The clinic was organized chaos—metal shelves lined with medical supplies in neat rows, a large stainless steel examination table in the center of the room, cabinets full of instruments I couldn't begin to name. The air smelled like antiseptic and clean hay, clinical but not cold, undercut by Nolan's familiar scent of eucalyptus and honey. He was standing at a counter with his back to me, organizing supplies into a worn leather bag, his sandy hair catching the light from the window above the sink like a halo.
"Hey." He turned when he heard my footsteps on the concrete floor, his green eyes sweeping over me with that quick, assessing look I was starting to recognize—the veterinarian's habit of checking for wellness that he couldn't seem to turn off. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his facerelaxed into a warm smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his whole posture opening toward me. "Ready for the grand tour?"
"As I'll ever be." My voice came out steadier than I felt, and I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide the way they were trembling slightly, my fingers curling against denim. "Where do we start?"
"The chicken coop." Nolan slung the leather bag over his shoulder, the worn strap settling across his chest, and gestured toward the door with an easy motion. His voice was light, conversational, but his green eyes were warm as they rested on my face, attentive to every micro-expression. "One of the hens has been looking off for a few days. Probably nothing serious, but I want to check on her."
We walked side by side across the yard, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed with every step, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool morning air. The day was clear and bright, the sky a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever, and the ranch spread out around us in shades of gold and green—pastures dotted with grazing cattle, white fences stretching toward the distant hills, the mountains rising like ancient sentinels on the horizon.
It was beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of place I'd never let myself imagine belonging to.
"Do you like it here?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, quiet and uncertain, carried away on the morning breeze. I kept my eyes on the path ahead, too nervous to look at him, watching my boots crunch over the gravel. "On the ranch, I mean. After everything—the packs that didn't work out, all of it. Are you happy?"
Nolan was quiet for a moment, his footsteps steady beside me, his scent wrapping around me in the wind like a gentle embrace.
"Yeah." His voice was soft, thoughtful, carrying the weight of careful consideration, of a question he'd asked himself many times before. I risked a glance at his face and found him looking out at the land, his green eyes distant but peaceful, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His sandy hair ruffled in the breeze, and there was something settled about him—rooted, like a tree that had finally found its place. "I am. It took a while—to believe it was real, to stop waiting for everything to fall apart. But yeah." He turned his head, meeting my eyes, his gaze warm and open and achingly sincere. "This is home. They're home."
Something in my chest clenched at his words—hope and fear tangled together so tightly I couldn't tell them apart.
The chicken coop was a sturdy wooden structure painted barn red, cheerful against the green of the grass, with a fenced run that let the birds wander freely. The hens clucked and scattered as we approached, feathers ruffling with indignation at the intrusion, but Nolan moved among them with easy confidence, his movements slow and deliberate, unthreatening.
"There she is." He crouched down, his voice dropping to something soft and soothing, almost a croon that made something warm unfurl in my chest. His jeans pulled tight across his thighs, his flannel stretching across his shoulders as he reached toward a small brown hen huddled in the corner of the run, her feathers puffed up defensively, her eyes half-closed. "Hey, sweetheart. Not feeling so good, huh?"
I watched as he approached her slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust to his presence, to understand he meant no harm. His hands were gentle when he finally scooped her up—large hands, capable hands, but infinitely tender—cradling her against his chest like something precious. His fingers moved through her feathers with practiced ease, checking her feet, her wings, her eyes, his freckled face soft with concentration.
"What's wrong with her?" My voice came out hushed, not wanting to startle the bird, barely louder than the clucking of the other hens.
"Probably just a mild infection." Nolan's voice was calm, professional, but there was a tenderness in the way he held the hen, in the gentle stroke of his thumb across her feathers that belied the clinical words. His green eyes were focused, assessing, but his touch was infinitely careful, infinitely kind. "I'll give her some antibiotics, keep an eye on her for a few days. She should be fine."
He administered the medicine with quick, efficient movements—syringe, gentle hold, soft murmur of reassurance—then set the hen gently back in the grass, watching as she waddled away to rejoin her flock with an indignant ruffle of feathers. When he stood and turned back to me, brushing dirt from his knees, his smile was soft, satisfied, the smile of someone who'd done good work.
"First patient of the day." His voice was warm, light, and he dusted his hands on his jeans, leaving faint streaks on the worn denim. His green eyes found mine, bright with quiet pleasure. "Ready for the next one?"
We moved through the morning like that—patient by patient, animal by animal, stop by stop. Nolan checked on a goat with a limp, his hands running carefully along her leg while she bleated her complaints. He examined a barn cat with a healing wound, coaxing her out from under a hay bale with soft words and gentle patience until she let him look at her stitches. He monitored a calf that had been born premature, still wobbly on its legs, its mother watching him with wary eyes that softened when she recognized his scent.
At each stop, I watched him work—the steady competence of his hands, the gentle patience in his voice, the way even the most skittish animals seemed to calm in his presence, to trusthim instinctively. He moved like he had all the time in the world, never rushing, never forcing, just... waiting. Being present. Letting the animals come to him.
He talked as he worked, explaining what he was doing and why in that soft, steady voice, answering my questions without ever making me feel stupid for asking them. His voice was a rhythm I found myself leaning into, low and soothing, and I noticed I kept drifting closer to him without meaning to, drawn by some invisible thread.
"You're good at this." The words came out without planning, quiet and sincere, as I watched him coax the nervous goat into letting him examine her leg. His hands moved over the animal with sure, gentle strokes, and the goat had stopped fighting, her eyes half-closed, almost peaceful. "The animals trust you."
Nolan looked up, surprise flickering across his freckled face before it softened into something pleased and slightly embarrassed. A faint flush climbed his cheeks, visible even beneath the constellation of freckles, and he ducked his head slightly, his sandy hair falling across his forehead.
"Animals are honest." His voice was thoughtful, contemplative, his green eyes returning to the goat as his hands continued their gentle examination. He didn't push the hair out of his face, just let it hang there, soft and golden in the morning light. "They don't lie or pretend or play games. They're scared or they're not, they're hurt or they're not. You always know where you stand." He paused, his hands stilling on the goat's leg, something more vulnerable creeping into his expression, his voice dropping lower. "People are... harder. For me, anyway."
"Me too." The admission slipped out before I could stop it, raw and honest, and I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed in the bright morning light. My fingers dug into my own biceps, an old self-soothing gesture. "Peoplealways want something. There's always an angle, a catch. But animals just... are."
Nolan looked up at me then, his green eyes soft with understanding, with recognition—like he was seeing something in me that matched something in himself, like two puzzle pieces clicking together.
"Yeah." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion, weighted with years of feeling exactly this way. "Exactly."
The moment stretched between us, fragile and full of possibility, the air thick with things unsaid. Then the goat bleated impatiently, butting her head against Nolan's chest, and we both laughed—shaky, relieved, grateful for the interruption that kept us from tumbling into something we weren't quite ready for.
"Come on." Nolan finished his examination and gave the goat a final pat, his voice lighter now but still warm, the vulnerability tucked away but not forgotten. He straightened up, brushing hay from his knees, his movements easy and practiced. A small smile played at his lips, private and soft. "Let's go check on Hope."
The stable was cool and quiet after the bright morning sun, the air thick with the familiar smells of hay and horses and warm, living things. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the high windows, and somewhere deeper in the building, a horse nickered softly.
Bella was in her usual stall, her dark coat gleaming, her eyes calm and watchful as we approached. But it was Hope who captured my attention—the filly I'd named, the filly I'd watched come into the world on that terrifying, miraculous night.
