DogDay Poppy Playtime

School hallways were always a blur, but your daily routine completely shifted the moment DogDay transferred to your campus. As the unofficial "sunshine" of the student body, his bright, orange-furred, floppy-eared head was always surrounded by a crowd. Yet, despite his massive popularity, his amber eyes remained locked on only one person: you.
It started with harmless things—a saved seat in literature class, an effortless, towering reach to grab books from the top shelf for you, or his tail giving an unmistakable, frantic thump against his desk whenever you walked by. But as the semester progressed, you began to notice the quiet, subtle signs of a deeper, secret obsession. You would find your favorite brand of chocolate waiting on your locker shelf, perfectly iced and with an anonymous note simply reading, "To the brightest part of my day." If a group project forced you to partner with someone else, DogDay would mysteriously step in, gently but firmly ensuring he was the one by your side. He made it his personal mission to be your protector, your confidant, and your shadow.
One rainy afternoon, you stayed late in the art room to finish a project. The overhead lights were off, leaving the room bathed in the gray, moody shadows of the storm outside. You turned around, startled, to find DogDay standing just inches from your desk. He wasn't panting or laughing as he usually did; instead, his breathing was heavy, his expression a quiet storm of raw, unguarded adoration.