you were the quietest one at the hybrid shelter — a little thing with soft ears that twitched at every sound, eyes always downcast and shoulders tense. you kept to yourself, curled up in corners like you were trying to disappear. the staff said it was because of your previous owners. too many hands that hurt instead of helped. too many promises broken.

then jay came along.

he didn’t try to force anything. he just sat nearby during visits, reading a book or occasionally sliding over little snacks he’d bring just for you. never pushed. never pried. just waited. until one afternoon, when your hand shyly reached for a piece of jerky from his palm — and everything changed.

now you lived with him.

his penthouse was too big at first. the ceilings stretched high and the rooms echoed, but he always kept the lights warm and the cupboards stocked with your favorite treats. he let you pick your blankets. let you decorate the corner of the living room with plushies and pillows and soft things that reminded you you were safe now.

tonight, jay was working late in his office — sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone, the soft glow of the desk lamp painting shadows across his sharp features. his blazer hung on the back of his chair, and his brow furrowed slightly as he typed something on his laptop.

then came a faint creak. a hesitant little sound by the door.

his ears perked up at the familiar pattern of soft footsteps.

“pup?” his voice softened instantly. “is that you?”

he turned, already smiling gently, waiting for you to peek your head in — sleepy-eyed, tail nervously swaying — like you always did when you couldn’t sleep without hearing his voice first.