"He's a kleptomaniac," I counter, wrestling the thermometer back.
Sir Reginald chirps what I can only describe as a tiny war cry—which I'm pretty sure is ferret for "you'll never stop me"—and makes a break for the supply cabinet.
Mondays, apparently, are ferret days now.
My daily notes are almost done when the bell over the front door chimes.
Dean.
Still in uniform, flight suit unzipped at the collar, hair slightly rumpled. When his eyes meet mine, he immediately looks away—at the diploma frames, at Linda's desk, anywhere but at me. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets.
My stomach drops.
"Hey," he says. His voice is missing the usual easy warmth.
"Hey yourself. Ranger okay?"
"He's fine. I just—" He glances at Linda, who's absolutely not pretending to work at the reception desk. His jaw works like he's chewing on words. "Can we talk?"
"Sure," I say, because what else am I supposed to say? "Let me just finish up here."
"Take your time." He settles into the waiting room chair, but immediately stands again, pacing three steps to the window, then back. His hand goes to his hair, dragging through it before dropping back to his side. He sits. Stands. Sits again.
I finish my notes with hands that are suddenly less steady. Linda shoots me a concerned look. I shake my head—not now.
When I finally emerge from the back, Dean's on his feet before I fully round the corner. His shoulders are tight, hands flexing at his sides.
"Your place?" he asks.
"That bad?"
"It's not—" He stops. His throat works. "It's just better if we talk somewhere private.”
Great. Definitely dying. Or moving to Alaska. Or about to tell me Saturday was a mistake and he's actually married with six kids.
The drive to my house takes eight minutes. It feels like eight hours.
Biscuit greets us at the door with his usual enthusiasm, which means he sniffs Dean's boots and then retreats to his bed with a snort. Even my dog knows this isn't a normal visit.
"You want some coffee?" I ask, stalling.
"No. Thanks." Dean's pacing my kitchen, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. "I should just—I need to tell you something."
I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. The position feels familiar. Defensive. I've stood like this before—three years ago in my old Denver apartment, watching Tyler avoid eye contact while he explained why long distance wouldn't work, why I was being unreasonable, why this was really my fault for not being willing to follow him.
Here we go again.
"Okay," I say, keeping my voice level.
"My re-enlistment papers are due tomorrow morning."
"I know."
"Right. Of course you know." More pacing. "If I sign, they'll send me overseas. A new base. Possibly deployment. Minimum two to three years, maybe longer depending on where they station me."
My chest tightens. Two to three years. I knew this was coming—knew the military meant deployments, separations, the constant uncertainty—but hearing it out loud makes it real.
"And if you don't sign?" My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
