She'd grown since I last saw her, her legs longer and steadier, her coat sleeker and shinier, the gangly awkwardness of her first days smoothing into something that hinted at the beautiful horse she would become. She lifted her head when weapproached, her ears pricking forward with curiosity, her dark eyes bright and intelligent.
"Hey, girl." My voice came out soft, barely above a whisper, almost reverent. I approached the stall door slowly, my heart swelling with something fierce and unexpected. Hope stretched her neck toward me, her nostrils flaring as she took in my scent, and I felt tears prick at my eyes for reasons I couldn't fully explain—pride, affection, a fierce and unexpected love for this creature I'd helped bring into the world. "Look at you. You're getting so big."
"She's healthy." Nolan had moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. His scent wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, eucalyptus and honey mixing with the smell of hay and horses. His voice was gentle, professional, but there was a softness in it too—an understanding of what this animal meant to me, what she represented. "Strong heartbeat, good appetite, no signs of infection or illness. She's thriving."
"Because of you." I turned to look at him, found his green eyes already on my face, warm and steady and so unbearably kind. His sandy hair was mussed from the morning's work, hay clinging to his flannel, but he'd never looked more beautiful. "You saved her. That night, when everything went wrong—you saved them both."
"We all did." Nolan's voice was quiet, humble, deflecting the praise even as a flush crept up his cheeks. But he didn't look away, holding my gaze with that gentle steadiness that seemed to be the core of who he was. His sandy hair fell across his forehead, catching the dim light of the stable, and there was something open in his expression, something vulnerable that he was letting me see. "You were there too. You stayed calm when it mattered. You helped."
"I didn't do anything." The protest came out automatic, instinctive—the ingrained habit of dismissing any contribution I might have made, any value I might have offered. My voice was rough, self-deprecating. "I just stood there."
"You held her head." Nolan's voice was gentle but firm, correcting me without condescension, his green eyes holding mine with quiet intensity that wouldn't let me look away. He shifted slightly closer, his shoulder brushing mine now, a deliberate touch that sent warmth flooding through my chest. His scent surrounded me—eucalyptus and honey, warm and safe and starting to feel like home. "You talked to her, kept her calm while we worked. That mattered, Aster. It mattered more than you know."
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to accept the weight of his words, the sincerity shining in his eyes. Hope nickered softly, butting her velvety head against the stall door, demanding attention, and I reached out to stroke her nose, grateful for the distraction from the intensity of the moment.
"Can I ask you something?" My voice came out quiet, almost lost in the rustle of hay and the soft sounds of horses breathing, the peaceful ambient noise of the stable. I kept my eyes on Hope, on the silk of her coat beneath my trembling fingers. "You said you always wanted to be a vet. Why?"
Nolan was quiet for a moment, and I felt him shift beside me, his shoulder pressing more firmly against mine now—a deliberate touch, gentle and grounding, a physical anchor.
"I wanted to fix things." His voice was soft, thoughtful, heavy with memory, each word chosen with care. I heard him take a breath, let it out slowly, his chest rising and falling against my shoulder. "When I was young, I thought that's what being a vet meant—finding what was broken and fixing it. Making everything better, making everything okay."
"And now?" I turned my head slightly, found him looking at Hope with an expression I couldn't quite read—wistful, maybe, or bittersweet, like he was remembering someone he used to be.
"Now I know it's more complicated than that." His voice was rough, honest, and he turned to meet my eyes, his green gaze deep and open and achingly vulnerable. His freckled face was soft in the stable's dim light, all the careful reserve stripped away, letting me see the man beneath the professional calm. "Some things can't be fixed. Some wounds are too deep, some damage too old. And I spent a long time being angry about that—frustrated that I couldn't save everyone, couldn't heal everything, couldn't make the world less cruel."
"What changed?" My voice was barely a whisper, caught up in his words, in the raw honesty he was offering me like a gift.
