The bell over the shop door chimed softly when it had opened earlier, but the sound had long since blended into the ordinary noise of the place: the low hum of the air conditioner, the faint, tinny pop music from a ceiling speaker, the constant scrabble of little nails on vinyl flooring. Spring sunlight spilled in through the big front window, warm and a little hazy, catching the drifting dust and the clear acrylic of the puppy enclosure so that everything looked slightly washed in gold.

Reina was inside the pen in a pale pink apron over her uniform, cardigan sleeves shoved up to her elbows. A cream-colored toy poodle puppy was chewing determinedly on the end of her shoelace, and a black-and-tan dachshund kept hopping at her knee, nails tapping, demanding to be picked up again. She laughed, bright and unrestrained, voice carrying easily through the small shop.

“Hey hey, wait—if you eat that, you’re gonna poop string later,” she scolded the poodle in a singsong, gently wiggling her foot until he lost his grip and tumbled back on his butt, blinking up at her. Her hand automatically went down to ruffle his soft curls anyway. Everything that moved, she wanted to praise, to pet, to reassure.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she felt rather than saw someone stop at the window.

It was a tiny change in the light—a shadow that didn’t move on, a sense of being watched that slid over her skin like the ghost of a hand. She glanced up, expression still relaxed, prepared to flash the casual smile she always had ready for passersby.

The moment her eyes landed on the figure outside, the smile froze, then deepened in a way that had nothing to do with habit.

The face. That face. The line of the jaw, the way the shoulders sat under the clothes, the angle of the head as they leaned slightly closer to the glass to watch the puppies tussling. The reflection cut across them, but her body reacted before her thoughts caught up: a sudden, hard drop in her chest, like she’d missed a step on a staircase, and then a flood of heat spreading outward from the center of her sternum, into her arms, her throat, her eyes.

…Master.

The word tore through her mind with stupid, animal clarity, so simple and so absolute that for one wild second she forgot she even had a human name. All the shop sounds fell away under the roaring in her ears. She stared, pupils dilating, every muscle going tense and then strangely weak, and the dachshund took the opportunity to scramble halfway up her leg, whining, but her hand didn’t move to pick him up this time.

Her breathing hitched. She swallowed hard enough that it hurt. No way. No way, right? But the longer she looked, the less space there was for doubt; the memories slammed into her one after another with dizzying speed: cold cardboard, a big warm hand sliding under her small, shaking body; the smell of detergent and skin and something that was just them; evenings spent collapsed against their thigh, the steady rhythm of fingers stroking her ears; the sound of that voice saying her old name like it was the best word in the world.

Her knees actually trembled. She pressed her palm to the floor for a second to steady herself, then realized how that would look to the customers sitting over by the cat corner if she just stayed hunched there like she was about to faint.

Reina. You’re Reina now. You’re at work. You can’t just… jump. You can’t just throw yourself at them like a dog.

Her mouth pulled into a quick, too-bright grin as she forced herself to move, scooping up the complaining dachshund and depositing him gently in a plush donut bed. “Wait a sec, okay? I’ll come back, promise,” she told him under her breath, voice shaking only the slightest bit. She stood, smoothing her apron down over the curve of her hips, fingers clenching in the fabric for a heartbeat as she tried to get her expression under control.

The glass door gave under her push with a soft hiss, the bell chiming again as she stepped out from behind the enclosure area toward the front. Her platform sneakers made a light thud on the laminate as she crossed the small distance, each step feeling both far too long and not nearly enough.

Up close, the scent of outside air hit her—sun-warmed asphalt, a hint of exhaust, early flowers from the planter just by the entrance—and under it, faint but devastatingly familiar, the smell of them. Human noses weren’t supposed to be this good. It didn’t matter. Her body catalogued it instantly: laundry powder, skin, the same underlying warmth that had been there five years ago when she’d pressed her nose into their wrist and breathed in like it was oxygen.

Her heart gave a hard, painful punch against her ribs. She almost moved without thinking, arms twitching as if to wrap around their waist from behind, to bury her face in their back and rub her cheek there until her own scent stuck. She reined it in with visible effort, jaw tightening for a split second before she plastered a more normal, bubbly smile over her face, the one she used with shy customers.

She stepped up to the glass where they were standing, angling herself so that when they turned, they would see her first, not the puppies. Up close, she had to tilt her head just a little to look at them properly, gray eyes shining too bright.

“Hi,” she said, voice light, cheerful, only a faint tremor betraying the way her whole body was vibrating inside. “You’re… really focused, huh?”

Her gaze flicked once to their hands—empty, no leash, no shopping bags—and that tiny piece of information slotted instantly into the frantic pattern of her thoughts. Alone. They’re alone. They’re here. They came back to me. The urge to whine, to wag, to lick at their fingers, coiled hot and tight behind her ribs.

She swallowed again, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lip gloss. Her fingers curled around the hem of her apron, nails dimpling the fabric. She tilted her head, blonde bob swinging, earrings chiming softly as they brushed her jaw.

“Have you ever raised a dog before?” she asked, voice just a touch softer on the last word, like it meant more to her than it should have for a part-time clerk’s casual sales pitch.

If they said yes—if that yes came with the slightest hint of recognition—she knew she would break. She could already feel the shape of it in her body: the way her throat was tightening, the way her eyes prickled. She would close the distance without thinking, throw her arms around them hard enough that the apron strings bit into her back, press her face into their chest and finally, finally let herself say it out loud where they could hear.

Master. It’s me. I found you.

For now, though, she held herself on the edge of that cliff, smile bright and almost normal, heart thrashing like a dog at the end of a leash that might snap at any second, spring sunlight hot on her back and the muffled yips of the puppies echoing behind her as if the whole shop was holding its breath with her.