Right now, he's looking at Callie with the assessing gaze of a man who doesn't trust easily and isn't impressed by credentials alone.
"Master Sergeant Porter," I say, "this is Dr. Callie O'Connor. She's the veterinary consultant for the kennel upgrade project."
"Doctor." Dev's nod is curt, professional. "Heard good things about your work with the county program."
"Thank you." Callie extends her hand, and Dev shakes it once, firm and brief. "I've reviewed the initial assessment. I'd like to start with the indoor kennels and work our way out to the training yard."
"Works for me." Dev falls into step beside her, and I find myself trailing behind like an unnecessary accessory.
They're already deep in conversation by the time we enter the first kennel block—ventilation rates, drainage systems, noise reduction materials. Callie fires off questions with the precision of a drill sergeant, and Dev answers with equal efficiency. It's like watching two professionals recognize each other as equals in real time.
I should feel left out. Instead, I'm fascinated.
"The rubber flooring here," Callie says, crouching to examine the surface. "How old?"
"Original installation. Twelve years, give or take."
"It's degrading." She runs her fingers along a seam. "See this separation? Bacteria gets trapped in the gaps. You're cleaning regularly, but you're not getting full sanitation."
Dev's jaw tightens. "We've requested replacement twice. Budget keeps getting pushed back."
"I'll flag it as a priority in my report. This isn't cosmetic—it's a health issue." She stands, making a note on her clipboard. "What's your current enrichment protocol?"
They move on, and I trail after them, listening as Callie methodically dismantles every assumption I had about small-town veterinarians. She knows dogs—not just anatomy and medicine, but behavior, psychology, the specific needs of high-drive working animals. She asks about training schedules and handler rotations. She wants to know which dogs show signs of stress, which ones need more mental stimulation, which ones are thriving.
Dev answers everything with the quiet intensity of a man who genuinely cares about his animals. Watching them interact is almost uncomfortable—two people speaking a language I only half understand.
"The outdoor runs," Callie says as we exit the main building. "I noticed in the specs they're concrete. Any plans to add natural ground cover?"
"Not in the current proposal."
"You should consider it. Grass or packed earth, even in a portion of the run. It's better for joint health and provides sensory enrichment." She's already writing as she walks. "I can include recommendations for drainage solutions that would make maintenance manageable."
"That would be useful." Dev shoots me a look I can't quite interpret. "Mercer, you've been quiet."
"Just observing."
"Since when do you observe anything quietly?"
Callie glances back at me, and I catch the ghost of a smirk before she smooths it away.
"I'm capable of silence," I say. "When the situation warrants."
"The situation being a pretty veterinarian who knows more about your family business than you do?"
Thanks, Dev. Really appreciate the support.
Callie's smirk becomes slightly more visible. "The captain's family has an impressive operation. I imagine he learned quite a bit growing up around it."
"I learned enough to know when I'm outmatched." I fall into step beside her as we approach the training yard. "You're good at this."
"I'm good at my job. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
She stops at the fence surrounding the training yard, watching a handler run a German Shepherd through obstacle drills. "Being good at something and caring about it aren't the same thing. Plenty of people are competent without being invested."
"And you're invested."
