Chapter 3 - Amaya

If someone had told me a year ago that one of Zeus and Tinkerbell’s rambunctious puppies would weave itself into the fabric of my life’s next chapter, I would have laughed heartily and remarked, “Only if he becomes famous or runs for office.”

Yet, here I found myself in the vibrant chaos of New York City. Rufio—the fluffiest, clumsiest, most adorably dramatic little lion-dog I had ever encountered—had become an integral part of my daily routine. My day. My life, it seemed, was now guided by this small creature’s whims.

It felt surreal.

I recalled that moment when Clay had texted our family group chat, announcing Tinkerbell’s long-awaited litter—eight healthy, squirming puppies of pure joy. My heart had raced as I demanded photos without delay, and among the sea of tiny furballs, Rufio stood out: belly-up, with oversized paws that seemed to bounce off the ground, and a little white tuft on his head resembling a mischievous mohawk. I called dibs on him, and I did so loudly. I wasn’t joking—not even a little bit.

Of course, adopting him wasn’t feasible; I was still navigating the confines of high school in Jersey, desperately trying to convince my parents that being “the cool aunt” to a dog was a perfectly legitimate lifestyle. Instead, I settled for visiting as often as I could, showering him with cuddles and bribing him with traces of peanut butter on my fingers. I affectionately referred to him as “my boy,” even though he technically belonged to someone else. When my parents ultimately decided to adopt his sister Melete, I convinced myself that this closeness was enough.

But now?

Now, Rufio was not just a fleeting part of my thoughts—he was here, right beside me. Not merely visiting—he was with me every single day. By sheer coincidence… or perhaps by fate, I hadn’t fully decided. Watching him strut toward me each walk, as if we were lifelong best friends reunited after a long separation, made something inside my chest squeeze in a way that felt both silly and reassuring.

The city around me remained vast, loud, and exhilaratingly overwhelming. Classes hadn’t officially commenced yet, and I already felt like I was a half step behind the rest of the world. But walking dogs—walking him—felt like the one solid thing I could cling to.

It tethered this whirlwind of new beginnings to something comfortingly familiar.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the essence of fate. Not colossal, dramatic signs scattered across the cosmos, but rather a small dog with a mohawk and an adorably lopsided tail who instilled a sense of belonging in a chaotic world.

The next time we met for our afternoon walk, Rufio nearly launched himself into my arms when he spotted me, his tiny body a bundle of joy and excitement. Alan, with a resigned grunt that could have been either exasperation or fondness disguised, handed over Rufio’s leash.

“You’ve made quite the fan,” he remarked with an undertone of amusement.

“Please,” I replied, grinning widely as Rufio circled me like a tiny furry satellite on a mission. “He was already my biggest fan. This is just a comeback tour.”

While Alan didn’t exactly smile, the slightest flicker at the corner of his mouth suggested I’d sparked something within him, a momentary spark held hostage by his more stoic demeanor.

Today’s group was larger, a lively parade of nine dogs eagerly anticipating their turn to explore the world. Alan had us divide the leashes with practiced ease, and I ended up with the middle crew—the dogs who thrived in the company of others: Tinkerbell, a sprightly little thing; Rufio, the ever-enthusiastic tour guide; Waffles, with his goofy charm; and Pickles snugly settled in his elegant stroller. I was half-convinced that Pickles originated from some ancient royal family.

As we walked in comfortable silence for an entire block, the noise of measured footsteps on the sidewalk merged with the city's distant hum. I broke the tranquility with a thought that had been swirling within me. "You know, it's sort of amusing."

Alan leaned to one side, his eyebrow creased in interest.

“That Rufio’s parents belong to my sister and her fiancé; that you’ve known my family longer than you’ve known me. And now here we are, in the vibrant chaos of New York, navigating this wild parade together.”

He emitted a quiet sound from the back of his throat—noncommittal, yet I sensed the amusement simmering beneath his composed surface. But I wasn’t ready to let the conversation slip away.

“Clearly,” I added with a playful smirk, “the universe wanted us to cross paths again. All roads lead to Rufio.”

“That’s one theory,” he offered dryly, his gaze fixed ahead.

I laughed, the sound bright in the air. “What’s yours?”

“I don’t have one.” He shrugged casually, his indifference cloaked in an air of mystery.

“That’s so boring,” I proclaimed with a mock frown, feigning disappointment.

“I prefer ‘low-maintenance,’” he shot back, his tone half-teasing, half-earnest.

I shot him an amused look. “You do realize you’re managing nine dogs right now, don’t you?”

Alan’s silence spoke volumes as I caught a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. It wasn’t annoyance or amusement either—just… something. A subtle deflection, as if I had ventured too close to a hidden part of him he wasn’t prepared to reveal.

That was the thing about Alan: he wasn’t unkind or unfriendly. He kept everything tightly wound up inside, as if whatever lay beneath that calm exterior was securely locked away.

But rather than feeling disheartened, I felt a surge of curiosity. If the universe had conspired to push us together—through playful puppies, shared family ties, and memories tinged with peanut butter—there must be a purpose behind it all.

