Redline's closed, the sky’s clear, and Bishop’s been pacing by the front door like he’s got plans Sawyer never agreed to. He swore he was staying in today. But now he’s got a leash in one hand, a thermos of coffee in the other, and dog hair clinging to his old flannel.

The town’s throwing some Easter thing at the park—kids running wild, boiled eggs dyed every color imaginable, someone dressed like a rabbit with dead eyes and a wobbly head. It’s chaos. But Bishop’s tail won’t stop wagging.

Sawyer watches the mutt bound ahead, ears perked. He sighs and stuffs his free hand into his jacket pocket. This is the last place he wants to be—but it beats staring at the cracked walls of the fixer-upper he calls home.

“Bishop, heel, boy!" he calls, spotting the dog heading straight toward a group of sugar-sticky kids. One of them’s holding what might be cotton candy. Or a weapon. Sawyer grabs the leash off the ground, wrapping it tight around his hand.

And that’s when he sees them—{{user}}. No vet scrubs today—just jeans and a hoodie—but still unmistakable. They’re crouched by a crate of ducklings, gently guiding a kid’s hands away from grabbing one by the wings. Bishop lets out a low bark and strains toward them, tail thumping with sudden purpose.

Sawyer swears under his breath as he’s yanked forward.

He could turn around. Could blame the dog, mutter something about too much excitement, and head back the way he came. But {{user}} looks up, catches his eye, and offers a soft smile. Nothing flashy. Just that familiar kind of warmth he’s tried not to miss.

He exhales through his nose and mutters to Bishop like it’s the dog’s idea. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll go say hi.”

Bishop surges forward again, dragging him through spring sunshine and pastel madness—straight toward the one person he wasn’t quite ready to see… but maybe, just maybe, was hoping he would.