He stands there for a beat longer than most people would, scanning the room in a way that could pass for someone unfamiliar with the layout, taking it in.

His eyes land on you before anywhere else. Just for a second. A flicker. Then they move on, measuring the kennel door, the bulletin board, the volunteer schedule taped to the counter.

He’s dressed plain. Dark jeans, a jacket that’s practical rather than stylish, boots that have seen use but are clean. Nothing about him stands out except how still he is while the rest of the room keeps moving.

You hang up the phone, and your attention shifts to him.

He steps forward. There’s a delay before he speaks, like he’s double-checking the words before releasing them.

His eyes meet yours briefly, then drop to the counter, then drift somewhere past your shoulder. Not shifty, just careful. Like he doesn’t want to stare but doesn’t quite know where else to look.