"You weren't an idiot. You were a good father."
"And you were—are—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm not good at this. Haven't done this in seven years. Haven't wanted to do this in seven years."
"Why now?"
"I don't know." But he's still looking at me like I'm something precious, something worth the risk. "Maybe because Emma drew you a picture with a unicorn in it. Maybe because you texted me back about horse urination. Maybe because you're standing here looking at this ranch like it's something worth saving instead of something broken."
"It's not broken," I say. "It's loved. There's a difference."
His expression softens, and he takes a step closer. Not touching, not crossing any lines I haven't invited him to cross, but close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, the stubble along his jaw that he missed when he shaved this morning, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
"I should go," I say, but I don't move.
"Yeah. You should."
"I have paperwork. Other clients."
"I know."
"And boundaries. Professional boundaries that exist for very good reasons."
"I know that too."
"Call me at five," I finally say, forcing myself to take a step back. "About the catheter."
"I will."
"And keep monitoring Butterscotch. Small amounts of hay, plenty of water, watch for any signs of distress."
"Got it."
"And Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
I adjust my glasses, buying myself a moment to find the courage to say what I'm thinking. "Thank you for the tour. Emma was right to be proud of this place. Your father would be proud too."
For a moment I think he might reach for me, might close that distance between us and make this real instead of theoretical. But he doesn't. Just nods and says, "Thank you for saying that."
I start walking back toward my truck, my bag bouncing against my hip. I can feel Tucker following a few steps behind me, and it takes everything I have not to turn around, not to go back to that fence line, not to cross every professional boundary I know I shouldn’t.
When I reach my truck, I risk one glance back.
Tucker's standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression that makes my walls crumble just a little bit more.
"Drive safe," he says.
"I will."
I climb into my truck and sit there for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, trying to compose myself.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I gave him instructions for Butterscotch's continued care, I'll check in this evening about the catheter, and tomorrow I'll come back for a final recheck and that will be the end of it.
Professional boundaries intact. Heart protected. No stupid decisions made.
Except I'm already counting the hours until five o'clock.
Already planning what I'll say when I call.
