"You always let Air Force property run loose through downtown?" My hand stays on Ranger's head. Claiming territory. "Or is today special?"
"He's not loose." The man steps into the exam room, and the space shrinks. He's tall. Broad shoulders that fill out the flight suit in ways that are—not relevant. "He's conducting reconnaissance."
"Reconnaissance."
"Of the local veterinary facilities. Very thorough assessment." He gestures at the overturned magazine rack visible through the doorway. "He's taking notes."
My mouth twitches. Absolutely not. "Your reconnaissance mission knocked over my waiting room and traumatized a sixteen-year-old cat."
"He did?" The man winces with what looks like genuine concern. "He okay?"
"He'll survive. He's too mean to die."
A surprised laugh escapes him—real, not performed—and my pulse trips.
No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this.
The patch on his flight suit catches my attention. His name tape reads MERCER, but that's not what makes me pause.
His call-sign patch reads BINGO.
The laugh that escapes me is deeply unprofessional.
His expression shifts from charming to pained so fast it's almost impressive. "Don't."
"Bingo?"
"It's a long story."
"I bet."
"A very boring story." He reaches for Ranger's lead, and his hand brushes mine. Warm. Calloused. Gone before my brain can fully process the contact. "Totally uninteresting. You'd hate it."
"I'm a veterinarian. My exciting stories involve anal gland expressions. I promise my threshold for entertainment is extremely low."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "Okay, that's disgusting and also fair." He clips a new lead to Ranger's collar—produced from a pocket like a magic trick—and straightens. "Lost a bet during flight training. Had to yell 'bingo' on comms during a live exercise. It stuck."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"That's kind of adorable, actually."
His eyes narrow. "Take that back."
"Bingo." The name feels dangerous in my mouth, like poking a bear. A very attractive bear in a flight suit. "It suits you."
"It absolutely does not." But his lips are twitching now, fighting a smile. "I'm a decorated Air Force pilot. I've flown missions that are literally classified. I have commendations."
"And a call sign that sounds like a church fundraiser game."
"I'm going to leave now."
"Probably wise."
He doesn't leave.
Instead, he stands there, Ranger's lead wrapped around his hand, looking at me like he's trying to figure something out. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, but heavy with words neither of us is saying.
