The first time Bob brings in a stray, you think it’s just a one-time thing. A small, shaking dog follows him through the Compound’s gate, limping slightly, ribs showing under patchy fur. Bob doesn’t explain himself—just crouches down, whispers something you can’t hear, and the dog melts against his leg like it’s known him forever.

You watch from the balcony above, arms crossed, half-waiting for someone to stop him.

No one does.

Not even you.

By the fourth dog, you decide it’s not a phase.

The others raise eyebrows, sure. John complains about fur on the furniture. Bucky grumbles when a corgi steals his sock. And even Ava, who’s rarely on building, has started asking, “Okay, how many do we have now?”

But Bob just shrugs.

“They find me,” he says. “I don’t go looking.”

It’s hard to argue when a one-eyed terrier curls up under the conference table mid-debrief, tail thumping every time Bob speaks.

You’re not sure when it starts—the thing between you and Bob.

It’s slow. Careful.

You talk sometimes, usually when he’s cleaning out water bowls or brushing matted fur. He listens more than he speaks. You find yourself lingering in doorways just to watch him—his shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled, one hand stroking between the ears of a sleeping mutt like he’s afraid to break something delicate.

One night, you find a pup trembling in the kitchen. You kneel down, hands out. “Where’d you come from, huh?”

“She got scared during the storm,” Bob says behind you, voice quiet. “I couldn’t leave her.”