stay hungry, stay free, and do the best you can

He’d sign his name on the volunteer sheet, grab a bucket and cleaning supplies, and disappear into the kennel rows. No small talk. No introductions. No standing around the coffee station discussing weekend plans like the other volunteers.

Just work.

At first, you barely paid attention to him.

The shelter always had volunteers coming and going. College students looking for hours. Retirees looking for purpose. People who stayed a month and disappeared. You assumed Andrew would be the same. Then one afternoon, a German shepherd named Tank proved you wrong.

Tank had been returned three times. The first family said he was too anxious. The second said he was destructive. The third brought him back after he snapped at their teenage son. By the time Tank arrived at your shelter, he had a bright red warning sticker on his kennel file and a reputation that followed him into every room.

Nobody liked walking him. Nobody volunteered for his kennel. Nobody expected much from him. Including Tank.

You were carrying fresh water bowls down the kennel row when barking erupted from the far end. Loud. Aggressive. The kind that made visitors jump. Tank. Again.

A new volunteer, a teenager completing community service hours, stood frozen outside the kennel door.

“He’s gonna bite me,” the kid said.

“You don’t have to take him,” you replied.

The teenager looked relieved. 

Tank kept barking. Throwing himself against the chain-link door. You were already reaching for the clipboard to mark him as skipped when another voice spoke.

“I’ll take him.”

You looked up. Andrew stood a few feet away, holding a leash.

The teenager handed it over immediately.

“You sure?” you asked.

Andrew nodded once. That was it. No bravado. No speech. Just a nod.

You expected a struggle. Expected barking. Expected chaos. Instead, Andrew crouched outside the kennel. Not opening the door. Not reaching inside. Just sitting.

Tank barked himself hoarse for nearly five minutes. Andrew waited. The dog barked. Andrew waited. The dog paced. Andrew waited. Finally, Tank stopped. Not because he’d calmed down. Because he got tired. For the first time, silence settled between them. 

Andrew looked at him. Tank looked back.

And then Andrew said, “Yeah.”

Nothing else. Just that. Yeah.

Like Tank had told him something. Like he’d understood it. You frowned. The dog blinked. Andrew held out the leash. Another minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Tank stepped forward. Not much. Just enough.

Andrew clipped the leash on. No struggle. No drama. No barking. Then he stood and walked away with eighty pounds of formerly impossible German shepherd trotting quietly beside him.

You stared after them.

“What the hell?” muttered another volunteer.

You didn’t have an answer. Neither did Tank. But after that day, Andrew became harder to ignore.

You started noticing things. The way he always arrived early. The way broken things somehow stopped being broken after he touched them. The way he remembered every dog’s name after hearing it once. The way frightened animals followed him around the yard like he carried some invisible signal only they could hear.

Mostly, though, you noticed the patience. 

Everybody talked about patience like it was kindness. With Andrew, it felt different. It felt like recognition. Like he understood fear because he’d lived with it long enough to recognize it in someone else. Or something else.

One Thursday afternoon, that understanding got him bitten. Hard.

You were restocking food bins when shouting erupted near the intake kennels. Not panicked shouting. Surprised shouting. You rounded the corner to find three volunteers standing around Daisy’s kennel. Daisy had arrived that morning. Three-legged pit bull. Recently rescued. Terrified of everyone. Especially men.

Andrew stood outside the kennel holding a leash. Blood ran down the back of his hand. A bite. Not severe. But enough.

“Oh my God,” one volunteer said.

“Jesus—”

“Get the first-aid kit.”

The room filled with voices. Questions. Concern. Noise. Andrew ignored all of it. His eyes remained fixed on Daisy.

The dog had retreated to the far corner of the kennel. Trembling. Ears pinned back. Terrified. Not of what she’d done. Of what might happen next.

Andrew noticed immediately. “Don’t.”

The word cut through the room. Everyone stopped.

“Don’t what?” asked a volunteer.

Andrew nodded toward Daisy. “Don’t yell at her.”

Nobody had been. But somehow the entire room understood what he meant. Don’t be angry. Don’t punish her. Don’t make this worse.

Blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete. Andrew barely looked at it.

“She’s scared.” His voice softened. Directed entirely at the dog. “That’s all.”

The kennel fell quiet.

