The training kennels sat at the far end of the compound. It was a long, low building that always smelled faintly of cedar shavings, disinfectant, and wet dog.
Most shifters avoided it unless they needed a behavior consult, but for me it felt familiar enough. It was quiet, predictable. The dogs didn’t lie. They didn’t manipulate. They didn’t push for things you couldn’t give.
People were a different story.
I pushed through the half door into the main kennel hall and flipped open the file Cooper had handed me yesterday.
Paperwork from Peter Hill. Application forms, vaccination records, a printed portrait of a Papillon with oversized ears and a coat so perfectly groomed it looked airbrushed.
The little thing had a black-and-white butterfly pattern and bright, intelligent eyes. It probably weighed less than one of my boots.
“Show dog,” I muttered, skimming the temperament notes. Friendly. Food-motivated. A bit dramatic when overstimulated.
It wasn’t an exact match, but Pampi checked enough of those boxes. Same size. Same butterfly coat. Same flair for theatrics.
That meant I’d need someone calm, steady, and experienced enough to handle a crowd without spooking the dog. Not Chris, then.
Chris was many things, but calm and steady in a crowd didn’t make the list. He had a way of moving through the pack compound like he’d been wound a little too tight, all restless energy and bright curiosity.
Blond hair that never quite stayed where he pushed it. Shoulders broader than they had any right to be on a “trainee,” stretching the seams of, well, any shirt he seemed to be wearing.
And that smile. It was too easy, too open. It flashed at the smallest encouragement, like he’d been waiting for permission to use it.
He was too good with people. He leaned in too close when he talked and listened like you were the only thing in the room. It made me uncomfortable.
While he had the build for fieldwork, there was still something unpolished about him. A tendency to talk first and think later. Overeager. Green.
I walked down the row of kennels, glancing at the dogs I had in training. A sharp knock on the wooden doorframe snapped the air. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“Hey!” Chris’s voice followed, breathless. “You, uh—are you choosing a dog for the show?”
I made a noncommittal sound, eyes on the file. “Mm.”
He stepped inside, his jacket rustling like sandpaper, his boots clicking against the sealed floor with every shift of weight.
Everything about him seemed loud today, like my senses had been dialed up without my permission.
“Thanks, by the way,” Chris said. “For agreeing to do this with me. I know it’s kind of last minute and?—”
“Wasn’t my choice,” I muttered, flipping a page.
He quickened his pace to match mine. “Sorry, what was that?”
I stopped at the next kennel and crouched to read the tag more closely.
“I didn’t agree,” I said, louder this time. “Cooper had to talk me into it.”
“Oh.” He gave a small, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. That… makes sense.”
He didn’t fall back, though. He just adjusted his stride and kept pace beside me as I continued to walk along the hall.
The dogs lifted their heads as he passed. Their ears pricked in curiosity, tails thumping against crate walls as if they were drawn to him.
He seemed to have that effect on animals. On people too, if I was being honest.
The first time I’d met him, he’d shown up at my outdoor pens asking if he could help with feeding rounds. He’d tried to lift a fifty-pound bag of kibble, ripped it open on a nail, and nearly buried himself in a tidal wave of dog food.
The dogs thought it was the best day of their lives. He’d laughed, embarrassed but good-natured, while I’d stood there trying not to react to the strange flutter low in my chest.
