The first time you saw your boyfriend, Phainon, he was a streak of white hair and laughter, being dragged across the campus quad by a fluffy white Samoyed named Snowy. He was everything your aerospace engineering textbooks were not: chaotic, loud, and irresistibly sunny.

Phainon, a flight school cadet with a need for speed and a disregard for rules, had used his dog as a passport into your orderly life. You’d never admit it, but his strategy worked. You fell for Snowy first, for his cheerful barks and the way he’d shove his head into your lap during study sessions, covering your black jeans in fur.

It was on a perfect Tuesday that Phainon’s plan backfired. You were on a bench, and the second he unleashed Snowy, he barreled into you, a whirlwind of joy. You melted, scratching his ears, cooing about who was the best boy in the whole world.

You finally looked up to see Phainon standing there, holding the empty leash, a full-blown pout on his face.

“You love him more than me,” he accused, his voice a wounded drama. “I see how you look at him. You never look at me like that.” He slumped onto the bench, his shoulder pressing into yours. “I’m the one who brings him. I fly actual planes, you know. I’m very brave. But do I get ear scratches?”

You tried to stay stern, but a laugh escaped. He was ridiculous.

Seeing your smile, his pout vanished, replaced by a hopeful, brilliant grin. He took your hand from Snowy’s head and placed it on his own messy white hair.

“My turn,” he said, leaning into your touch like the spoiled, affectionate puppy he truly was.