“That’s rare?”
“You’d be surprised. Some vets treat techs like we’re just there to hold animals and clean up poop.” Ryan sat back and pushed his hair out of his face with his forearm, since his hands were wet and soapy. “I mean, we do plenty of that too, but there's a lot more to the job.”
“I can see that.” Grayson rinsed out his bucket and moved to the next kennel. “You diagnosed something with the mastiff, didn’t you? When we brought her in. I saw Dr. Sullivan ask your opinion.”
Ryan felt warmth spread through him. The fact that Grayson had noticed, had been paying attention even in the chaos of that morning, meant something. “Just a possible infection. I’d seen similar symptoms before.”
“See? That’s not just holding animals and cleaning up poop.”
“Well, there's still plenty of poop involved. Trust me.”
Grayson laughed. The sound echoed in the kennel area, and Ryan found himself smiling at the floor he was scrubbing.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while with only the sounds of water sloshing in buckets, brushes against concrete, and the occasional whine from one of the dogs in the holding pens. Ryan snuck glances at Grayson when he thought he wouldn’t notice. The way his forearms flexed when he scrubbed. The concentration on his face. The damp spots on his shirt where water had splashed.
Ryan looked away before he got caught staring.
“So what about you?” Ryan asked, moving to the next kennel. “What do you do when you’re not rescuing dogs?”
“Construction, mostly. Commercial buildings.”
“Really?”
“Pays the bills. And the hours are flexible enough that I can take off when we get a tip about a fighting ring.”
Ryan tried to picture it. Grayson on a construction site, probably lifting things that would make Ryan’s arms fall off. It wasn't a difficult image to conjure. “Do you like it? The construction work?”
Grayson shrugged. “It’s fine, honest work. But the rescue stuff, that’s what matters.”
“How'd you get into that?”
Grayson paused, his brush hovering over the floor. For a moment Ryan thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “Found a dog few years back. Chained up in someone's yard, half starved. Called animal control but they said they couldn’t do anything without proof of abuse. So I went back that night and cut the chain myself.”
Ryan stopped scrubbing. “Seriously?”
“Probably stupid, looking back. Could have gotten arrested. But the dog needed help, and no one else was going to do it.” Grayson returned to scrubbing, his movements steady. “Got connected with some people who do this kind of thing more officially. Been working with them ever since.”
“That’s really brave.”
“Or really dumb. Jury's still out.”
“I’m going with brave,” Ryan said. He meant it. The idea of Grayson breaking into someone's yard to save a dog, risking legal trouble and probably physical danger, made something flutter in Ryan’s stomach.
They finished the kennels and returned the dogs to their clean spaces. The beagle immediately circled three times and curled up on his fresh bedding. The terrier mix started rearranging hers with her nose, pushing it into the corner the way she liked it.
“Picky,” Grayson observed.
“You have no idea. She's been here four times and every time she does the exact same thing with her bedding.” Ryan gathered the cleaning supplies. “Some dogs just know what they want.”
They walked back to the supply closet together. Ryan’s shoulder brushed Grayson’s in the hallway. The clinic wasn't that narrow, but somehow, they kept drifting closer together.
“I should let you get back to work,” Grayson said, but he didn’t sound like he particularly wanted to leave.
Ryan didn’t want him to leave either. He set the bucket down and turned to face Grayson in the narrow supply closet. They were close enough that Ryan had to tilt his head back slightly to meet Grayson’s eyes.
“We’re still on for coffee later, right?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah. Definitely.” Grayson pulled out his phone and checked the time. “I was thinking that place on Main Street? The one with the outdoor seating?”
