It was him and me, and seven years of silence stretching between us.
"Dr. Honors," he said finally, his voice deeper than I remembered, edged with something I couldn't quite place. "It's been a long time."
Professional. I needed to be professional.
"Mr. Henley. Thank you for being punctual." My smile felt brittle as I gestured toward the hallway. "If you'll follow me to my office, we can discuss your service requirements."
As I led him down the narrow corridor, every nerve in my body screamed awareness of him behind me. The space shrank; the air too thin. He seemed to take all the oxygen in the room.
In my small but organized office, files covered the desk, veterinary texts lined the shelves, and photos of rescues adorned the walls. I moved behind my desk, needing a barrier between us.
"Please sit."
He lowered himself into the chair across from me. He looked out of place. The man accustomed to the roar of hockey arenas now sat in my cramped office; the silence amplifying every breath.
I pulled up his file on my computer, buying myself a moment. "The court order specifies two hundred hours of service over the next six months. That breaks down to roughly thirty-three hours per month, or about eight hours per week."
"I'm aware of the math."
"Of course." I kept my words even. "Your duties will include cleaning kennels, feeding animals, assisting with basic medical procedures as needed, and general maintenance. You'll work under my direct supervision or that of my staff."
"Sounds thrilling." The words came through clenched teeth.
I looked directly at him, fingers interlaced on the desk. "Mr. Henley, I understand this isn't how you want to spend your time. But this is a working animal rescue clinic. We're understaffed and underfunded, and we save lives here. If you can't approach this with respect—"
"I'm sorry." The apology came quickly, surprising us both. He ran a hand through his hair. "You're right. That was uncalled for."
Something flickered in his eyes, but before I could process it, a knock on the door interrupted us.
Monique poked her head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation. Someone just dropped off a box of puppies at the front door. They're in terrible shape."
I was on my feet immediately. "How many?"
"Five. Maybe six weeks old. Looks like Parvo."
My heart sank. Parvovirus was deadly to puppies, and treatment was expensive. "Set up the isolation room. I'll be right there."
When Monique disappeared, I turned back to Easton. "I'm sorry, we'll have to finish this later. There's an emergency."
"Can I help?"
I paused, studying him. "This isn't glamorous work. It's going to involve a lot of cleaning up bodily fluids and potentially watching puppies die despite our best efforts."
"I asked if I could help." He was already standing. "Not the job description."
Determination and genuine concern threaded through his tone. I nodded. "Alright, come with me. You're about to see what we really do here."
As we hurried down the hallway, a dangerous thought crept in: maybe the next six months wouldn't be completely unbearable.
Even though every time I looked at him, I saw Casey staring back at me.
Even if every moment in his presence reminded me of the secret I'd been keeping for seven years.
The isolation room smelled of disinfectant and fear. Five terrier mix puppies huddled in a cardboard box, their tiny bodies pressed together on a threadbare, musty-smelling towel. Limp bodies. Lifeless, dull eyes. One wasn't moving at all.
"Glove up." I pulled on a pair myself. "Parvo is highly contagious. Everything in this room stays in this room."
Easton followed my lead without question, his large hands dwarfed by the latex gloves.
