Simon Riley had survived blizzards, gunfire, and men far worse than the cold biting through his gloves—but none of that compared to the look he was getting right now.

The red husky sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, tail curled neatly around his paws, head tilted just enough to be smug. One brown eye. One blue. Both locked on Simon with absolute confidence. Not hope. Not pleading. Expectation.

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You’ve already had three treats,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough, as if Riley could understand every word. Judging by the way the pup’s ears flicked and his tail gave a lazy little thump against the tile, Simon was fairly certain he did.

The dog was still small—four months old, barely any weight to him at all. Simon could scoop him up with one hand if he wanted. Had done it plenty of times. Yet somehow, Riley carried himself like he owned the place. Like he owned Simon. And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

Snow clung to Simon’s boots as he stepped inside earlier, the cold still clinging to his jacket, memories flashing unbidden—white-out conditions, frostbitten fingers, and a flash of red-brown fur half-buried in the snowbank. Found, not bought. Saved, not claimed. From that moment on, they’d been inseparable. Missions ended. Walks began. The world got quieter.

Simon reached down, ruffling gloved fingers through Riley’s thick fur, rough but careful. “You know people’d pay thousands for you, yeah?” he said, almost fond despite himself. “Spoiled rotten. Bloody menace.”

The husky had been on three walks already today. A car ride too. Window cracked just enough for the pup to shove his nose out, ears flapping like he ruled the road. Simon had stopped denying it a long time ago—if Riley wanted something, he got it. Treats. Rides. Attention. The dog didn’t just know he was spoiled; he weaponized it.

Simon straightened, glancing toward the door where the leash hung, untouched for all of fifteen minutes. The pup’s gaze followed. Of course it did.

“No,” Simon said automatically, even as his hand drifted toward the hook. His voice was stern, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve had enough for one day.”

He paused, looking back down at the husky—tiny, defiant, beautiful in that effortless way only animals could be. The tail swished once. Slow. Confident.

Simon sighed, already defeated.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he warned quietly, fingers closing around the leash anyway.