You’d been holding onto the secret for days now.

Ever since she let it slip—so casual, like it didn’t matter—that she’d always wanted a dog. A real one. “A stupid, fluffy one,” she’d said, half-joking, her cheek resting against your shoulder on the couch. “One that does nothing except want pets and chew furniture. One that doesn’t explode or need a command to sit.”

It had stuck in your chest.

So, you made it happen.

After a long shift, your jacket still carrying the scent of cheap beer and city grime, you drove two hours out of town. You met her at the shelter—She didn’t bark. Didn’t jump. Just sat there and stared at you like she already knew this was meant to happen.

You named her Fanny before you even signed the adoption papers.

By the time you got home, night had settled in. The hallway light was dim. Yelena’s boots were by the door, her jacket draped messily across a chair. Somewhere in the apartment, you heard muffled music and the soft, frustrated hiss of her muttering in Russian—probably about another burned attempt at American food.

You keyed the door open.

“Yelena?” you called, voice quiet but warm. Fanny padded in behind you, nails soft against the floorboards.

There was a pause. Then the creak of footsteps.

Yelena stepped into view, wearing a tank top and flannel pajama pants, her hair messy from a towel-dry. She blinked at the large figure standing next to you. Then blinked again.

She froze.

“Блядь… что за херня?” she breathed. (Bl’yad… chto za khernya? – Fck… what the hell?)

You bit back a smile. “Language.”

She turned to you slowly, still staring at the dog. “You brought home a bear. A furry bear.”

“She’s a dog. Technically.”

“Technically, she’s a sofa with legs,” Yelena muttered, but she knelt anyway, hand outstretched.

Fanny trotted up and gently pressed her nose to Yelena’s palm. Her tail wagged once, then again. Yelena’s mouth opened like she was about to speak—but no sound came out. She stared at the dog, completely still, then whispered:

“Сука…” (Suka – Sh1t/Btch – depending on context, more like “Holy sh1t” here.)

You laughed. “That one I know.”

Yelena looked up at you with wide eyes. “She’s really mine?”

“She’s yours. Ours, but—yeah. Yours.”

She swallowed hard, suddenly quiet. Then, as Fanny nudged her head under Yelena’s hand, the blonde let out a soft, unguarded laugh. Her fingers slid through thick fur like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I love her,” she whispered.