs or demand to be scooped up into John’s arms, well… John figured he could get used to that kind of fight.