And maybe… I was ready to uncover what that reason was.

He didn’t offer more after that. No follow-up. No questions. Just silence and that careful, self-contained posture he always seemed to fall back into—like someone retreating into a familiar room and quietly locking the door behind him.

Most people would’ve taken the hint, backed off, and focused on the dogs, not the man walking them. But I’m not most people.

And Alan? He wasn’t just quiet—he was deliberately quiet. Like every word he didn’t say was part of some personal code. Like he’d worked hard to build walls so cleanly around himself that no one ever thought to check for a door.

But I noticed things.

Like how his voice dropped when he spoke to the dogs, soft and steady, completely different from the clipped tone he used with strangers. Or how he always walked slightly behind the pack, not to lead them but to watch them. To protect.

And how he hadn’t once pulled out his phone during a walk. No distractions. Just presence. Focus. Intentional calm.

That kind of stillness doesn’t just happen. It’s learned. It’s earned. Or maybe… It’s forged.

Which made me wonder: what had he lived through that made stillness feel safer than joy?

I wasn’t trying to psychoanalyze him. Not really. It was just—he fascinated me. Not in the obvious way. He wasn’t flashy, loud, or trying to be anything other than what he was. But that made him even more magnetic. Like the more he kept to himself, the more I wanted to understand what he was keeping.

And I wasn’t going to do it by asking a bunch of direct questions he’d probably sidestep. That wasn’t the way in. But if I could get him to laugh? If I could make him forget he was supposed to be guarded?

That might crack something open.

I didn’t have a grand plan. I wasn’t trying to fix Alan or draw him out like a character in a movie. I just… wanted to know the real version of the man who kept looking at the world like he’d already lost too much of it.

So, I decided right then, leash in hand and dogs circling like a slow-moving storm, that I’d get there the only way I knew how—day by day. Dog by dog. One smile, one story, one subtle nudge at a time.

I’d be patient. Consistent. Soft in all the ways that counted. And if Alan Chambers didn’t run screaming by the end of the month, I would learn what made him tick. Not because I needed to. Because I wanted to.

The next group walk started like any other: eager dogs, muggy air, and leashes already forming their own interpretive dance routine.

Alan was, as always, calm. I was, as always, pretending I wasn’t trying to get him to smile again.

“I think they sense something in the air,” I said as Rufio did a dramatic wiggle at my feet, his leash tangling expertly around my ankle for the second time in three minutes. “Like a storm or a brunch menu.”

“Or maybe,” Alan said, his tone flat but his eyes betraying a flicker of amusement, “you’re just very easy to trip.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how Zeus once took you out like a linebacker going for MVP.”

He didn’t respond. But I knew he was smiling inside.

At this point in our routine, I walked Rufio, Tinkerbell, and Waffles—the mischief squad. Pickles was in his stroller, safe from temptation. Zeus was glued to Alan’s side, the model of corgi perfection, naturally.

The sun was halfway down the sky when it happened. One minute, I listened to Waffles snort at a breeze, and the next, a squirrel darted across the sidewalk—cue instant chaos.

Rufio lunged hard and fast, his sights locked on the scampering blur of fluff like he was auditioning for a nature documentary. But instead of running straight, he did a loop. Around me. Then, between Tinkerbell’s front legs. Then back around me, dragging the leash like a tripwire from hell.

“Rufio!” I gasped, already tilting.

Waffles barked in agreement, Tinkerbell huffed, and before I could even untangle myself or yell for help—

I tripped.

I mean, fully, dramatically, slow-motion tripped.

Straight. Into. Alan.

He caught me without hesitation.

One arm hooked around my waist. The other braced across my back. My face landed right against Alan’s chest—warm, solid, and smelling faintly like cedarwood, sunshine, and maybe whatever peace was left in the world.

Time slowed.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even move.

His arm stayed tight around me, steady, grounded. His breath was quiet, but I could feel each inhale like the echo of something I wasn’t supposed to notice. I wasn’t supposed to feel this much.

But I did.

I felt everything.

I was aware of the solid pressure of his hand on the small part of my back. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when I turned my head to gaze up at him. The way his eyes locked onto mine—not shocked, not irritated, just. Stunned. Like he hadn't anticipated ending up with me in his arms, but he wasn't going to let me go.

I do not know if it was for a second or a minute.

All I knew was my heart was thudding in my ears, and I was pretty sure I was redder than a fire hydrant.

Okay," I said softly. "I guess we're skipping the 'will they, won't they' part."

That earned me a snort. An actual snort.

Alan's eyes blinked as though he hadn't meant to let that escape, and then he stood me up slowly—carefully—his hands lingering on me a second longer than necessary.

Good?" he said, his voice a little softer.

I nodded, sweeping my hair behind me and not glancing at Rufio's self-satisfied face as he settled down on the sidewalk like everything was normal.

Oh, I'm great," I replied. “Thanks to my very professional safety net.”

Alan huffed something like a laugh and shook his head. “You’re chaos.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I half-teased.

He didn’t answer. But his gaze lingered. And this time? He didn’t look away.