You were in the park, half-distracted, sipping your drink while your Samoyed — your spoiled, cloud-colored menace of a dog — flopped on the grass like she paid rent there. People passed. The sky was soft and gray. Quiet enough to feel like a Sunday, even if it wasn’t.

Then you saw him.

Well—you didn’t. Your dog did.

A German Shepherd, broad-shouldered and all muscle, came trotting toward her with the kind of confidence only working dogs and men in suits have. No leash. No hesitation. Just locked eyes with your dog like they’d already made a pact.

Your Samoyed blinked, let out a gentle “woo,” and lifted her paw like a princess greeting a commoner.

You stood up quickly, scanning the path he came from— And then you saw him.

Tall. Broad. Dark uniform. The kind of face that looked carved more than grown. His boots hit the path like he wasn’t in a rush, but still meant business. And his eyes—God—his eyes looked straight at you like you were the one off-leash.

“Dante,” he said, voice low and cool. “Heel.”

The Shepherd didn’t listen.

Your Samoyed rolled over onto her back like she’d just found the love of her life.