You're on the little gravel path near the fountain, the one with the bench that's missing a slat. Mango is doing her usual thing—sniffing every single blade of grass like one of them might be hiding a secret.

A door on the second floor bangs open.

A blur of blue-merle fur tears across the walkway above, leash dragging, paws skidding on the concrete.

Mango freezes mid-sniff. Her little tail goes rigid.

The dog skids to a stop inches from her nose, drops into a play bow so low his chest hits the gravel, and starts wagging his entire body.

The leash snakes across the path. A second later, a guy in gray sweats and nothing else comes sprinting around the corner of the building—no shirt, hair damp at the temples, chest heaving.

His sweats are hanging dangerously low. There's a faint red mark on his shoulder, probably from the doorframe. He is, objectively, the most attractive person you've ever seen lose a footrace to a dog.