You looked at Daisy. Then at Andrew. Then back again. For a strange moment, neither of them seemed dangerous. Just frightened. And somehow that realization stayed with you long after the bite healed.

—

The bite should have healed quickly. It probably did. The mark disappeared from the back of Andrew’s hand within a couple of weeks. The impression it left behind lasted much longer.

After that day, you started paying attention. Not intentionally. At least that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t watching for him when you arrived each morning. You weren’t checking the volunteer sheet to see if his name was signed in. You weren’t noticing when the parking space near the maintenance shed was empty.

Except you were. A little. Enough that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your eyes automatically drifted toward the front desk around two o’clock. Enough that you noticed if he was late. Enough that you knew he was never late.

The shelter ran on routines. Feeding schedules. Medication charts. Walking rotations. People were harder. Volunteers came and went. Staff burned out. Life happened.

Andrew stayed. 

Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp. Like clockwork. And somehow, things worked better when he was there.

You’d spend twenty minutes fighting with a jammed kennel latch. Turn around to grab a tool. Turn back. And it would be fixed. A leaking faucet that maintenance hadn’t gotten to yet would suddenly stop dripping. A broken gate would swing smoothly again. A stubborn printer would start working after Andrew wandered past it.

Half the time you never even saw him do it. You’d just notice the problem had disappeared. He never mentioned it. Never waited for thanks. He just noticed things and fixed them, like it was as natural as breathing.

One afternoon, nearly two months after the bite incident, you found him sitting on the floor in the storage room. At first, you thought he was hurt. The sight was strange enough to stop you in the doorway. Andrew sat cross-legged beside a stack of donated blankets, staring at something in his lap.

You stepped closer. Then laughed. A tiny gray kitten glared back at you. The kitten couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. One ear flopped sideways. Its eyes were too big for its face. Its entire body fit comfortably in Andrew’s hands. And it looked furious about it.

“What are you doing?”

Andrew looked up. Then down at the kitten. Then back at you.

“He doesn’t like anybody.”

The kitten immediately hissed.

You snorted. “Clearly.”

Andrew nodded.

The kitten hissed again.

“He’s been doing that for twenty minutes.”

“Why are you sitting here with him?”

Another shrug. Like the answer was obvious.

“Nobody else would.”

The kitten attempted to climb onto his shoulder. Failed spectacularly. Slid into his lap. Andrew steadied him with one careful hand. You felt something strange settle in your chest. Not romance. Just curiosity. Because most people would have laughed. Most people would have walked away. Andrew had apparently devoted half an hour of his afternoon to keeping an angry kitten company.

“You know he hates you, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

The kitten hissed again.

Andrew nodded toward him. “See?”

You laughed.

This time Andrew actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. But real. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him. For some reason, it felt like discovering a secret.

—

The first real conversation happened because of rain.

Southern California rarely got enough of it to cause problems. When it did, everything stopped functioning properly. The shelter parking lot flooded. The roof leaked near the laundry room. Half the volunteers called out. By six o’clock, only three people remained. You. Andrew. And Ruth. Ruth left at six-thirty.

The storm got worse. You were balancing paperwork, medication records, and tomorrow’s intake forms when the lights flickered.

“Don’t,” you said.

Andrew stood on a ladder near the electrical panel. 

“What?”

“The lights.”

The lights flickered again. You pointed your pen at the ceiling. 

“If the power goes out, that’s fate telling me the paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”

Andrew looked down from the ladder. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No chance.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He went back to the electrical panel. “You’d stay.”

“I absolutely would not.”

“You would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You always finish the paperwork.”

“I could leave it.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Andrew glanced down at the clipboard in your arms. “You brought two pens.”

You looked at the pens clipped to the top of the clipboard. Then back at him. “One could die.”

His mouth twitched. “There’s another one behind your ear.”

You froze. Then slowly reached up. Your fingers brushed the pen tucked there.

Andrew turned back to the panel like knowing you that well meant nothing.

You laughed hard enough to nearly drop your clipboard. The sound surprised both of you. Because Andrew immediately looked away. Not uncomfortable. Just… startled. Like he wasn’t used to being the reason someone laughed.

The realization made your chest ache unexpectedly.

—

The friendship happened so slowly neither of you noticed it.

One day he was a volunteer. Then he was Andrew. Then he was somehow part of your routine.

