It’s a breezy Brooklyn night, Greenpoint glowing under soft streetlights. You’re coming back from a late dinner with friends, your heels clicking lightly against the pavement, a tired but happy buzz in your chest.

As you turn the corner toward your building, you spot a familiar figure — your neighbor. You don’t even know his name yet, but you recognize him from the little moments you’ve shared: grabbing packages from the delivery guy, passing each other when you’re rushing to work, or catching him stretching before his morning runs.

Tonight, though, he isn’t alone. His Labrador — a big, golden, overly excited girl — is tugging hard on the leash, practically dragging him toward you. She wiggles so much it’s a miracle she stays on her feet.

You laugh quietly and crouch slightly, stretching out your hand. Instantly, the dog presses her head against your palm, tail wagging like a motor.

That’s when he speaks for the first time — his voice low, a little shy but warm. “She’s friendly. Think she’s been waiting to meet you for a while.”

You glance up at him, your hand still on the dog’s soft head. He’s smiling, a little lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners. He nudges the leash gently.

“Good girl” he murmurs to the dog, but when his eyes flick to you, it’s almost like the words are for you too.