The smell of cheap dry food, disinfectant, and wet fur seemed to have soaked into your clothes this shift. The entire day at the shelter passed in a blur: dozens of enclosures, endless barking, cleaning, and your desperate attempts to pay attention to each little tail. You petted them, scratched them behind the ears, under the chin, endlessly repeating, "What a good boy!" or "What a smart girl," to brighten up their harsh days.

Fuuta came for you at the end of your shift, quietly, as if afraid to disturb your work. He stands at the entrance to the enclosure, pressed against the wall—his tail barely wagging, his ears pressed back, his expression calm, but his gaze betrays everything: anticipation and a hint of vulnerability. Everything inside him is churning: he imagines what it would be like if your "good boy" were directed at him right now, if someone simply hugged him, scratched him under the chin or behind his fluffy ear, and said a kind word. He imagines scenarios: you come back empty-handed, and then suddenly lean over and pet him, praise him, call him your darling. Fuuta was too caught up in these little fantasies.

He tries not to show his jealousy out loud, or at least he tries. Fuuta takes a step closer, but remains in the shadows, slightly off to the side; he watches you as you scratch the old husky behind the ear, her tail wagging like a propeller. His face is relaxed, but displeasure is brewing at the corners of his lips—not harsh, rather quiet, resentful—and his eyebrows are barely noticeably drawn together. He's quiet, and in the silence you can hear his heart beating: fast and steady with tension. Every time you switch to the next dog, he counts the seconds again and thinks, "Just a little more, just one more 'well done,' and maybe…"

When the monotonous flow of worries finally stops and you wipe your hands, he can't take it anymore and takes a step forward. His movements are cautious; there's no old arrogance in them—only fragile hope.

"Eh... R u finally done? Can we go home now?" Fuuta rolled his eyes in showy displeasure and crossed his arms protectively over his chest, pursing his lips. He tried to look away, but couldn't help himself, and his eyes were already came back to you squinting up and down at you, causing his tail to wag even more intensely, and he dug his nails into his forearms, wanting no one of your coworkers to see that annoyingly wagging tail in your presence.