You started saving him coffee if you stopped before work. He always pretended he didn’t expect it. The lie got less convincing every week.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it every time.”

“You drank half of it before I sat down.”

He paused. “That’s unrelated.”

You laughed.

Andrew looked pleased with himself. Not enough to smile. But close. Very close.

The more time you spent around him, the more you noticed other things too. Not just what he fixed. What he remembered.

Andrew remembered everything.

Which dogs hated thunder. Which ones needed their bowls lifted higher. Which volunteers forgot to latch the side gate. Which brand of creamer you pretended not to care about.

Andrew collected details quietly. And somehow, without meaning to, you started wanting to be one of them.

—

The first time he walked you to your car, you didn’t think much of it.

The shelter closed late. You grabbed your keys. Andrew happened to be heading outside too. The parking lot was mostly empty.

You chatted about a dog adoption event scheduled for the weekend. Normal conversation. Nothing special.

At your car, you unlocked the door. Andrew stopped behind you, hands in his pockets.

“You don’t have to wait.”

“I know.”

“You’re waiting.”

“Yeah.”

You turned, confused. “For what?”

His gaze moved to the empty parking lot, then back to you. “For you to be okay.”

You blinked.

Andrew nodded. Then turned and walked toward his truck.

You stood there staring after him. Nobody had ever made your safety sound so matter-of-fact.

The next week, it happened again. And the week after that. Eventually you realized he wasn’t walking himself to the parking lot. He was walking you.

Not making a big deal out of it. Not asking permission. Not expecting thanks. Just making sure you got there safely. Like he’d decided you mattered.

And once Andrew Cody decided something mattered, he tended to stick with it.

—

The first time you saw him angry, it wasn’t directed at you.

A woman stormed into the shelter carrying a small terrier mix. She was already yelling before she reached the desk. Complaining about the dog. Complaining about the shelter. Complaining about how nobody wanted to help her.

Every answer you gave seemed to make her louder.

You tried to explain the surrender process. Tried to stay polite. Tried to de-escalate. Nothing worked.

The woman leaned across the counter. Voice rising. Finger pointed directly at your face. For a moment you weren’t sure what to do.

Then the room went quiet.

Not because she stopped. Because Andrew had appeared beside you. You hadn’t even seen him walk over. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten her. Didn’t posture.

He simply looked at her. And said, very calmly, “You’re done yelling at her.”

The woman froze. The entire room froze. Andrew wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse.

There was something in his expression. Something absolute. The kind of certainty that made people rethink their decisions.

The woman sputtered another complaint.

Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Either surrender the dog respectfully or leave.”

Silence. A long silence. Then the woman sat down. Just like that. The fight drained out of her.

You stared.

Andrew turned back toward you. Asked if you were okay. Then immediately started helping with paperwork as though nothing unusual had happened.

No victory lap. No smugness. No acknowledgment that he’d just shut down a situation everyone else had been struggling with for ten minutes.

That was the first time you started understanding the rumors.

Because there were rumors. You’d heard them in pieces. Whispers from longtime volunteers. Comments that stopped when you walked into a room.

You hadn’t grown up here. Hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know the history everyone else seemed to share. All you knew was that Andrew Cody had a past. People talked about his family in lowered voices. There were stories. Some true. Some exaggerated. Most of them impossible to piece together.

But standing beside him that day, watching an angry stranger back down without another word, you understood why those stories survived.

Not because he was cruel. Not because he was violent. Because there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something restrained. Something that chose, every single day, not to be what people expected.

Later that same week, a man arrived looking to surrender a dog.

An elderly lab mix. Gray around the muzzle. Arthritis in both hips.

The owner complained about vet bills the entire intake process. Complained about medication costs. Complained about the dog’s accidents. Complained about how much work he was.

The dog sat quietly beside him. Tail wagging. Still trying to be good.

You saw Andrew standing across the room. Silent. Still. Listening.

The owner finally left. The dog watched the door close behind him. Waited. Waited some more. Then slowly sat down. The room fell quiet. Andrew walked over. Knelt beside the dog. Rested one hand against his neck.

The dog leaned immediately into the contact. Trusting. Hopeful. Heartbroken.

Andrew’s jaw tightened. You saw it. Not the sharp, controlled anger from earlier. Something quieter this time. Older. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.

