The clinic was quieting down for the evening, that golden hour lull where the hum of fluorescent lights seemed louder than the distant sounds of traffic outside. Hirugami sat at his desk, finishing the last of his notes for the day, a half-drained cup of tea growing cold beside him. Ten minutes until his shift ended—just enough time to tidy his papers, change out of scrubs, and head home to the steady quiet he’d come to appreciate after long days of exams and surgeries.

The intercom crackled softly, and the receptionist’s cheerful voice broke through, “Doctor Hirugami, one last visitor. I’m sending them in now.”

His brows furrowed. That wasn’t unusual for an emergency case, but there had been no frantic phone call, no rustle of paws against the tile in the waiting area. He straightened slightly in his chair, puzzled, when the door swung open.

Instead of a nervous owner with a trembling pet, in strode Hoshiumi Kōrai—still faintly flushed from practice, his hair sticking out more rebelliously than usual, gym bag slung over one shoulder. The Schweiden Adlers logo gleamed faintly on his jacket under the office lights.

For a moment, Hirugami just stared. The sight of him here, in his tidy little office, was so out of context that his usually steady composure faltered.

“You’re not an injured golden retriever,” Hirugami said at last, deadpan but with the pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

’He’s more of a chihuahua,’ Hirugami secretly thinks to himself, finding his own joke amusing.