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Anthony liked structure.
His world worked best when it was colour-coded and timed to the minute: coffee by 6:45, run by 7:15, calls at 9 sharp. He made the bed with military precision. He kept his wardrobe like a surgical tray — navy, charcoal, black, black again.
So when his razor disappeared on Monday, he noticed.
When his socks went missing Tuesday — only the left ones — he said nothing, but looked directly at Penelope for five long seconds.
And when his calendar pinged Thursday night with the event label: “🐾 BARK BARK DAY 🐾”, he set down his wine glass and narrowed his eyes.
“Penelope.”
“Yes, dearest?” She didn’t look up from her book.
“What is this ‘bark bark day’?”
“Hmm?” She flipped a page delicately. “Oh, that? Private note.”
“Private note for what?”
She reached over, touched his knee lightly. “You’ll see.”
He would not sleep properly that night.
Friday started like any other. Coffee. Jog. Shower. Quiet grumbling about someone having used the good shampoo again.
But when he walked into the flat that evening, tie loosened, jaw tense, ready to unburden the week — he paused.
Because something moved.
Something soft. And golden. And alive.
On the rug, curled up on his cardigan — the navy one he always wore when it rained — lay a golden retriever puppy.
Tiny. Fluffy. Big brown eyes blinking up at him with devastating innocence.
Anthony stared.
The puppy tilted its head. Then yawned.
And behind him, from the kitchen, came Penelope’s voice, syrupy-sweet and utterly insufferable.
“You’re home early,” she said, walking out barefoot, wine glass in hand, as if this were perfectly normal. “We weren’t expecting you until six.”
“We?”
She ignored that. “Say hello to your son.”
“…my what?”
“Our new puppy. Golden retriever. Six weeks. Very cuddly. Somewhat drooly. He’s been sitting on your cardigan all afternoon. We think it’s imprinting.”
Anthony blinked. “Penelope.”
She nodded, utterly serious. “I’ve named him Duke of Barkington. But you can call him Tony Junior. Eloise does.”
As if on cue, her phone buzzed. A message preview lit the screen:
Eloise 👑:
The ears. The soulful eyes. The excessive shedding. It’s like looking into a mirror of my brother.
Penelope raised her brows. “I mean… she has a point.”
The puppy sneezed.
Anthony ran a hand over his face. “This is… an ambush.”
“It’s a gesture of affection,” she said sweetly, sitting on the armrest of the sofa, legs tucked under her. “You’ve been very tense lately. I thought, what would bring joy to a man like Anthony Bridgerton? And the answer came to me, clear as day: unconditional love. And chewed shoelaces.”
“I don’t need unconditional love. I need my razor back.”
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Duke has it.”
“Penelope—”
“Not anymore. He only took it once. We’ve moved on.”
The puppy stretched, then flopped onto its back, paws in the air, belly exposed like it had nothing to fear in this world. Anthony stood over it, tense, frowning.
Penelope watched him. Carefully.
“Do you hate him?” she asked lightly, but her hand curled slightly on the glass stem. “Because I can—”
“No,” he muttered.
She tilted her head.
“I don’t hate him,” he clarified, crouching down stiffly. The puppy rolled to meet him, tail thumping against the rug. “I just—” The pup licked his nose. “God, okay—fine—hello. You’re… warm.”
“He likes you,” Penelope said, smug now. “You’re his emotional support human.”
Anthony exhaled as the puppy climbed into his lap without hesitation.
He cradled the absurdly soft body.
Then glanced up at her. “This was coordinated.”
Penelope smiled, slow and wide. “Three weeks of planning, two group chats, one secret visit to the animal shelter. Do you have any idea how hard it was to smuggle in a crate without you noticing?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unwell.”
“I’m brilliant,” she corrected. “And now we’re a family.”
She sank down beside him. Nudged her shoulder against his. Rested her head on his.
“Still mad at me?”
He didn’t answer. Just let the puppy crawl up higher until it was tucked beneath his chin, a small warm loaf of fur.
Penelope reached over and placed a gentle kiss to Anthony’s temple.
“We can call him Barky for short,” she whispered. “Or Baron Fluff. Or—”
“I’m naming the next one Viscount Flufferton,” he said, eyes closed.
She laughed into his sleeve. “Deal.”
The puppy snored.
Anthony sighed again. But quieter now. One arm around the dog. One hand resting over Penelope’s knee.
Outside, it started to rain.
Inside, everything was warm.