"I realized that fixing isn't the only thing that matters." Nolan's voice dropped, intimate and sincere, his eyes never leaving mine, holding me captive with their gentle intensity. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, coming to rest on the stall door next to mine—not touching, but close. So close I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Sometimes the best you can do is be there. Hold space. Give something time and safety and patience, and let it heal itself."
His words landed in my chest like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself, about what was possible.
"Some things don't heal." My voice cracked on the words, raw with old pain I thought I'd buried deep enough to ignore, and I hated myself for the weakness even as I couldn't stop it from spilling out. My hand trembled on Hope's neck. "Some things are too broken."
"No." Nolan's voice was gentle but certain, absolute in a way that left no room for argument, for the lies I'd been telling myself for thirteen years. His hand moved on the stall door, his pinkyfinger coming to rest against mine—the barest touch, warm and careful, electric against my skin. "Wounded isn't the same as broken. And given time, given safety, given care—most wounds heal. Even the ones you think never will."
I felt tears burning at the backs of my eyes and blinked them away furiously, angry at my own weakness, at the way this man could slip past every defense I'd spent years building. Nolan didn't look away, didn't flinch from my pain, didn't try to fix it or dismiss it. He just stood there, steady and patient as stone, his finger warm against mine, his scent wrapping around me like a promise of safety.
"How do you know?" The question came out broken, desperate, the voice of a child who'd stopped believing in anything good a long time ago.
"Because I've seen it." Nolan's voice was rough with emotion, his green eyes bright with something that looked like tears of his own, shining in the dim stable light. His hand shifted on the stall door, and suddenly his fingers were sliding between mine, tentative and questioning, asking permission with every millimeter of movement. "In animals. In people. In myself." His hand stilled, half-intertwined with mine, waiting, trembling slightly against my skin. "Is this okay?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes searching my face for any sign of discomfort or rejection, any indication that he'd pushed too far. The question hung between us, heavy with meaning—not just about the touch, but about everything it represented. Permission. Trust. The terrifying first step toward something more.
I looked down at our hands—his fingers tan and freckled, scattered with tiny scars from years of work with animals; mine pale and rougher, calloused from different kinds of survival. Both of them trembling slightly, barely perceptibly. I could pullaway. Could put up the walls again, retreat into the safety of solitude, keep myself locked away where nothing could hurt me.
But I didn't want to.
"Yeah." My voice came out rough, cracked around the edges, but steady. I turned my hand in his, let our fingers slide together properly, palm to palm, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle I hadn't known I was solving. His skin was warm, his grip careful but sure, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gentle arc that made my breath catch. "It's okay."
Nolan's breath caught—a small sound, barely audible, but I was close enough to hear it, to feel the way his whole body seemed to exhale with relief. His fingers tightened around mine, not possessive but grateful, like he'd been given something precious he hadn't dared hope for, like he was afraid I might change my mind and pull away.
"Thank you." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion, his green eyes shining in the dim light of the stable like sunlight through leaves. His thumb continued its gentle path across my knuckles, back and forth, a soothing rhythm that made something tight in my chest begin to loosen. "For trusting me."
I didn't have words for what I was feeling—the terror and the hope and the fierce, desperate wanting all tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and another began. So I just held onto his hand and let the moment be what it was. We stood there for a long time, watching Hope and Bella together, mother and daughter in their peaceful routine, our fingers intertwined, our shoulders brushing with every breath. The stable was quiet around us, peaceful, and for once the silence didn't feel like emptiness or threat. It felt like something growing. Something waiting to bloom.
We walked back to the main house hand in hand. It was such a small thing—fingers intertwined, palms pressed together,the simple warmth of another person's touch. But for me, it felt monumental. Revolutionary. A crack in the armor I'd spent thirteen years building, letting light into places that had been dark for so long I'd forgotten they existed.
Nolan didn't rush, didn't push, didn't try to make it more than it was. He just held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was something precious, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my skin that made me shiver despite the warm morning sun.
