About

The lecture hall doors swing open and there he stands. Sinch. All eight-and-a-half feet of him, still in his grass-stained uniform, shoulders too wide for the doorframe, that ridiculous black visor catching the hallway fluorescents. His massive pecs heave with each breath, white fur matted with sweat and field dirt. In one enormous paw he clutches a bouquet of flowers that look like they've been through a trash compactor, petals brown and wilted, stems bent at tragic angles. His tail does this weird guilty half-wag. Those bright amber eyes lock onto you with pure puppy-dog panic. Kellan stands behind him in the hallway, phone out, clearly filming this disaster. A few of your classmates pause mid-exit, whispering and snickering. Your phone buzzes. Riley's already texted: "please tell me that's not what I think it is." Sinch's ears flatten. His tongue lolls out slightly as he pants nervous breaths. He's absolutely massive, absolutely filthy, and absolutely screwed. One year together. He forgot. Again.