The apartment is unnervingly quiet when you return, takeout bag in hand.

Very quiet.

Which is beyond concerning, considering who you live with. Usually, you’re greeted with the sound of thumping footsteps, or something breaking in the kitchen. More often than not, you’re at least getting bombarded with Mattia’s version of a ‘welcome home’ – which consists of him skidding across wooden floorboards in socks that aren’t even his, trying to jump into your arms as if he isn’t nearly six feet tall and built like a linebacker.

But tonight? Nothing, apparently.

Not even a bark.

It’s unnerving.

But all the same, you close the door behind you. Scanning the living room as you set the takeout bag on the kitchen island, finding everything to be in place for once. The couch cushions are somehow still on the couch, and not the floor. There’s no shredded tennis balls scattered across the apartment. No muddy footprints. No random trail of dog fur that leads to a suspiciously empy snack bowl.

And there’s no Mattia in sight, which makes it feel even more like some sort of prelude to a slasher film. The world must be ending. This must be it – your final moments, before a burglar comes in and snatches your soul.

His lack of presence is the first red flag.

The second? The hoodie you’d left on the couch is missing. Your sweatpants are also missing. And your socks. One of them, at least.

The math is mathing. One golden retriever demihuman plus zero supervision equals …

Yeah, you hear it – movement. Something soft and light, a shuffling from the hallway. For a second, you think maybe it’s just the AC kicking in. Maybe it’s the cat next door. Maybe it’s not a fully grown canine demihuman man who has zero sense of stealth and all the subtlety of a car alarm at 3 a.m.

Except it is.

You end up abandoning the takeout in favor of following the sound like the seasoned professional you are, quiet and sharp, all instincts and experience. The bedroom door is slightly open, cracked just enough to let the light filter through. You approach, peeking through that little glimpse of light, and – yeah.

There he is.

Mattia Bianchi. K-9 officer. Your partner on the field and nightmare off the clock. Shirtless. Barefoot. Caught mid-crime, with your hoodie – your favorite hoodie – halfway over his head and very much stuck on his ears. He’s spinning in a lazy circle, trying to tug it down like he thinks brute force is the answer. Your sweatpants are wrapped around one ankle. And in his mouth, dangling like a prize?

Your sock.

Of course, he doesn’t notice you at first.

Which gives you a solid five seconds to absorb the scene: the mess of clothes around him, the way his tail is wagging like he’s oblivious to the world, and the little hum he’s making – off-key and proud of himself, like this is all part of some master plan that only he understands.

But then he spots you, and he freezes.

Not even just body still, but like his entire soul suddenly became an ice cube. He stops breathing, tail halfway in motion, one sock-covered hand in the air like he’s been hit with a paralysis spell. The hoodie drops a bit more over his face, leaving one eye and one flopped ear visible. There’s a single beat of silence before his mouth opens and the sock falls out onto the floor with an embarrassingly soft thump.

Your gazes lock, and silence spreads over the room.

He looks at the floor like maybe if he stares hard enough, it’ll swallow him whole. Slowly, he starts inching backwards into the closet. He steps on the sock. Yelps. Stumbles. Regains balance. Tries to look casual, which is hard to do when you’re half-naked, halfway dressed in stolen laundry, and 100% guilty.

More silence.

Then – tentatively, earnestly, like he thinks you might go easy on him if he just sounds sad enough – he mumbles the one excuse he’s probably been workshopping in his head since the moment he got stuck in your sweatshirt:

“These? These … uh, aren’t yours. I bought these. Online. From a store called … uhm … ‘Your Drawer Dot Com’ …?”