Bran waited for the bite that would finally end it.

Instead, a sharp bark cracked through the alley.

“Oi! Enough!”

The pressure on his throat vanished so suddenly he coughed, rolling onto his side as the Great Dane stepped back with a snarl. Bran blinked through watering eyes, ears ringing, and caught sight of another dog weaving between the pack.

Golden fur.

A retriever—leaner than most he’d seen back at the ranch, ribs faintly visible beneath his coat but still carrying himself with a strange sort of easy confidence. One ear bent crookedly at the tip.

“You’ll kill him before Slade even sees him,” the retriever said dryly. “And then Dorian’ll be in one of his moods again.”

The Great Dane’s lips peeled back.

“Watch your mouth, Finch.”

“Then stop sitting on the collie like he insulted your mother.”

A few of the surrounding dogs snickered.

The Dane—apparently named Dorian—looked tempted to snap at the retriever instead, but after a tense second he merely huffed and stepped fully off Bran. Relief flooded through Bran’s bruised body all at once, though it was quickly replaced by shaking pain.

“Up,” Dorian growled.

Bran didn’t move quickly enough.

A massive paw shoved him hard.

“I said up.”

Wincing, Bran staggered onto trembling legs. The alley spun around him and several of the street dogs laughed immediately.

“Careful, prince might faint.”

“Someone get him a velvet pillow.”

“Bet he’s never missed a meal in his life.”

Bran flattened his ears, trying not to show fear as snarling faces surrounded him from every side. Mangy mutts. Scarred shepherds. Thick-necked bulldogs. Every one of them smelled like dust, rust, old blood, and city grime.

The retriever moved to stand beside him before Dorian could shove him again.

“Easy there, farm boy,” he murmured quietly enough that only Bran heard. “Try not to fall over.”

Bran shot him a suspicious glance.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Who said I was?” the retriever replied. “I just don’t want to drag a corpse back.”

More laughter erupted around them as they were pushed forward through the streets.

Bran limped beside the retriever, trying to memorize every turn despite the throbbing in his head. The city around them slowly changed. The crowded market streets gave way to cracked pavement and abandoned lots. Windows were boarded up here. Rusted fences leaned sideways. The air smelled faintly of smoke and oil.

Eventually towering heaps of twisted metal rose ahead of them.

A junkyard.

Cars stacked atop one another like crushed tin toys. Broken appliances. Tangled chains. Mountains of scrap stretching endlessly behind a fence patched together from sheet metal and wire.

Several dogs perched atop old vehicles lifted their heads as the group approached.

“Dorian’s back.”

“And he brought presents.”

“Ugly presents.”

A chorus of barking laughter followed.

The gates screeched open.

The moment Bran and the retriever stepped inside, dogs appeared everywhere.

On refrigerators.

Under trucks.

Along narrow pathways between scrap piles.

Watching.

Sizing them up.

Bran’s stomach twisted.

Dorian strode ahead proudly while the others crowded close behind their captives.

“We found these two snooping around near the south bridge,” Dorian announced.

“We weren’t snooping,” Bran snapped before he could stop himself.

Several dogs barked in surprise.

“Ohhh, this one’s got teeth.”

Dorian turned slowly.

The Great Dane’s grin was all threat.

“Maybe we should pull a few out then.”

Bran stiffened immediately.

The retriever sighed beside him. “You really don’t know when to quit, huh?”

A deep voice rolled across the junkyard before Bran could answer.

“That depends.”

Everything went still.

Dogs stepped aside almost instantly, heads lowering with sudden respect.

From atop a mound of crushed cars descended the largest dog Bran had ever seen.

A Bernese mountain dog.

Massive shoulders shifted beneath thick black fur marked with rich rust and white. Old scars crossed his muzzle and chest, half-hidden beneath his coat. He moved with heavy confidence, broad paws thudding against metal as silence spread around him.

Slade.

Even Bran, who had never heard the name before today, somehow knew immediately.

The Bernese stopped directly in front of them.

Golden-brown eyes settled first on the retriever.

“Finch.”

“Slade.”

Then those eyes shifted to Bran.

And stayed there.

Bran suddenly became acutely aware of how disheveled he looked. Dust-coated fur. Bruised muzzle. One ear half-folded awkwardly.

Slade’s gaze swept slowly over him anyway with unmistakable interest.

“Well now,” the Bernese rumbled.

Several nearby dogs exchanged knowing looks.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Caught him chasing Loam and Lester through the market. Thought he might be scouting.”

Bran frowned. “Scouting what?”

“The fact you asked that,” Finch muttered, “means you probably aren’t.”

Slade circled Bran once.

Not threateningly.

Almost thoughtfully.

Bran tried not to shrink beneath the attention, though the Bernese was enormous up close—thickly built with enough muscle to make Dorian suddenly seem less intimidating.

“What’s your business here, collie?” Slade asked.

“I don’t have business here.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t!”

More chuckles spread through the gathered dogs.