Then the old lab rested his head in Andrew’s lap. And just like that, the anger disappeared. Gone beneath grief. Beneath tenderness. Beneath something so heartbreakingly gentle it made your throat tighten.

That was the day you started wondering if the world had ever bothered to learn the difference. Between what Andrew was capable of and who he chose to be.

—

The first text arrived on a Sunday.

Your phone buzzed while you were grocery shopping. A picture message. No words. Just an image.

Daisy. Covered in mud. Holding a tennis ball twice the size of her head.

You laughed immediately.

A second message appeared.

Andrew: Found contraband.

You stared at the screen. Then at the grocery store aisle. Then back at the screen.

Before you could stop yourself, you smiled.

You typed back before you could think better of it.

You: Armed and dangerous.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then Andrew replied:

Andrew: Very.

You laughed alone in the grocery aisle.

And somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, Andrew Cody had become someone you were always willing to answer.

—

The texts did not become constant.

They became familiar. That was different. A photo from Andrew every now and then. Daisy muddy. Tank asleep against the fence. The old lab stealing treats with no remorse.

A reply from you. A dry answer from him. Sometimes nothing for hours. Sometimes nothing until the next day, when he’d walk into the shelter and continue the conversation like time had simply paused between you.

It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. By then, you had learned that Andrew did not move through closeness the way other people did.

He did not rush toward it. He circled it. Tested it. Stepped close enough to feel the warmth, then back again before it could burn him.

So you let him. You didn’t chase. You didn’t push. You only stayed steady enough that, eventually, he started trusting the space beside you.

The first time he touched you on purpose, it was barely anything.

You were both in the yard after closing, trying to convince Daisy to come inside. She had decided the patch of dirt beneath the eucalyptus tree belonged to her now and no amount of calling, bribing, or dignity seemed likely to change her mind.

“She’s ignoring us,” you said.

Andrew stood beside you, leash in hand. “She’s ignoring you.”

You looked at him. “She’s ignoring both of us.”

“No.”

“Andrew.”

“She looked at me.”

“She looked at you because you have turkey in your pocket.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “That counts.”

You laughed.

Daisy, unimpressed by your laughter, rolled onto her side in the dirt.

You sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll get her.”

“She’ll run.”

“She has three legs.”

“She’s fast.”

“She is not faster than me.”

Andrew looked at you for a long second.

Then, dryly, “She might be.”

You turned to glare at him, and your foot slipped in the damp grass. Not badly. Not enough to fall. But enough that his hand closed around your elbow before you could catch yourself.

Quick.

Firm.

Warm.

You froze.

So did he.

His fingers stayed there for one second longer than necessary. Then two.

Daisy barked once from under the tree, like she had opinions about the tension.

Andrew let go first. “Careful,” he said. His voice had gone low.

You looked at the place his hand had been. Then at him.

“I thought I was slower than the dog.”

His mouth twitched. “You are.”

But he didn’t move away. Neither did you. And for the first time, the silence between you felt less like comfort and more like something waiting to happen.

—

After that, touching became dangerous.

Not because either of you did much of it. Because you didn’t. Because every small contact started to matter more than it should.

His shoulder brushing yours in the storage room. Your fingers grazing when you passed him a leash.

His hand at the small of your back once, guiding you around a puddle near the intake gate before he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped it immediately.

You never called attention to it. Neither did he. But something changed.

Andrew started standing closer. You started letting him.

On slow evenings, after the dogs were fed and the last volunteers had gone home, the two of you sat outside on the bench near the exercise yard.

Not every night. Never planned. It happened naturally, which somehow made it more intimate.

You’d finish locking up. Andrew would still be there, wiping down tools or checking the back gate. You’d sit for a minute because the night air felt good after hours of kennel noise. He’d sit too.

At first with a careful distance between you. Then less. Then none at all.

One night, your knees touched. Neither of you moved. The yard was quiet except for Tank pacing along the fence, ears perked toward the street.

Andrew sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands loose between his knees.

“You okay?” you asked.

He glanced over. “Yeah.”

“You got quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Quieter.”

He considered that. Then looked back toward the yard.

“Didn’t know if I should move.”

Your heart gave a soft, painful twist. You looked down. Your knee was still pressed against his.

