The day I found Milo—no, Ethan—was just another ordinary evening.

I had just wrapped up an exhausting project and was taking a walk through my neighborhood, completely drained. My mind still churned with thoughts of this month's KPI targets and next month's rent. Life felt like lukewarm tap water—flat and utterly boring.


That's when I spotted him in the corner of a flower bed.

A dirty, dusty little creature huddled beneath the bushes, partially hidden by several large banana leaves, trembling. At first, I thought it was just another abandoned stray, and my heart ached at the sight. It wasn't until I got closer that I realized this fellow looked rather… peculiar.

His face was longer than a typical dog's, with triangular ears standing at attention. His gray fur was streaked with silver that caught the sunset with an almost metallic sheen. But what truly stood out were his eyes—amber and startlingly clear. When he looked at me, I saw neither the fear nor aggression typical of strays, but something else entirely… a spark of intelligence mingled with surprise, confusion, and something far more complex.


In that moment, something tugged at the most tender part of my heart.

"Hey there, little one." I crouched down and slowly extended my hand. "Are you lost?"


He remained perfectly still, those beautiful eyes fixed on me without blinking. Though his body was tense, I sensed no hostility.

Something compelled me to pick him up. He was surprisingly light, his coat matted with dirt and leaves, smelling oddly like rain-soaked grass. He tensed in my arms but didn't struggle, instead burying his head against me as if seeking shelter.

"Well now, Aurora, found yourself an exotic breed?" Mr. Zhang, the security guard at our complex entrance, poked his head out with a grin. "That's one handsome dog—those eyes look almost human! Must be rare. Better keep him close or someone might try to snatch him up."

I smiled and mumbled something noncommittal before hurrying home, this small warm bundle of life cradled against my chest.

Only after I'd closed my door did I properly examine my new "roommate."

I brought him to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As warm water cascaded over him, washing away layers of grime, a stunning silver-gray coat emerged—the kind of color that looked almost designer-bred. He resisted at first, whimpering anxiously, but with gentle coaxing and soft strokes, he gradually relaxed. Eventually, he even began awkwardly nuzzling my palm.

I gave him a simple, straightforward name: Milo.

After his bath and a thorough blow-dry, I scrounged up the last few slices of beef from my fridge. Unlike most hungry strays who devour food in seconds, he ate with surprising delicacy—taking small, measured bites and chewing thoroughly. When finished, he fastidiously licked his muzzle clean.

I sat cross-legged on the floor watching him. He sat opposite me, watching me right back.

That night, he ignored the plush bed I'd prepared, instead stubbornly positioning himself at the edge of my mattress, his head resting on my slippers like some vigilant guardian.

Later I'd discover he was no guardian at all—he was a complete fraud.

Milo's intelligence was uncanny. He understood every word I said—when I said "sit," he never confused it with "lie down." If I asked him to "bring the remote," he'd extract it precisely from a jumble of items. Once when my phone died and I muttered, "Where's my charger?" he immediately nudged open the bedroom door and returned with the cable from my nightstand.

In my amazement, I figured I'd simply stumbled upon the Einstein of canines.

Until I took him to the vet.

"Ma'am, we don't administer wolf vaccines here." The veterinarian pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me that special look reserved for complete idiots—the third time he'd repeated himself in five minutes.

"What??? Doctor? Could you please check again? This is a dog, right?" I stared at him, completely blindsided.

With a weary sigh, the doctor pointed out Milo's razor-sharp canines and paw structure—distinctly non-canine—while delivering an impromptu zoology lecture.

I stumbled out of the clinic with Milo in my arms, my mind reeling.

A wolf? That sad-eyed little creature I'd rescued was actually a wolf?

From that day forward, I began studying Milo with fresh, suspicious eyes. He stared back with those liquid amber eyes, innocent as could be.

Damn it! That look was identical to my ex-boyfriend Ethan's!

Once suspicion takes root, it grows like wildfire. Soon I noticed more and more peculiarities.

Milo was pathologically possessive. When I worked, he had to lie at my feet; when I watched TV, he needed to be in my lap; when I slept, he insisted on resting against my arm, his warm breath rhythmically caressing my skin before he could drift off. The moment I left his sight, he'd emit anxious little whimpers.

Some of Milo's behaviors were unnervingly human. Once when I was frantically searching for an important pen, he trotted to my bookshelf and deliberately—if clumsily—pawed at a thick volume. When I pulled it out, there was my pen, tucked between its pages.

Another time, while I was sobbing through a tearjerker movie, he actually nudged a tissue box toward me with his paws, then pressed his furry head against my cheek, making soothing rumbles deep in his throat.

Those gestures, those expressions… they were hauntingly familiar.

During one sleepless night, as I absently stroked his silky fur and studied his sleeping profile, I whispered: "Milo, why are you… so damn similar to my ex-boyfriend?"

The creature in my arms suddenly stiffened, his breathing hitching for just a moment. Though he quickly recovered, that split-second reaction was like a stone dropped into the already churning waters of my suspicions.

My ex-boyfriend, Ethan. The jerk who had carved his presence into my life before vanishing without a trace.

An absolutely ridiculous idea began taking root in my mind.

I started watching him covertly. I discovered that after I fell asleep, he would use his paw to unlock my phone—my password was Ethan's birthday. He'd open my photo gallery and stare for ages at the only picture I had left of Ethan and me. In that photo, Ethan's gaze was heartbreakingly tender.

Once, while watching TV, I casually remarked: "This actor reminds me of Ethan."

Milo's ears shot up instantly. He jerked his head from his half-dozing state and fixed the screen with laser focus, his entire body tensing like a drawn bowstring.

My heart stuttered in my chest.

I decided to test my theory.

I launched a series of experiments. First, I ordered takeout drowning in cilantro—Ethan's most loathed food. When it arrived, Milo took one sniff and recoiled three steps in visible disgust.

I sat on the couch with my laptop, muttering theatrically: "How should I fix this proposal? It's driving me crazy." Then, mimicking Ethan's old habit, I absently drummed my fingers in a specific pattern on the armrest. The next instant, Milo raised his paw and tapped the exact same rhythm against my thigh.

One coincidence after another pushed me toward an inescapable conclusion.

The final blow to my rational mind came on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

I was sorting through old mementos, preparing to box up painful memories. As I lifted the crystal music box Ethan had given me for our hundred-day anniversary, it slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor with a sickening crack, shattering into pieces.

It was one of my most treasured possessions.

I froze, my heart splintering along with the crystal.

Before I could move, a gray blur shot across the room. Milo, heedless of the sharp edges that might cut him, frantically nudged aside the larger pieces with his nose. Then, with extreme care, he picked up the largest fragment—the one engraved with our initials.

He lifted his gaze to mine, those amber eyes swimming with anxiety, regret, and a pain so profound it took my breath away. That expression was identical to Ethan's when he'd first presented me with the music box.

I stared at him. He stared back. Time seemed suspended between us.

In that moment, all my doubts, theories, and wild speculations crystallized into certainty.

Slowly, I knelt down and reached out, gently stroking his trembling head.

It was him.

This clingy, jealous, impossibly clever little wolf who fretted over me was Ethan.

My jerk of an ex-boyfriend.

He stood there with the fragment between his teeth, looking up at me with bewildered eyes tinged with guilt, as if apologizing for breaking my treasure.

He had no clue that his cover was completely blown.