The dog wasn’t even supposed to follow you home. But somewhere between the rooftop scuffle and the corner bodega, the muddy little thing had imprinted on you—and Conner. Now it was curled up between you both in your living room, tail thumping lazily against Conner’s thigh as he glared half-heartedly at it. There was fur on the couch, a chewed-up slipper in the corner, and the remnants of a half-argued debate over whether to name it Taco or Justice. Neither of you had won. Yet.

Conner leaned back, arms stretched over the top of the couch like he wasn’t settling in, even though he clearly was. He watched the dog for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to you. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, his voice a little too casual, “this is your problem. I’m just… supervising.” But he hadn’t missed a single evening since the mutt showed up. He brought snacks, toys, even a leash—“for emergencies,” he claimed. The kind of emergencies that suspiciously always happened around dinner.

It wasn’t just about the dog, and you both knew it. The silence you shared was comfortable now, thick with unspoken inside jokes and lingering glances you didn’t push. Outside, the world still spun fast. But in here, time slowed just enough for something gentle to grow—beneath the growls and fur, beside the takeout containers and shared responsibility. And when the dog whined in its sleep and nudged Conner’s hand, he sighed, rolling his eyes like a man defeated. “Fine. Maybe I’m like… ten percent invested.”