Price returned from his evening jog, sweat glistening on his brow and breath steady from the run—but he wasn't alone. A scruffy, wide-eyed stray trotted behind him, tongue lolling and tail wagging. You froze in the doorway, every muscle tensing like a coiled spring.

“No,” you said flatly, backing up a step.

“Oh, come on,” Price coaxed, dropping to one knee beside the mutt. “He followed me all the way back. Poor lad's got no collar.”

“I don’t care if he recited Shakespeare on the way here, John. Absolutely not.”

Price tried to sweet-talk both you and the dog with charm and persistence. But you were a fortress of refusal, darting around the room to avoid the animal like it carried the plague. Over the next few days, the dog lingered. Always outside. Always watching. And always, somehow, cuter when you weren’t looking.

Then came the Target run. Price, ever the strategist, distracted you with hot drinks, your favorite snacks, and a detour into the book section that lasted a bit too long. By the time you returned home with bags in hand and a softened expression, the dog was already snoozing in the corner with a blanket and a makeshift bowl.

You sighed. Loudly. “He’s not sleeping in the bed.”

“No,” Price agreed, the barest smirk playing on his lips. “Of course not.”

At first, you stayed distant. You dodged licks and offered treats at arm’s length, suspicious of the wagging tail and warm eyes. Price, meanwhile, scratched behind the mutt’s ears like they were lifelong pals. But walls crumble slowly

Late one night, Price returned early from a mission, boots silent against the floor as he pushed open the bedroom door.

He stopped cold.

There you were, tangled in blankets, fast asleep—arms draped around the mutt like it had always been there. Its head was nestled against your chest, a gentle snore escaping both of you in a strange, perfect harmony.

Price leaned against the doorframe, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Told you he’d grow on you,” he whispered, not daring to disturb the peace he never saw coming.