Cocoa immediately sits, then jumps up onto Dom, searching for the treat.
Dom kneels again, holding the treat just above Cocoa’s nose. “If you reward him now, you’re rewarding the jumping. You have to wait until he’s calm.”
I try to memorize everything he’s doing, the way he never raises his voice, never gets frustrated, just keeps repeating the steps until Cocoa finally sits, tongue lolling.
“Now treat,” Dom says, and I hand Cocoa the little cookie, which he gobbles up.
We repeat the process a handful of times. Every time I forget to click, Dom gently corrects me. Every time Cocoa misbehaves, Dom resets with mind-boggling patience.
It’s… disarming. The way he keeps resetting without making me feel stupid, like he’s decided I’m worth the extra minute.
A cyclist zips by on the path outside the courtyard, and Cocoa explodes into a bark so loud it echoes off the marble fountain. He lunges for the fence, dragging me with him, and in the process, I drop the treat bag. It hits the ground, bursts open, and showers bone-shaped cookies everywhere.
“Oh my gosh!” I shriek as Cocoa goes full vacuum and starts inhaling every single one. I try to scoop them up, but he’s still getting enough to give him a stomachache later. “This is so bad.” I shake my head.
Dom doubles over laughing. It’s not polite laughter. It’s real—messy and unguarded—and seeing it makes my chest feel oddly tight, like I’ve been let into something. “He’s like a Roomba with fur.”
We both crouch, grabbing handfuls of treats and trying to keep Cocoa from choking. I glance at Dom and, for a second, he’s not just my neighbor or a basketball player or a guy doing me a favor, he’s my …friend?
The thought should feel harmless. But it doesn’t.
“Is there a world record for how fast a dog can eat?” I ask, out of breath as I scoop up the last one.
Dom chuckles, meeting my gaze as he straightens and stands to his feet. “Not sure, but I think Cocoa just broke it.”
“I think we should probably call it a day,” I say, brushing off my jeans and the disappointment at the same time. “I don’t want him to get too bad of a stomachache.”
Dom nods, and there’s a pause between us, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. My hands start to do that weird sweating thing, and I brush some of my hair out of my face, gathering up the courage to keep the conversation going.
“Thanks for helping.” I give him my best smile. “Seriously, I would’ve given up after the whole swim in the fountain. I really… Um…” My voice trails off as I feel my face growing hot. “I really enjoyed it.”
“Me, too. I’ll walk you to your apartment?” He rocks back on his heels, and then shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray joggers. “If you want, of course.”
My heart does a flip-flop in my chest. “Yeah, that would be super nice.” I inwardly cringe at how ridiculous I sound, but make it a point tonotshow it on the outside.
We walk side by side to the apartment building, Cocoa trotting between us, occasionally bumping against Dom’s leg as if they’re old friends now. Our shoulders brush a few times as we navigate around the planters lining the path, each brief contact sending little sparks along my skin.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I have to earn space beside people. With Dom, it feels like he makes room without even noticing he’s doing it.
“So,” Dom says as we step into the elevator. “Have you given any more thought to that athlete housing idea?”
“Actually, yes,” I reply, suddenly energized. “I spent most of today researching and running numbers. It’s kind of taken over my brain.”
Dom presses the button for our floor, then turns to me, looking genuinely interested. “What have you found out?”
“Well, for starters, it’s way more viable than I initially thought,” I say, the words rushing out now that I have an audience. “There are over five hundred professional athletes just in Los Angeles across all the major leagues, who all would need housing.”
The elevator doors open, and we step into the hallway, but I barely notice, too caught up in sharing my findings. “I looked into what it would take to convert an existing apartment complex versus building something new.”
Dom nods, his eyes never leaving my face as I speak, like he’s memorizing me, not the math. There’s something about the way he listens—fully present, engaged, as if what I’m saying matters—that makes the words flow more easily.
“And I think starting with a conversion makes the most sense for a proof of concept,” I continue as we walk to my door. “Lower initial investment, faster turnaround.”
“That’s amazing,” Dom says, and the genuine enthusiasm in his voice makes my heart swell. “You’ve really dug into this.”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, it’s just preliminary research. There’s still a ton to figure out.”
“But you’re doing it,” Dom points out. “Taking action instead of just talking about it. That’s more than most people ever do with their ideas.”
