"Easy, mama," I murmur, adjusting my grip on the calf's slick legs. "We're gonna get this baby out. Just need you to quit fighting me and work with me instead."
She bellows again, her whole body seizing with the contraction. I brace my boots against the stall and pull with steady, controlled pressure, riding her body's rhythm like I've done a thousand times before.
My hands are rock-steady. My head's clear as mountain air.
Haven't been able to say that in months.
The realization hits me like a sucker punch. When's the last time I crawled inside a bottle after a long day? When's the last time I needed whiskey to drown out the noise in my skull?
Can't remember. Haven't touched the stuff in over two weeks.
Haven't needed to, because when the darkness starts creeping in, I think about Lucy's laugh instead. About the way she looks at me like I'm worth a damn, even when we both know better.
The calf's hips clear, and everything happens fast. One more controlled pull and the baby slides free in a rush of fluid and pure relief. I clear its airways, rubbing hard with straw until it snorts and shakes its wobbly head, already trying to stand on legs made of rubber.
"There we go, tough guy." I can't stop the grin spreading across my face as mama turns, immediately starting the cleanup with long, purposeful licks. "Look at that. She knows exactly what to do."
Never gets old, watching new life claw its way into the world. Mothers who know their job even when it's their first rodeo. Makes all the three a.m. emergency calls and ruined shirts worth every damn minute.
My mind drifts to last week. Lucy beside me in the clinic, eyes wide as silver dollars while we delivered a litter of kittens. The mama cat had been in bad shape, needed emergency surgery, and Lucy had scrubbed in without batting an eye.
"What do I do?" she'd asked, voice steady despite the nerves I could see in her white knuckles.
"Just be ready. When I hand you a kitten, rub it with the towel until it screams bloody murder."
She'd taken that first tiny, limp body like I was handing her the crown jewels. The look on her face when it mewed for the first time... pure magic mixed with tears she didn't bother hiding.
"God, it's so small," she'd whispered. "So perfect."
"You did real good, Shortie. Better than most trained techs I've worked with."
The way she'd lit up at my approval, like maybe my opinion actually mattered. Like maybe I mattered.
I shake off the memory and check that the calf's nursing properly. The Hendersons will be over the moon. Healthy mama, healthy baby, another win for their operation.
But my brain keeps circling back to Lucy like a damn homing pigeon.
These past weeks have been... shit, I don't even have words for it.
Different doesn't cover it.
I actually look forward to work instead of counting down hours until I can escape. Look forward to her perfectly brewed coffee and the way she actually gives a damn when I explain procedures.
How she hums under her breath when she's filing paperwork. The way she talks to every animal like they're old friends, even Mrs. Patterson's ancient hellcat who'd rather claw your eyes out than let you pet him.
The change in me has been sneaky, like watching grass grow. But standing here with steady hands and a clear head, I can't bullshit myself anymore.
Lucy Reid has been quietly stitching me back together, piece by fractured piece, and I never even saw it happening.
Yesterday, she'd been bent over the supply cabinet hunting for gauze, and I'd caught myself staring at the curve of her neck. The way her hair fell forward like a curtain, exposing skin that looked soft as silk. When she'd turned and busted me looking, she'd blushed but held my stare.
"Looking for something, Dr. Mercer?" Her voice had carried that teasing edge that made my pulse quicken.
"Always looking, Shortie. Question is: am I gonna find it?"
She'd straightened real slow, gauze forgotten, color climbing her cheeks. "And what exactly would you do?"
"Guess we'll both have to wait and find out."
