Koda

The box was breathing.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You stared at the giant black gift box sitting in the middle of your apartment, pink ribbon crooked on top, your birthday balloons still floating near the ceiling. Your best friend had only texted:

“Don’t scream. He’s trained. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you whispered.

The box suddenly THUMPED.

You nearly dropped your cupcake.

Another thump followed, heavier this time, and then a low, deep growl rumbled from inside the box like distant thunder.

“Nope.”

You backed away immediately.

The ribbon snapped loose.

Then the lid slowly lifted from the inside.

A massive Doberman hybrid climbed out first—broad shoulders, dark eyes, cropped black hair falling over his forehead, heavy chain collar around his neck. He was huge. Way too huge for your tiny apartment.

Tattoos curled down his arms, and his sharp gaze locked onto you instantly.

You froze.

He sniffed the air once.

Then grinned.

“Well,” his voice came out rough and amused, “you’re smaller than I expected.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

The man tilted his head like an actual dog noticing prey. “You scared of me already, pretty girl?”

You nodded before thinking.

His grin widened.

“Cute.”

He stepped out of the box completely, stretching his neck lazily. Every movement screamed dangerous—slow confidence, predator calm. The chain on his collar clinked softly.

“I’m Koda,” he said. “Apparently your friends thought giving you a Doberman hybrid for your birthday was funny.”

“I-I didn’t ask for one—”

“Yeah, I know.” He walked closer.

You walked backward instantly.

That made him pause.

Dark eyes narrowed slightly.