Slade stopped directly in front of him again, close enough that Bran could smell cedar, iron, and faint traces of rainwater in his fur.

“You usually chase strange dogs halfway across the city for fun?” Slade asked.

Bran opened his mouth.

Then he closed it.

“…Maybe.”

That earned a booming laugh from the Bernese.

“Oh, I like this one.”

Dorian looked horrified.

Finch looked deeply unsurprised.

Bran blinked.

“What?”

Slade leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly.

“You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I haven’t decided which yet.”

A few whistles and teasing barks erupted around them.

Bran’s ears heated instantly.

“I’m not stupid.”

“No?” Slade asked lightly. “You sprinted straight into another pack’s territory alone.”

“…I almost had them.”

That made Slade laugh again, louder this time.

“Stars above, he’s serious.”

Even Finch snorted beside him.

The Bernese’s expression softened into something amused—something almost warm.

“Well,” Slade said, “whether you meant to or not, you’ve trespassed in my territory now.”

Bran swallowed.

Slade tilted his head slightly.

“So tell me, smoothcoat…” he said, voice dropping into an easy rumble, “what exactly am I supposed to do with you?”

Bran lifted his chin despite the aching in his legs. “You can start by letting me go.”

The junkyard immediately erupted into laughter. Dorian barked out a booming guffaw while another dog nearly slipped off the hood of a rusted truck from laughing so hard.
“Oh he’s bold.”

 “Or suicidal.”
Finch merely sat down nearby, looking as though he was settling in for entertainment. Slade, however, only watched Bran with growing amusement.
 “Let you go?” the Bernese repeated. “Just like that?”
 “Yes,” Bran said quickly, forcing confidence into his voice. “I’m not part of anything. I chased those idiots because they stole feed from a truck and—” “Borrowed,” Loam corrected from somewhere in the crowd.
“—and I got carried away,” Bran snapped. “That’s all. So if you let me leave, I’ll go back where I came from and you’ll never see me again.”
 Several dogs immediately booed at the suggestion.
“Aww, c’mon boss.”
 “You just got him!”
 “He’s funny.”
Slade’s tail gave one slow wag.
 “That sounds tragically boring.”
Bran stared at him.
“You can’t just keep me here!”
“Sure I can.”
“You literally can’t!”
 “Pretty sure I just did.”
More snickering spread through the gathered pack.
Bran’s face heated hotter as Slade stepped a little closer again, towering over him comfortably.
 “You know,” Slade mused, “most dogs start trembling when they’re surrounded by half the junkyard.”
“I’m trying very hard not to.”
 That earned another laugh from the Bernese. Damn, Bran hated that deep laugh.
 One of the older mutts perched atop a washing machine barked loudly, “Boss, quit staring at him and get a room already!”
The entire yard exploded.
“How romantic!”
“Dorian can decorate it with bones!”
 “Think they’ll hold paws too?”
 Finch actually choked trying not to laugh. Even some of Slade’s tougher-looking dogs were grinning openly now.

To Bran’s utter horror, Slade looked genuinely thoughtful for a second.
“Hm,” the Bernese rumbled. “Not the worst idea I’ve heard today.”
 The reaction was immediate. Dorian nearly coughed up a lung. Loam shrieked with laughter. Finch covered his face with one paw. Bran, meanwhile, looked as though his soul had just attempted to leave his body.
“What?!” His ears burned scarlet beneath his sable fur. “I am not— we are not—!”
 “Oh, he blushes,” somebody cackled. “That’s adorable.”
“Boss is doomed.”
Slade’s grin widened further as Bran stumbled backward a step. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” Bran accused.
“Absolutely.”
 “You don’t even know me!”
 “That’s the interesting part.”
Bran groaned softly under his breath. He tried desperately to regain control of the conversation.
“Look,” he said quickly, “you don’t actually want trouble with ranch dogs. My human’s probably already looking for me, and if I disappear—”
 “Your human,” Slade repeated, though without mockery this time.
 Bran hesitated.
The Bernese studied him quietly for a moment.
“You care about them a lot,” Slade observed.
“…Of course I do.”
 Some of the humor faded from the junkyard then, several dogs exchanging glances. Slade’s expression softened just slightly.
“Hm.” Bran immediately latched onto the opening.
 “So there’s no point keeping me here,” he pressed. “I don’t know anything about your territory or your pack or whatever this is. I just want to go home.”
Slade regarded him for several long seconds. Then— “You talk too much.”
 Bran sputtered indignantly while nearby dogs barked with renewed laughter. “But,” Slade continued lazily, “you make a decent argument.” Hope flickered sharply in Bran’s chest. Only for Slade to ruin it immediately.
 “So I’ll compromise.” Bran narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“What compromise?”
 The Bernese smiled. “You stay for dinner first.” Groans and cheers erupted around the yard.
“THAT’S NOT A COMPROMISE!” Bran barked. Slade’s grin only widened further. “Sure it is. I compromised down from forever.”
 Bran looked utterly scandalized.