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. Too honest to be casual.

Andrew’s jaw tightened after he said it, like he wished he could drag the word back and inspect it before handing it to you.

You kept your voice gentle. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t. 

Andrew looked back toward the yard. Tank had finally settled near the fence. For a long moment neither of you spoke. But the tension didn’t leave.

The two of you sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees touching. Hands separate. Neither of you brave enough to reach further. Neither of you wanting to leave.

—

The first time you went somewhere together that had nothing to do with the shelter, Andrew looked like he expected to be caught doing something wrong.

It was your idea. Technically. The shelter had closed early for fumigation, and you’d both ended up standing beside your cars in broad daylight with nowhere you were required to be.

It felt strange. Seeing him outside the routine. No kennels. No barking. No clipboard. Just Andrew in the parking lot with his keys in his hand and uncertainty written all over him.

You could have said goodnight. He probably expected you to.

Instead you said, “Have you eaten?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

“With you?”

The question came out so bluntly that you almost smiled.

You didn’t, because he looked like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

“Yes,” you said. “With me.”

Andrew looked toward the road. Then back at you.

“Okay.”

You picked a diner ten minutes away because it was quiet and familiar and unlikely to ask anything from either of you.

Andrew sat across from you in the booth, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.

“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you said.

“I don’t.”

You smiled.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his face shifted. Not a smile. Something softer. Like he was pleased he’d made you do that.

The waitress came by. You ordered first. Andrew ordered second, short and simple.

When she left, he looked relieved.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. Then, after a moment, shook his head.

“I don’t do this much.”

“Eat?”

His mouth twitched. “Go places.”

“With people?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned your arms on the table. “That’s okay.”

He studied you for a long second. “Is it?”

The question had weight under it. Too much weight for pancakes and bad diner coffee.

You answered carefully. “Yes.”

His thumb moved once against the side of the glass.

“I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You don’t have to perform dinner correctly, Andrew.”

He looked down. “People notice.”

“People notice a lot of things.”

“I notice when they notice.”

That hurt. Quietly. You imagined him moving through the world collecting every glance, every pause, every shift in tone. Filing them away as proof.

You softened your voice. “I’ll tell you if something matters.”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“If you say something that hurts me, I’ll tell you. If I need something, I’ll tell you. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

He stared at you.

You shrugged. “I’m not going to make you guess.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his shoulders lowered by maybe half an inch. Not much. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

And this time, okay sounded like relief.

—

Dinner became another thing neither of you named.

Not dating. Not officially. Just sometimes, after late shifts or early closings, you ended up somewhere together. A diner. A taco stand. The beach parking lot with takeout balanced between you on the hood of his truck.

You learned that Andrew ate slowly unless he was nervous. That he hated cilantro but would forget to ask for no cilantro unless you reminded him. That he always sat facing the door. That he noticed exits without seeming to. That he didn’t like crowded places, but tolerated them longer when you sat beside him instead of across from him.

He learned things about you too. How you picked onions off everything but pretended you weren’t picky. How you got quiet when you were tired. How you always said “I’m fine” too quickly when you weren’t. How you hated asking for help but accepted it better if he didn’t make a production out of offering.

The first time his hand found yours, you were sitting in his truck after dinner, watching the ocean move black and silver under the moon.

Neither of you had meant to stay that long. The food was gone. The windows were fogged slightly at the edges. The radio was on low, more static than song. Your hand rested on the seat between you. So did his.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then his pinky brushed yours. Accidentally. Maybe.

You turned your hand over. Open. Waiting.

Andrew stared at it.

“You don’t have to,” you said.

“I know.” His voice was rough. 

A moment passed. Then his hand slid into yours. Slowly. Carefully. Like there were rules he didn’t know and he was terrified of breaking them.

His palm was warm. Calloused. His grip loose at first. Testing. When your fingers curled around his, he inhaled quietly. Not sharply. Just enough for you to hear.

You looked over.

His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

Then, after a second, “Yeah.”

You believed him. 

So you looked back at the ocean and let him hold your hand until his grip finally stopped feeling like a question.

—

The first kiss almost happened three weeks before it actually did.

Rain again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor.

You had both gotten caught in it while bringing dogs in from the yard, and by the time the last kennel was latched, your shirt clung damply to your skin and Andrew’s hair was wet enough to drip onto the concrete.

