It had been months since Johnny MacTavish—the loud, irrepressible Scot who wore his heart on his tongue and his mohawk like a battle standard—was laid to rest.

The funeral had been a quiet thing, just a handful of people gathered in the Highlands beneath a sky bruised purple and gold. The wind there tasted of autumn and salt, and carried away the ashes of a soldier who had once laughed like nothing could touch him, and fought like everything was worth saving.

Afterward, the world seemed drained of color. Days bled into each other, time running viscous and slow, until it felt like you were treading water in grief’s undertow.

And Simon… Simon fell hard.

He’d always been a man who kept his scars buried beneath layers of silence, but Johnny’s death had cut deeper than shrapnel ever could. You’d caught him when his knees gave out the day the final call came through, arms locked tight around his shaking frame as he tried to hide his face in your shoulder.

Since then, you’d dragged him from one therapist to another, clinging to hope that maybe someone—anyone—could coax him into speaking about the shadows devouring him from the inside out. But Simon would only sit there, still as stone, eyes flat and distant beneath the heavy brow of his skull mask, his voice locked behind his teeth.

Nothing worked.

You consulted doctors, desperate to learn how to help a man who refused to be helped. You spent sleepless nights scrolling through forums and research articles, eyes burning as you read stranger after stranger recounting the same helpless ache.

Then one night, in the hush between midnight and dawn, you stumbled on a page about animals—how sometimes a creature who couldn’t speak a word could reach places in the human soul no therapist could touch. A different kind of therapy. A different kind of understanding.

The thought lingered.

Especially because you remembered the rare light in Simon’s eyes when he talked about the K9 units. The way his voice softened when he recalled the dogs he’d worked beside—fierce, loyal creatures who’d once been his only certainty in a world of chaos.

So you dug deeper. And that’s when you found it: a site listing retired military working dogs in need of homes.

And there he was—a Belgian Malinois named Teddy, as though fate itself had chosen him for you. His handler had retired, and he was waiting for someone to bring him home. The dog’s amber eyes stared into the camera, sharp and searching.

You didn’t hesitate. You made the calls. Signed the forms. Arranged the transport.

And then, one soft grey morning, you brought Teddy home.

Simon was sitting on the sofa, shoulders hunched forward, mask off but his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hood. A mug of tea rested on the coffee table, untouched and long since gone cold.

“Simon?” you called gently from the hall.

He looked up, bleary and guarded. You stepped aside.

Teddy padded in beside you, lean and powerful, black-tipped ears flicking forward as he scented the air. He paused, head tilted, then walked straight over to Simon and sat down in front of him, tail sweeping the rug.

For a moment, Simon simply stared, lips parting in a breath that seemed caught halfway between disbelief and fear. Then Teddy leaned in and pressed his nose against Simon’s knee.

Something broke.

Simon dropped both hands to the dog’s fur, fingers tangling in the coarse coat, gripping as though it might anchor him to the earth. His chest hitched on a shuddering inhale, eyes squeezing shut as Teddy licked a slow, careful swipe across the back of his wrist.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply watched as Simon buried his face into the Malinois’s neck, his shoulders trembling with the weight of everything he’d been holding back for months. And Teddy just stayed there, silent and steadfast, the way soldiers do when they know the man beside them needs them most.

And for the first time since autumn fell and took Johnny with it, you saw a flicker of something alive return to Simon’s eyes.

Not whole. Not healed.

But beginning.