“That is not how compromising works!”

Slade laughed again, deep and warm, the sound rolling through the junkyard while nearby dogs continued snickering amongst themselves.

“Cute too,” the Bernese mused.

Bran froze.

“…What?”

“You’re cute when you’re offended.”

“I am not cute.”

“Oh, you definitely are.”

A chorus of agreement immediately rose from the surrounding dogs.

“Absolutely.”

“Painfully cute.”

“Boss is gone.”

Bran’s jaw dropped open in horror as his ears flattened hard against his skull.

Finch looked moments away from collapsing with laughter.

“This place is unbelievable,” Bran muttered.

Slade stepped closer again, amusement dancing openly in his eyes now.

The larger dog lowered his head slightly, voice dropping into an easy rumble only partly meant for privacy.

“You get all puffed up when you argue,” he said. “Then your ears flatten when you realize everyone’s staring at you.”

Bran immediately tried to force his ears back upright.

That only made Slade grin wider.

“And there it is again.”

Bran felt like combusting on the spot.

“You are insufferable.”

“And you,” Slade replied smoothly, “are a truly flustered beauty.”

The entire junkyard lost its collective mind.

Dogs howled.

Someone actually started pounding a paw repeatedly against an old car hood.

Dorian looked physically pained.

Finch rolled onto his side laughing.

Meanwhile Bran stared at Slade as though the Bernese had just set fire to the moon.

“I— what— you can’t just SAY things like that!”

“Seems like I just did.”

Bran turned bright red beneath his fur.

Slade seemed entirely delighted by this development.

“Well,” the Bernese announced casually to the others, “I’m stealing the collie for a while.”

“NO—”

“Have fun!”

“Don’t scare him off, boss!”

“Too late for that,” Finch called.

Before Bran could protest further, Slade nudged him gently but firmly toward a maze of scrap piles near the far end of the yard.

Bran hesitated only briefly before following.

Mostly because every other option currently involved about thirty amused street dogs.

The deeper parts of the junkyard were quieter.

The noise of the others faded behind towering walls of rusted metal and stacked vehicles. String lights hung overhead in places, dimly glowing as evening slowly settled over the city. Bran caught sight of odd little touches everywhere—blankets tucked into old truck beds, hidden sleeping spots beneath tarps, collections of shiny objects carefully stored on shelves.

Not quite the savage den he’d imagined.

Slade eventually led him through a narrow gap between two piled-up vans into a surprisingly open space hidden in the center of the maze.

Bran blinked.

It almost looked…comfortable.

A faded blanket was spread beneath the partial shelter of a rusted awning. Lanterns hung nearby. Someone had dragged cushions from old patio furniture into a loose circle, and plants—actual plants—grew from buckets and cracked containers around the edges.

“You live here?” Bran asked before he could stop himself.

Slade looked faintly amused.

“Disappointed?”

“I just expected more…bones and doom.”

That earned another laugh.

“Sorry to ruin the image.”

Bran lingered awkwardly near the entrance while Slade settled easily onto the large blanket.

The Bernese looked up at him.

“You planning to stand there all night?”

“I’m planning my escape.”

“Mhm.”

“I am.”

“You keep saying that,” Slade said lazily, “but you haven’t left.”

Bran opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to amuse Slade further.

The Bernese patted the blanket beside him.

“Sit down, ranch dog.”

After a second of hesitation, Bran reluctantly moved over and sat—carefully leaving a noticeable amount of space between them.

Slade looked at the gap.

Then at Bran.

Then back at the gap.

“…Really?”

“You’re enormous,” Bran defended immediately.

“And?”

“And you keep flirting with me!”

Slade’s tail thumped once against the blanket.

“I know.”

Bran made an exasperated noise.

“You enjoy embarrassing me.”

“Very much.”

“That’s awful.”

“You’re very entertaining when flustered.”

Bran groaned quietly and looked away, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into his face again.

Unfortunately, that proved difficult when Slade shifted closer—not touching, but near enough that Bran could feel heat radiating from his thick coat.

“You know,” Slade murmured, “your face gets brighter every time I compliment you.”

Bran stubbornly refused to look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh? So if I said your eyes are pretty—”

“They are not!”

“—or that your coat’s ridiculously soft looking—”

“You haven’t even touched it!”

“Yet.”

Bran nearly choked.

Slade outright laughed at that one, broad shoulders shaking.

“You are impossibly easy to fluster,” the Bernese said.

“And you are impossible.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

For a moment the teasing softened into something quieter.

Slade studied him carefully again—not mocking now, just…looking.

Bran suddenly became very aware of the closeness between them, of the dim lantern glow reflecting in Slade’s warm eyes, of how strangely calm this hidden corner of the junkyard felt compared to the chaos outside.

Then Slade ruined the moment entirely.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if you keep glaring at me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

Bran buried his face briefly in his paws with a muffled groan while Slade’s laughter echoed warmly through the junkyard hideaway~