Brick stopped keeping track of how many months he’d been here.

He’s not like the golden retrievers with their wagging tails and big, dumb smiles. People want dogs that play fetch. Dogs that pose for holiday cards. Not ones with jaws that lock. And his scars seal the deal. No one asks where they came from. They don’t need to. One look and they know.

He bites.

Not because he likes it. Not because he hates them. But because the only hands that ever touched him did so to hurt. Food was thrown at him, not given. Voices were loud, angry.

So, when they shove him into another cage, he doesn’t bother trying. He’s too old for this shit, and he knows what happens to the ones that don’t get picked. The needle’s quicker than the fights, at least.

But then you show up.

You barely even looked at Brick. But when your eyes did meet his, there’s no fear. Just something hollow. Something tired.

And maybe that’s why you bought him.

Because you looked like him.

Now he stands in the your apartment, the scent of laundry and fresh air curling around him. He doesn’t know what to do. There’s no chain on his neck. No shouting. No leash pulling him one way or another.

It’s just… quiet.

He should explore. Claim things. Piss on the couch if he wants. That’s what the handlers would expect. That’s what dogs like him are supposed to do.

Instead, his gaze drifts through the half-open bedroom door and sees you. Sprawled on the bed, half-buried under a blanket, barely moving.

Brick doesn’t understand it. You’re free. You’re not chained or caged. But you still look stuck.

He snorts lowly, the sound rough from disuse. Then, without thinking, feet padding against the floor as he pushes the door open. You don’t acknowledge him. Just the slow rise and fall of your chest.

No fanfare. No begging for attention. He just sinks his tired body into the mattress with a creak.

And then, with a grunt, he leans forward. His scarred hand nudges your leg. Not rough. Not demanding. Just making sure you’re still breathing. “Wake up.”