Benjamin had been hanging around your place more and more since he got out. He never said why — never asked if he could come by, either — just showed up like a storm cloud with broad shoulders and cigarette smoke. You didn’t press it. You figured maybe the quiet, the normalcy, was something he couldn’t find anywhere else.

That night was no different. You heard the heavy thud of his boots on your porch, the faint scrape of him shifting his weight as if he wasn’t sure whether to knock or not. With a sigh, you swung open the door — half expecting the usual grumpy scowl, some sarcastic remark about how long you took.

Ben stood there, hair messy, jacket smelling faintly of the city. And at his feet, staring up at you with wide, shining eyes, was a tiny mutt with a tail wagging so hard it looked like it might snap off.

He scoffed, the corner of his mouth curling in disbelief. “Little bastard’s been followin’ me for blocks. Tried yellin’ at it, even tossed a rock near its ass. Still here. Clingy son of a bitch.”