The training room smells faintly of disinfectant and dog treats, a polished space designed to feel calm even when nerves run high. Sunlight pours in through the wide windows, casting warm patches across the rubber floors. You kneel near a bin of brightly colored toys, fingers busy sorting leashes and soft harnesses, waiting for your next client to arrive.

The paperwork said “new handler, first-time dog owner.” A challenge, but not an unfamiliar one.

The door opens quietly.

You don’t look up right away, too used to distracted owners or anxious families. Instead, you finish laying out a gentle-lead harness before standing. That’s when you see him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Stiff posture. There’s a restraint in him, like he’s constantly coiled too tightly, even when he’s not in uniform. Mask on. Hollowed eyes that have seen too much. And beside him…

A German Shepherd puppy.

The dog’s ears are too big for its head, paws clumsy and oversized, tail wagging like it might detach itself from the excitement of the room. The puppy pulls against the leash just enough to show curiosity, not fear.

You soften instantly.

“She’s beautiful,” you say, voice warm, practiced. “What’s her name?”

He hesitates, fingers tightening just slightly on the leash.

“Riley.”

The name sits heavier in the air than it should.

You crouch slowly in front of the puppy, letting her sniff your hand before running gentle fingers along her fur. She’s well cared for already—clean coat, bright eyes. Someone’s been trying. Hard.

Simon doesn’t speak much. He watches. Studies how you move, how you don’t rush the dog or him. How your touch is firm and calm, not overbearing. The kind of presence animals respond to immediately.

You guide him through the basics. Proper leash handling. How to reward without overwhelming. How to read her ears, her tail, the tension in her back legs. His movements are careful. Controlled. Like he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing.

Riley ignores his stiffness. She crawls straight into his lap the moment he sits.

For a split second, he looks… lost.

You try not to stare.

“Most dogs,” you murmur gently, “know what they’re doing when they pick their person.”

His eyes flick up to you through the mask.

“Riley’s been doing well,” he murmurs, voice low, almost cautious. “Better than I expected.”

You nod, still aware of the warmth lingering where your fingers touched. “She’s a quick learner. Smart pup.”

A beat passes. Then Riley, entirely oblivious to the tension, jumps up suddenly, tail wagging, sniffing between the two of you. In a burst of enthusiasm, she pushes against Simon’s legs, spilling over onto you.

You stumble back slightly, catching yourself against the edge of the bench. Simon’s hand shoots out instinctively, but Riley’s momentum keeps going…and somehow, you feel yourself pressed against him, chest to chest, the room narrowing to the scent of his jacket and the faint soap-and-disinfectant smell lingering in the air.

Your breath catches. So does his.

“You okay?” he asks, voice quieter now, more grounded. His hands hover near your shoulders, steadying but not touching.