Maxwell's POV
I didn't plan any of it. The puppy, the visit to the pet shop,none of it was premeditated. My day had been long and exhausting, the kind of workday that drains your spirit and leaves you craving something soft, something warm, something that reminds you that life isn't all business meetings, angry clients, or paperwork.
As I drove home that evening, I kept thinking about Rose, about how she had been unusually quiet the past few days. She was stressed, even though she tried to hide it behind smiles and reassurance. I knew her well enough to know when something was weighing on her, and the feeling stayed with me even as I pulled out of the office parking lot.
Maybe that was why I turned the steering wheel and veered off my usual route home. Maybe that was why the bright blue sign of the pet shop caught my attention the way it did. Or maybe it was fate or something nudging me gently in a direction I didn't expect.
All I know is that I suddenly felt this impulse to do something meaningful, something spontaneous. Something that would make Rose smile, truly smile.
So I stopped the car.
I walked into the pet shop without thinking. I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't go in with a specific breed in mind. I wasn't thinking about size, temperament, shedding, or any of the logical things people usually consider before bringing a pet home. I was simply following a feeling, that maybe a small, lively, warm creature might bring a fresh sense of joy into our home.
The bell above the door jingled lightly as I stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of hay, fresh food, and that warm animal scent I hadn't experienced in years. Rows of colorful leashes, toys, and pet food lined the walls, but I didn't really see any of it at first.
Not until I turned my head toward the enclosure area.That was when everything stopped, just for a moment.
There he was.
A tiny golden retriever pup sitting clumsily beside a stainless-steel water bowl, stumbling every few seconds as he tried to stand properly on his wobbly paws. His fur was a warm honey-gold, fluffy and soft-looking, exactly like the golden retriever my grandfather had when I was a kid.
In that instant, memories washed over me.
Me, five years old, running across my grandfather's backyard. The old dog — Simba, chasing after me, tail wagging wildly. Me burying my face into Simba's neck after falling and scraping my knee. The comfort, the warmth, the steady presence that dog was in my early life.
I hadn't thought about Simba in years.
But standing there in that pet shop, looking at this tiny golden pup staring up at me with bright, trusting eyes… it was like stepping back in time.
"Would you like to hold him?" the attendant asked, already opening the enclosure.
I didn't even answer.
I just reached out and held him.
He fit perfectly into my arms, biting lightly at my tie, then trying to lick my chin with uncoordinated excitement. I laughed genuinely, for the first time that day.
And in that moment, the decision made itself.
This little guy was coming home with me.
I paid for him, bought a starter kit of supplies, and carried him out to the car. He sat on my lap while I drove, occasionally trying to climb up to look out the window, and other times curling into a warm bundle against my stomach.
All the way home, I pictured Rose's reaction her smile, the soft laugh she made when something melted her heart, the way she would scoop the puppy into her arms. I imagined us standing together, watching the puppy explore our home.
Everything felt perfect.
When I finally opened the front door, the puppy wasted no time. The moment his paws touched the floor, he dashed across the living room like he had been waiting his entire life to run free. No hesitation. No shyness. He was exploring everything, the couch, the rug, the hallway, even the bottom of the curtains.
I chuckled and tried to keep up with him.
"Hey, slow down," I called, but he didn't listen, obviously.
I followed him up the stairs, carrying the small bag of supplies. Halfway up, I noticed our bedroom door slightly ajar. I didn't think much of it, Rose often left it that way if she stepped out to grab something from the hallway.
The puppy, however, took it as an open invitation.
Before I could react, he bolted forward, squeezing his tiny body through the gap and disappearing inside the room.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, speeding up my steps.
When I got inside, the scene hit me like a soft, heart-melting punch.
The puppy had jumped onto the bed in a clumsy attempt to reach Rose. She was half sitting, half reclining, clearly surprised, and the pup was already licking her hands enthusiastically, tail wagging with unfiltered joy.
For a second, I stood frozen, smiling stupidly.
It was adorable...unbelievably adorable.
But the smile faded almost immediately.
Something was wrong.
Rose wasn't laughing.
She wasn't smiling.
She wasn't even gently pushing the puppy away.
Her eyes were wide and alarmed. Her breathing was uneven. Red patches were spreading rapidly across her arms and neck. Her lower lip looked swollen. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tried to steady the puppy and move him away without hurting him.
"Maxwell—" she managed to say, her voice tight.
"I'm… allergic to dog saliva."
The words didn't register at first.
Allergic?
To… dog saliva?
Her skin was getting worse by the second. Hot, red, blotchy. I scooped the puppy off the bed and placed him in the hallway, closing the door quickly. Then I turned back to Rose.
Oh God. How did I not know?
She winced, scratching at her arms.
"Max, I'm okay — just… I need—"
"We're going to the hospital," I said, already lifting her into my arms.
I didn't give myself time to panic. I carried her down the stairs, grabbed my keys, got her seated in the car, and sped off. My heart was racing the entire drive. Every time I glanced at her, I saw the swelling, the rash, the discomfort, and guilt flooded my chest like ice water.
How could I have missed this?
How could I have lived with her, loved her, slept beside her, held her, and not known she was allergic dog saliva?
The emergency room was bright, sterile, and terrifying. Nurses took her in immediately. Doctors moved efficiently, calmly. They gave her medication, applied something cooling to her skin, monitored her breathing, and reassured me several times that she would be completely fine.
But I still felt like a failure.
I paced the hallway endlessly, running my hands through my hair, sitting, standing, sitting again. The puppy's leash was still in my pocket, a reminder of my mistake.
When the doctor finally stepped out and told me she was stable and recovering, relief washed over me,powerful, overwhelming, almost dizzying.
"She'll be okay," he repeated gently. "This happens. You got her here on time. She's resting now."
But even though he was reassuring, I couldn't shake the sinking feeling in my chest. I stood outside her room door, hand hovering over the handle, but I couldn't turn it.
I couldn't walk in.
Shame sat heavy on my shoulders. I felt stupid, unbelievably stupid. I wanted to surprise the woman I loved, and instead I nearly sent her into anaphylactic shock.
So I stepped back.
Leaning against the cold wall, I pulled out my phone and called David.
My secretary picked up almost instantly.
"Sir?"
"I need you to do something for me," I said quietly. "Rose… she's in the hospital. She's okay. But I can't… I can't go in right now. I need you to take her home when she's discharged. Stay with her. Make sure she's comfortable."
There was a pause.
Then, "Of course, sir. I'm on my way."
When I hung up, I exhaled slowly, rubbing my forehead. I hated myself in that moment hated the fact that my attempt at kindness had turned into carelessness. Hated that I hadn't known something so essential about the woman I loved.
All I could think was:
How the hell could I not know she was allergic?
And that question stayed with me long after the hospital lights dimmed, long after the hallway became quiet, long after the puppy's excited face faded from my mind and was replaced by Rose's swollen, frightened one.