You were laughing. He wasn’t. Not exactly. But he was watching you laugh. That had become its own kind of tenderness.

Andrew watched joy like it was something he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

“So are you.”

“You should change.”

“I don’t keep spare clothes here.”

He looked away. Then back.

“I have a hoodie in my truck.”

Something about the offer made the air shift. Maybe it was the way he said it. Quiet. Careful. Like he knew a hoodie was not just a hoodie if it came from him.

“Okay,” you said.

He brought it to you without meeting your eyes. Dark gray. Worn soft. Too big. Still warm from the cab of his truck.

You slipped it on in the staff bathroom, then came back out with the sleeves covering half your hands.

Andrew looked at you. Stopped. The expression on his face made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something more vulnerable. Like seeing you in something of his had touched a place in him he had not expected anyone to reach.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Andrew.”

His eyes moved to the sleeves. Then to your face.

“It looks…” He stopped.

You waited.

He swallowed. “Good.”

That one word landed harder than it should have. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted quickly, almost guilty.

You could have kissed him then. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. Instead, you touched his wrist. A small mercy. A smaller promise.

“Thank you.”

His fingers flexed once under yours.

“Yeah.”

The kiss waited. Neither of you was ready. Not yet.

—

After the hoodie, something shifted.

Not between you. Inside Andrew.

At first, it was subtle. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to. He left a little sooner after closing. Stopped lingering outside your car. Answered questions with less than before.

Not cold. Never cold. Just measured. And somehow that felt worse.

You spent nearly two weeks convincing yourself it meant nothing. Then one Thursday you found him sitting alone behind the shelter. The sun had already gone down. The exercise yard sat empty. Most of the dogs were asleep.

Andrew sat on an overturned bucket near the fence, staring into the darkness beyond the lot. Not occupied with anything. Just sitting. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.

You approached quietly. “Hey.”

His shoulders tightened before he looked up. “Hey.”

You leaned against the fence beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell quiet.

Andrew rubbed a thumb along the rim of the bucket.

You watched the motion repeat. “Did I do something?”

His hand stilled. “No.”

“Then what’s going on?”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. He turned toward the field.

You waited.

He let the silence stand. “You should probably stop.”

You blinked. “What?”

He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “This.”

Your fingers tightened around the fence wire. “Andrew—”

“You should.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head once. “You should stop before it gets worse.”

For a moment, the words didn’t land. Then they did. You stared at him. Andrew kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw locked hard enough to show in the fading light.

“Before what gets worse?”

His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. The answer took its time. When it came, it was barely audible.

“Before you start wanting things I can’t give you.”

The fence creaked softly under your grip.

Andrew looked down at the dirt between his boots and dragged the toe of one shoe through it.

Neither of you spoke.

Then he stood. The bucket scraped hard against the ground.

“You don’t know me.”

You looked up at him. “I know you here.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something worse.

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the shelter. “That’s the problem.”

You frowned. “Why?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the kennels, toward the rows of chain-link fencing and concrete runs. Anywhere but at you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“Because this place is easy.”

You waited.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “The dogs make sense.” A moment passed. “They need something. You give it to them.” His gaze dropped to the bucket at his feet. “Food. Water. A clean kennel.”

You watched him carefully. “And people?”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. “People aren’t like that.”

The silence stretched between you. You let it. Andrew shifted his weight. Like he was deciding whether to keep talking. Like every word cost him something.

“You see me here,” he said at last. “You see me doing this.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the shelter. “The work. The routine.” His eyes lifted to yours. “You see the version of me that knows what he’s supposed to do.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. Not angry. Just asking you to let him finish. So you did.

“You know what time I show up. You know I bring coffee.” His jaw tightened. “You know I remember things.” He paused. “You know the parts that fit.”

The words hung there. 

You took a slow breath. “And the parts that don’t?”

His expression hardened. “There you go.”

“What?”

“That.” He looked away again. “You hear something bad and immediately start trying to understand it.”

“I am trying to understand it.”

“I know.”

The answer came tired rather than sharp. For the first time, he sounded exhausted. Not angry. Just worn down.

Andrew stared at the ground for a long moment before speaking again.

“You ever meet someone and know exactly what they think you are?”

