Chapter Text
If I had a dollar for every time someone said adopting a dog would change my life, I’d have exactly seven dollars—because that’s how many friends texted me that exact phrase the day I brought Riot home.
They weren’t wrong. But they also didn’t warn me that my life would change because my dog would develop an unhealthy obsession with my neighbour.
It started at the shelter.
I didn’t go looking for a project. I wasn’t in the market for a four-legged emotional support grenade. I just wanted a companion—someone who didn’t ask about my leg, didn’t pity my early retirement from the force, and wouldn’t give me that look when I said I was fine when I clearly wasn’t.
The shelter was loud. Barking echoed off the concrete walls, each kennel a chorus of hopeful eyes and wagging tails. I almost missed him. Riot was tucked into the back corner of his kennel, completely silent, his golden-brown eyes watching everything with the kind of calculating focus I recognized instantly. Cop eyes.
His file read:
Name: RIOT
Breed: German Shepherd
Age: 3 years
Temperament: Difficult
Notes: Rejected from K9 program. Behavioural issues. Not recommended for first-time dog owners.
Naturally, I asked to meet him.
The volunteer raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He doesn’t do great with strangers. Especially men.”
“Lucky for him, I’m not a man.”
They led me to a small outdoor enclosure. Riot was brought in, stiff-legged, hackles up. He clocked me immediately, paused—and then walked over like we’d known each other forever. Sat right at my feet. Looked up.
The volunteer gawked. “Okay… that’s new.”
“I’ll take him.”
The first sign that I’d adopted a menace came at 9:17 PM.
It started with the couch. I’d barely settled in with a mug of tea when Riot trotted into the living room, jumped up onto the cushions, spun in three wild circles, and then flung every throw pillow onto the floor like they’d personally insulted him.
“Okay,” I muttered, sipping my tea. “You’re adjusting.”
Then he barked. Once. Loud. Sharp. I jumped, sloshing tea on my hoodie.
He trotted over and sat directly in front of me. Stared.
“Do you… want something?”
He kept staring. Ears perked. Very judgey.
“Listen, I don’t know your schedule yet. I don’t know if you need a walk, a treat, or an exorcism, so you’re gonna have to help me out here.”
Riot huffed. Turned around. Jumped on the couch again—this time landing squarely on my lap.
I made a sound that was probably human. Somewhere between a squawk and a gasp.
“You weigh like eighty pounds!”
He curled up into a ball, let out a long, dramatic sigh, and refused to move. Dead weight.
“Well,” I said. “This is fine. Totally normal bonding experience.”
10:04 PM. I’d convinced him to sleep in his dog bed.
At least, I thought I had.
I turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and was just about to drift off when I heard the softest, most pathetic whine outside my bedroom door.
I ignored it.
The whine turned into a scratching sound.
I buried my face in the pillow.
Then came the howl. Low and mournful. Like he’d been locked out in the rain and was composing a blues song about it.
I opened the door. Riot looked up, tail wagging slowly, like oh hey, you rang?
“You were literally fine five minutes ago.”
He stepped into the room like he owned the place. Circled the bed. Sniffed my nightstand. Then, like the tiny traitor he was, hopped up and plopped down—right on the pillow beside me.
“I didn’t say you could—”
He closed his eyes.
I sighed. “This is going to be a long adjustment.”
Midnight. I woke up to hot breath on my face.
Riot was sitting up. Staring at the window. Ears alert, tail rigid.
My adrenaline kicked in before my brain did. Years of muscle memory had me reaching under the bed for a weapon I no longer carried. Empty space met my fingers.
Instead, I whispered, “What is it?”
He growled—low and quiet. Protective.
I sat up. Listened.
Nothing.
Then I heard it. A raccoon scrabbling across the fence outside.
Riot barked once—just one, deep and terrifying—and the noise outside stopped instantly.
He stood, paced to the edge of the bed, checked the door, then returned to sit beside me.
My heart was pounding, but not from fear. Not really.
It was the familiarity. The alertness. The way he watched the shadows like he’d been trained to assess threats. Like I used to.
I reached out and rested a hand on his back.
“You were a good cop, huh?”
