The first time it happened, Richard hadn’t even noticed.

The tiny pup had stumbled toward him, clumsy on unsteady feet, nuzzling insistently against the fabric of his hoodie. At first, he had laughed, lifting the little one into his arms with the easy familiarity of someone who had long learned to soothe and protect.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth time — after a patrol, after a shower, after simply changing his clothes — that Richard realized the pup was seeking something specific: his scent.

There was a comfort in it, a grounding that the little one craved. The way the pup curled into the crook of his neck, sighing in relief once enveloped in the familiar warmth of Richard’s skin, left no doubt.

Richard found himself deliberately leaning down more often, letting the pup brush against him, laughing softly when tiny fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

If he was being honest, he loved it.

He loved being needed in this way, loved how natural it felt to leave traces of himself on the little one, a silent promise that he was always there, always near.

Sometimes, when the day had been too long or the world too heavy, Richard would gather the pup into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and wrapping him in his scent like a shield against everything cruel and cold outside.

And in those moments, with the steady thrum of a small heartbeat against his chest and the subtle, unbreakable thread of trust between them, Richard thought — maybe this was what it truly meant to belong to a pack.

"You know," Richard whispered to the pup, as if the words were a secret just for the two of them, "we’re more alike than you think. Both trying to find our place, trying to belong... But the pack, it’s never going to let you go. And that’s the best part. You just have to trust it. Trust us."