You blinked. “Sometimes.”

He nodded once. “Most people look at me and decide pretty fast.” His fingers tightened around the bucket handle. “Quiet. Weird. Difficult.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“Sometimes useful.” A bitter edge slipped into his voice. “People like useful.” His gaze dropped. “Useful’s easy.”

You took a step closer. Only one.

“Andrew.”

This time he looked at you. Really looked. And for a second he seemed surprised that you were still standing there listening. A bitter laugh escaped him.

“You know this version. The guy who shows up, does the work, remembers your coffee order.” His eyes met yours. “But you don’t know me.”

“Andrew—”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “You keep acting like if you care enough, you’ll find something worth saving.” He hit a hand against his chest. “What if there isn’t?”

Silence stretched.

“I’ve hurt people.”

Silence.

“Bad.”

His jaw worked.

“Not by accident.”

Another pause.

“Sometimes by accident.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know.”

Your grip tightened on the fence.

“Still looking for the good?” he asked.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to make me afraid of you.”

His eyes flashed. “You should be.” He turned away, then back again. Restless. “You think feeding dogs and fixing things makes me safe?”

“No.”

“You think because I haven’t hurt you yet, I won’t?”

The word hung between you. Ugly. Intentional. A flicker of regret crossed his face before he buried it.

“You should go.”

“No.”

His hands curled at his sides. “Why?”

“Because you’re trying to scare me.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re telling me part of it.”

His laugh was harsh. “You don’t want the rest.”

“Then don’t give me the rest. But don’t stand here and pretend cruelty is honesty.”

That stopped him. Briefly.

“I’m not cruel?”

“I said you’re choosing it right now.”

His jaw worked.

You stepped closer. “I think you’re choosing it because it’s easier than letting me choose you.”

Andrew stared at you. His breathing changed. A dog barked inside the shelter.

Then, low and rough he spoke again, “I don’t want you to love me.”

Your heart twisted. “Why?”

“Because I’ll ruin it.” The answer came too fast. “I ruin everything I care about.” He dragged both hands over his neck. Frustrated.

“Take your time,” you said.

“I don’t know how.” The words cracked out of him. He looked at you helplessly. “You. Me. All of it.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

He shook his head. “You keep making it not bad.”

“What’s bad?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze. He wanted fear. Disgust. Something simple. You gave him none of it.

“I’m trying to tell you something,” he said.

“You are.”

“No. That’s the problem.”

His hand pressed against his forehead.

“The thing in my head—it doesn’t come out right.”

“I’m listening.”

His eyes dropped. “I’m not good.” The words were quiet. Simple. “I mean it. There’s something wrong.”

“Andrew—”

“Don’t make it soft.” His voice cracked. “You take everything and make it into something I can live with.”

The anger slipped for a moment. Underneath it was fear. Raw and exposed.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

You swallowed.

He looked away. “I did everything they wanted. I tried.” His hands opened helplessly. “Useful,” he said finally. “That was the good one.”

Your heart ached.

“I wasn’t easy.”

“You don’t have to be.”

His face tightened. “You say that because you don’t know what it means.”

“Then tell me.”

He hesitated. 

“I get stuck.”

He looked away.

“I miss things. I watch people, try to figure them out, and sometimes I still get it wrong.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not okay.”

“It is with me.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“Maybe.”

He froze.

So you kept your voice steady. 

“Maybe some days. People get tired, Andrew. That doesn’t mean they leave.”

His mouth parted slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I know I’m still here.”

For a second he looked almost young. Lost. Then he stepped back.

“That’s not enough.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know why you’re still here.”

The words escaped him before he could stop them. You didn’t move.

His face twisted. “I don’t know why.”

“Because I want to be.”

He shook his head. “There are people who don’t do this.”

“What?”

He gestured helplessly between you. “All of it.”

You understood. The anger. The confusion. The sharp edges he couldn’t smooth down.

“There are people who can just be,” he said bitterly. “People who can be loved and not turn it into—” The sentence broke apart. “You should’ve picked somebody else.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want somebody else.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Hope flashed there. Small and terrifying.

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

His voice cracked. “You like the coffee. The dogs. The hoodie.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “Yes.”

“That’s not me.”

“It is.”

“It’s not enough.”

“I didn’t say it was everything.”