He didn’t move, but his ears flicked slightly. Like he heard the sadness I hadn’t meant to say out loud.
We sat like that for a long moment. Just the two of us. Awake in the quiet.
I was the first to lie down again.
He followed. Laid beside me, his body heavy and warm against mine.
And this time, when I drifted off, I didn’t dream about the fire. I didn’t jolt awake from phantom gunshots. I just… slept.
The first twenty-four hours were mostly fine aside from that. Riot adjusted quickly. He followed me from room to room, inspected every corner of my apartment, and settled in like he’d live here all his life. I even got cocky and decided to take him for a walk the next morning.
Mistake number one.
The second we stepped outside; Riot jolted forward like a missile. I barely had time to lock the door before he was dragging me across the sidewalk, leash taut, head high.
“Riot! Slow down!”
He did not.
He bee-lined across the lawn next door, barking once—a sharp, commanding bark like he was announcing his arrival. I scrambled to keep up, planting my feet just in time to see a front door swing open.
And there he was.
Bang Chan.
I’d seen him in passing. A few neighbourly waves, a polite smile from across the parking lot. Tall, athletic build, brown curls, warm eyes. The kind of man who probably baked his own dog treats and remembered everyone's birthday.
Riot immediately sat. Perfect posture. Tail wagging.
I stood there, winded, clutching the leash like a frazzled rodeo reject.
Chan tilted his head. “Well, hey there. Who’s this?”
“This,” I said, panting, “is my new dog. Riot.”
Riot looked up at him like he’d found the second coming of Lassie.
Chan crouched, offered a hand. “Hey, Riot.”
Riot placed a paw in it.
I blinked. “He doesn’t even do that for me.”
Chan laughed. “Some dogs just know a dog person when they see one.”
“Apparently he thinks you’re Jesus in a flannel.”
Chan smiled. “You live next door, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m the quiet one who minds her business.”
“Until your dog crashes my lawn at full speed?”
“To be fair, I think he’s trying to elope with you.”
Chan gave Riot a playful pat. “Well, I’m flattered. He’s got good taste.”
Riot huffed like he agreed.
Over the next few days, it became obvious that Riot was a traitor.
He refused to eat breakfast unless we walked by Chan’s yard first. Refused to go for walks unless they were in the direction of Chan’s house. When I tried to teach him “sit,” he stared at me like I’d asked him to solve quantum physics.
But the second Chan stepped outside? Perfect behaviour.
“Oh, you’ve got a crush,” Chan teased one morning, watching Riot prance up to him like a trained ballerina.
“He’s got issues.”
“He’s got taste.”
Riot leaned into Chan’s legs and let out a dramatic sigh. I swear if he could talk, he would’ve said, See? Why don’t you date this one?
Chan rubbed behind his ears. “You want help training him?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You offering out of pity?”
“Out of interest. He clearly responds to me. I do some behavioural training on the side.”
I hesitated. “So, you’re like… a dog whisperer?”
“I prefer ‘canine behaviourist,’ but sure.”
I stared at my dog, who was currently ignoring my existence to stare longingly at Chan.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “You can help. But only because he listens to you. Not because you have a cute smile.”
Chan grinned. “Noted.”
By the end of the week, Riot had learned four new commands, responded to his name with zero attitude, and had started bringing me my slippers in the morning. All thanks to Chan.
The betrayal ran deep.
Chan dropped by one evening with a bag of homemade treats.
“These are for Riot. Peanut butter and oat. No additives.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you just casually bake for dogs?”
“I casually bake for people too, but I didn’t want to come on too strong.”
Riot sat immediately, tail wagging so hard he nearly knocked over a lamp.
Chan handed him a treat. Riot took it gently, like a saint.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered.
Chan glanced at me. “He likes you; you know.”
“He’s got a weird way of showing it.”
“He chose you. Dogs don’t fake that. Not even difficult ones.”
I swallowed. “Yeah, well. We’ve both been told we’re too much to handle.”
Chan looked at me then—not the usual teasing glance, but something quieter. Something that made my chest tighten.
“Then maybe you just need someone who can handle it.”
Riot barked once, sharp and approving.
Chan smiled. “See? He agrees.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m surrounded.”
But I was smiling too.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a mistake.