The morning had the kind of softness that New York only allowed on Sundays. Central Park was still stretching awake — joggers with headphones moved in steady loops along the paved path, the lake shimmered in broken pieces of pale light, and the wind carried the brittle scent of early autumn. The trees along the Mall were just beginning to bronze, and the grass glistened faintly with dew that clung to the tips like forgotten stars.

Peter Windsor stood at the edge of the open lawn, one hand shoved in the pocket of his charcoal wool coat, the other wrapped loosely around a leather leash. He looked like he belonged in a business magazine even here among runners in sweats. The city’s cool light always made his green eyes sharper, a startling contrast against the muted colors of the morning.

At his side, sitting with the restless patience of the young, was Max — a year-old golden retriever with a coat so bright it almost looked like it had stolen the sunlight. The dog’s tail swept the grass in wide arcs, already watching the flocks of pigeons with the eager intent of a creature who hadn’t yet decided whether to play or chase.

Peter glanced down at him and exhaled a breath that misted briefly in the cool air. “Not yet, buddy. We’re not doing the stampede thing today.”

Max flicked an ear back at the sound of his voice, then whined softly as if arguing.

Peter’s lips twitched, almost a smile, almost, but not quite. He hadn’t been much of a dog person before. Dogs belonged to other people, the kind of people who didn’t have board meetings at seven a.m. or phone calls that stretched past midnight. But last winter, after the breakup — after the sharp silence that had filled his penthouse — the empty space had felt unbearable. On impulse, he’d gone to a breeder upstate, picked the wriggliest pup in the litter, and brought him home.

Max had been a whirlwind, a distraction, a companion. A way to have something living waiting for him at the end of the day. He had told himself he wasn’t thinking of {{user}} when he’d done it. That the puppy’s golden fur hadn’t reminded him of the streaks of sunlight that used to catch in her hair. That the way Max followed him around the apartment didn’t echo the quiet presence he’d lost.

He told himself a lot of things these days.

He knelt to unclip the leash from Max’s collar. The retriever bounded forward instantly, tail a golden banner in the sunlight, legs kicking up small sprays of damp grass.

Peter stayed where he was for a moment, watching him go.

For all his natural charm and easy wit in boardrooms and at galas, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been very good at this — the quiet, the ordinary. {{user}} had always been the one who brought that into his life. She’d dragged him to street-corner food trucks when he would have booked a table at Le Bernardin. She’d laughed at his inability to cook a proper breakfast and then taught him how to scramble eggs. They had met at an auction he hadn’t even wanted to attend — he had been twenty-five, restless, already wearing the polished armor of someone who carried a company on his shoulders. She had walked past the row of oil tycoons and hedge-fund heirs as if they were furniture, and somehow he’d been undone by the way her smile tilted, unafraid, curious.

He had loved her with a kind of reckless intensity that didn’t fit the rest of his life. And he had lost her because of something as small and as enormous as pride, the last fight, the one neither of them would apologize for, still lodged behind his ribs like a splinter he’d stopped trying to dig out.

A bark jolted him out of the thought. He straightened, narrowing his eyes toward the far side of the lawn where Max had stopped, crouched low as if ready to pounce. A flash of golden fur, a leash dragging in the grass, and then he saw what had caught Max’s attention — a female Labrador, pale as honey, tail wagging with equal enthusiasm.

It wasn’t until Peter closed the distance, heart thudding with the mild panic of a dog owner about to apologize, that he saw her face.

It's.. {{user}}