His eyes were wet now. “You keep finding pieces. Like that makes a whole person.”

“It can.”

He shook his head. “There are other pieces.”

“I know.”

“Bad ones.”

“I know enough to know they’re there.”

For once, he had no answer. You stepped closer. He didn’t move away.

“I’m not asking for every bad thing you’ve ever done. I’m not asking you to explain your whole life so I can decide if you’re worth loving.”

He flinched.

“I already decided.”

Andrew stared at you. His breath shook.

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Love isn’t a prize for people who make it through life untouched.”

His brow furrowed.

You swallowed. “You’ve done terrible things.”

Pain crossed his face. You let the truth stand.

“But monsters don’t worry about the damage they leave behind.”

His breathing caught.

“Monsters don’t sit outside kennels because a dog is scared.”

His eyes closed.

“Monsters don’t bring coffee and pretend they didn’t.”

His mouth trembled.

“Monsters don’t stand in front of someone they want and try to protect them from the worst parts of themselves.”

Andrew opened his eyes. They were wet. “I’m not good.”

“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”

“I’m not peaceful.”

“I’m not asking for a life without pain.”

He shook his head, searching for words. Finally, barely above a whisper:

“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

There it was. The real question.

You lifted your hand but stopped short of touching him.

“I think peace is something people build,” you said softly. “Not something one person hands over finished.”

He stared at you.

“I think it’s telling the truth when it’s ugly. Staying when leaving would be easier.”

His throat worked.

“I think it’s this.”

“This isn’t peace.”

“No,” you said. “But it could be the beginning of it.”

For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he leaned into your palm. His eyes closed. The breath that left him was unsteady. You stepped closer. His hand caught your wrist. Not to pull you away. To keep you there.

“You’re still scared,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

His eyes opened.

“But I’m not leaving because you’re scared too.”

Something in his face folded. Not dramatically. Just enough to reveal the wound underneath.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Then don’t do anything yet.”

He swallowed.

“Just stay.”

His fingers tightened around your wrist. Not hard. Enough.

“I can do that.”

The words were rough. Fragile. A promise small enough to carry.

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Okay.”

The shelter was quiet behind you. Dogs sleeping. The world holding still. Then Andrew glanced at your mouth. Back to your eyes. The question was there. Terrified. Hopeful.

You answered by moving closer. Slowly enough that he could stop you. He didn’t.

The kiss was barely a kiss at first. A brush of mouths. A question. His lips trembled against yours, and your heart broke all over again because even this felt like something he was afraid to want.

You kissed him back. Softly. Clearly. Your hand stayed against his cheek. His hand stayed around your wrist. Then his other hand rose, hesitant, settling at your waist like he was asking permission.

You leaned into him. He made a small, wrecked sound. The sound seemed to surprise him. Like he hadn’t meant to let you hear it. His fingers tightened at your waist. Not possessive. Just desperate. Just real.

The kiss deepened by a fraction. Enough to stop feeling like a question. Enough to feel like an answer.

Andrew’s forehead furrowed as if he was fighting something even now, the instinct to pull away, to apologize, to ruin the moment before it could matter. Instead he stayed. And when your thumb brushed his cheek, he broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft exhale against your mouth that sounded painfully close to relief.

His hand left your wrist. For one terrifying second you thought he was retreating. Then he cupped the back of your neck. Careful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. The gesture stole your breath. Because Andrew never reached for things he wanted.

He held himself back. Made himself smaller. But not now. Not this time. When he kissed you again, it was still gentle, still uncertain, but there was want in it now. Trust. The beginning of belief. And that felt bigger than passion ever could.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. His breath shook. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Not happy. Not sad. Just overwhelmed.

“You’re still here,” he whispered.

Like he was testing the fact. Like he needed to hear it out loud.

You brushed your nose against his.

“Yeah.”

His eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Vulnerable. And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look away.

You stayed there with him. Not fixing. Not saving. Just holding the moment steady until he could breathe inside it. Nothing was solved. Nothing was erased.

But Andrew Cody, who had spent his whole life being told he was too much and never enough, stood beneath the dim shelter light with your hand against his face and let himself believe, for one impossible second, that maybe love did not have to be earned by becoming someone else.

Maybe it could begin here.

Messy.

Frightened.

Imperfect.

Still chosen.