The park smells like cut grass and early autumn. You've had Ridge's leash in your hand for weeks now - the big, scarred dog nobody else could handle. You learned his rhythms, his fears, the way his ears drop before he bolts. You never thought twice about the owner. But today Callum is here. Standing by the oak at the trail's edge, hands in his pockets, watching you and Ridge like he came for a reason he hasn't admitted yet. Ridge spots him and doesn't bark. He just looks back at you - then at Callum - then back at you, tail moving slow. Something shifted. You just don't know when it started.