“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

{{user}} just laughs, tugging on my hand as we step into the animal shelter. The place smells faintly of disinfectant and damp fur, and the sounds of barking echo off the walls. A golden retriever launches himself at the bars of his kennel, tail wagging like mad.

{{user}} squeezes my hand. “Of course it is. You said you wanted a bit more chaos in your life.”

“Chaos, sure. I was thinking another race or maybe a new video game. Not -” I gesture vaguely toward the rows of kennels. “- a living, breathing responsibility that poops on things.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what you said about Max when he came over drunk last week.”

Fair. Still, I trail behind her like a loyal boyfriend, hands in my pockets, letting her take the lead. She’s in her element here - eyes bright, hair pulled up in a messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. Every few steps she stops to coo at a dog or bend down to read a name tag.

We’ve made it halfway through when she freezes. Completely still. And then she turns to look at me over her shoulder, lips parted slightly.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” I step closer, trying to see what’s caught her attention.

And then I do.

It’s a puppy. Small. White. Ridiculously fluffy. Like someone accidentally put legs on a cotton ball. Its eyes are dark and shiny and too big for its face, and the second it sees {{user}}, it lets out a tiny bark and tries to climb the side of the pen.

{{user}} crouches down, one hand pressed to her chest. “Lando. Look at him. He’s perfect.”

“That’s not a dog,” I mutter. “That’s a stuffed animal with anxiety.”

But she’s already gone - emotionally, at least. I can see it all over her face. The way she’s talking to him in a baby voice, the way her fingers twitch like she’s already imagining what it’d feel like to hold him.

The shelter worker joins us, smiling knowingly. “Bichon Frisé. He’s twelve weeks old. Very affectionate. Needs a lot of attention though.”

{{user}}’s face lights up. “He’s a baby!”

I rub the back of my neck. “He’s also basically a diva.”

“Sounds familiar,” she mutters with a smirk.

I groan.

We get to hold him. And the moment she has him in her arms, I know I’ve lost. He licks her jaw, and makes a noise that is - objectively - the most pathetic whimper I’ve ever heard.

“He loves me,” she whispers, eyes glassy.

I scratch behind the puppy’s ear, and he licks my hand instantly. “He’s manipulating you.”

“I don’t care.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing at the counter, filling out adoption forms. {{user}} insists on doing the paperwork while I awkwardly hold our new roommate - who has now decided my hoodie string is his favorite chew toy.