He kept his eyes on the dog. On the matted fur and the wounds that needed attention. On anything except the man standing less than two feet away.
“You’re good at this,” the man said.
Ryan glanced up. Those amber eyes were watching him again. “It’s my job.”
“Still, not everyone has the temperament for it.”
Ryan didn’t know what to say to that, so he focused on clipping away the fur around a particularly nasty gash. The clippers buzzed in his hand. The dog's breathing stayed even and slow.
Dr. Sullivan called from the other room. “Ryan, I need you for a second.”
“Be right there.” Ryan set down the clippers and stood. He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the bin. When he looked back, the tall man was still watching him.
“I’ll stay with her,” the man said, nodding toward the mastiff.
“Just keep her calm. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dr. Sullivan needed help holding a dog for an X-ray. The pit bull from earlier, the first one they'd treated. Ryan positioned her carefully on the table while Dr. Sullivan adjusted the machine. The dog's tail thumped once against the metal surface.
“She's doing better already,” Ryan said.
“Thanks to you.” Dr. Sullivan pressed the button, and the machine whirred. “Those men from the rescue organization… They do good work. Dangerous, but good.”
Ryan thought about the tall man in the other room. About the way he’d moved around the dogs, confident but gentle. “How did they find them?”
“I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better not to know the details.”
They finished the X-rays, and Ryan returned to room four. The mastiff was lying down now, her eyes half closed. The tall man sat on the floor beside the exam table, one hand resting near the dog's head.
“She fell asleep,” he said.
“The medication does that.” Ryan knelt down and checked the IV line, which was still flowing properly. He reached for the clippers again and resumed trimming around the wound. The man stayed where he was, quiet and still.
Ryan cleaned the gash with antiseptic. The dog didn’t even twitch. He applied antibiotic ointment, covered it with gauze, wrapped it securely. His hands moved through the familiar pattern while his mind wandered to places it shouldn't go.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Ryan’s fingers fumbled the tape. He caught it before it fell. “Ryan.”
“I’m Grayson.”
The name fit him somehow. Ryan nodded and finished securing the bandage. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable exactly but charged with something Ryan couldn’t quite name. He became aware of how close they were sitting. How he could smell Grayson’s soap or deodorant or whatever it was, something clean and woodsy.
Ryan stood up quickly. “I should check on the others.”
“Do you need help?”
The question hung in the air. Ryan looked down at Grayson, still sitting on the floor beside the sleeping dog, and something in his expression made Ryan’s stomach flip.
“Actually, yeah. Can you help me move the pit bull to a recovery kennel? She's ready to rest somewhere more comfortable.”
Grayson stood in one smooth motion. “Lead the way.”
They walked back to room three together. The hallway felt narrower than usual. Ryan was hyperaware of Grayson beside him, matching his pace. Twelve steps. He counted them again without meaning to.
