Chapter 3
Jarek went utterly still. His eyes locked onto Cyrus’s face, wide and defensive, like an animal caught in high beams.
“What are you talking about?” Jarek’s voice was barely a rasp.
Cyrus let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, squeezing Jarek’s hand before slowly, reluctantly releasing it.
“I’m a veterinarian, Jarek, not an idiot,” Cyrus murmured, leaning an inch closer. “In four months, you’ve brought this dog in seven times. You ask about my clinic hours. You ask about my fence. You ask about my backup generator. And every single time, you stand here looking at me like you want to say something, but your military training won’t let you clear your throat.”
A dark red flush crept up Jarek’s neck, staining his pale cheeks. “Cyrus—”
“I’m flattered,” Cyrus interrupted gently, letting the warmth in his voice wrap around the other man like a blanket. “Really, I am. You’re a handsome man, Jarek. You’re quiet, you’re decent, and the way you care for this dog tells me everything I need to know about your heart. But you don’t have to drag Brutus down the mountain in a snowstorm just to vet my lifestyle.”
Jarek stared at him, his mouth slightly parted. For several long seconds, the ex-soldier looked completely stunned, as though Cyrus had spoken to him in a foreign language.
“You think...” Jarek began, his voice faltering. He swallowed, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw. “You think I’m... courting you?”
Cyrus laughed outright, the sound rich and bright against the clinical silence of the room.
“Aren't you?” Cyrus asked, tilting his head with an affectionate, challenging smile. “Asking if my fence is high enough? Asking if I have enough firewood to survive a blizzard? In my book, Sergeant, that’s either a very thorough marriage proposal or the most awkward courtship in the history of the Pacific Northwest.”
The flush on Jarek’s face drained away, replaced by an unsettling, bloodless pallor that made Cyrus’s smile falter slightly.
Jarek looked down at Brutus. The Malinois was sitting now, perfectly still, his chin resting against the toe of Jarek’s boot, his eyes fixed on Jarek’s face with an unbearable, mournful loyalty.
When Jarek looked back up at Cyrus, his expression was shattered—a landscape of raw grief, iron resolve, and an agonizing tenderness that made Cyrus’s chest ache with sudden confusion.
“Yeah,” Jarek whispered, his voice trembling before he forced it into steady alignment. “Yeah, Doc. I guess I’m pretty awkward at this.”
Cyrus’s heart melted. The sudden vulnerability on the tough veteran’s face was almost too much to bear. Cyrus reached out again, this time resting his hand lightly against Jarek’s upper arm, feeling the solid bone beneath the canvas.
“You don’t have to be slick,” Cyrus told him, his tone turning fiercely gentle. “I don’t want slick. But next time, leave the stethoscope out of it. The diner on Fourth Street makes a decent cherry pie. Or better yet... come out to the farmhouse on Friday. I’ll make beef stew. You can inspect the woodstove yourself, and Brutus can run the orchard.”
Jarek looked at Cyrus’s hand on his sleeve. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch by an imperceptible fraction of a millimeter—a motion so slight it was more of an intention than an act, but Cyrus felt it like an electric jolt.
“Friday,” Jarek repeated, tasting the word like something forbidden.
“Friday at seven,” Cyrus said, stepping back to give him room to breathe, though he kept his smile warm and steady. “And if you tell me Brutus has an ear infection between now and then, I’m putting it on your permanent tab.”
Jarek let out a single, rough exhale that might have been a laugh if there had been any humor left in the world. He reached down and gathered Brutus’s leash, wrapping it securely around his hand once more.
“He won’t have an ear infection,” Jarek said quietly.
He turned toward the exam room door, his broad shoulders squared, but Cyrus didn't miss the slight stiffness in his gait—the way Jarek favored his left side, as if protecting his ribcage from the cold draft blowing in from the lobby.
As Jarek reached the doorway, Brutus paused. The Malinois stopped on the threshold, turned his head, and looked directly back at Cyrus. The dog didn't whine this time. He just held Cyrus’s gaze with a heavy, pleading intensity that sent an inexplicable shiver racing down Cyrus’s spine.
“Come on, Brute,” Jarek called from the hallway, his voice tight. “Let’s go home.”
The dog turned and followed his handler into the gray winter afternoon, leaving Cyrus standing in the center of the quiet exam room, his hands warm, his chest full of sudden, hopeful heat, entirely unaware of the clock ticking beneath the floorboards.
Friday evening arrived under a sky the color of tarnished pewter, bringing with it a low, biting frost that crystallized the edges of the orchard grass.
Cyrus stood at his kitchen window, drying a heavy ceramic mug with a linen towel, watching the twin beams of yellow headlights carve through the gloom of Old Creek Road. The truck was a beat-up, dark green Dodge from the late nineties, its engine idling with a throaty, rhythmic rumble before dying into silence near the porch steps.
When the driver’s side door opened, Brutus leapt out first. The Malinois cleared the truck bed with fluid, airborne grace, his claws clicking sharply against the gravel. Instead of tearing into the open fields as most dogs would after a ride, he immediately rounded the hood and sat squarely by the driver’s door, waiting until Jarek stepped down into the cold air.
Cyrus felt that now-familiar, foolish kick in his pulse.
Jarek had made an effort. He wasn't wearing his grease-stained canvas field coat tonight; in its place was a heavy, dark navy wool chore jacket over a waffle-knit gray henley that clung cleanly to his broad shoulders. His dark hair was still damp from a recent shower, neatly parted, and the stubble along his hard jawline had been freshly trimmed.
Cyrus set the towel aside, took a steadying breath, and opened the heavy timber door before Jarek could even knock.
“You’re right on time, Sergeant,” Cyrus said, stepping aside into the spill of amber light. “Come in out of the frost.”
Brutus came in first, but only after Jarek tapped his thigh with two fingers. The Malinois crossed the threshold with ears perked, nostrils flaring as he mapped the scents of seasoned cedar, simmering rosemary, and the rich, roasted marrow bones Cyrus had boiled down for the stew.
“Smells incredible,” Jarek said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying the gravelly texture of someone who hadn't spoken since noon. He stepped onto the braided rug in the foyer, kicking off his boots with practiced economy.
As Jarek unbuttoned the wool jacket, Cyrus noticed how the fabric seemed to hang just a fraction looser around his collarbones than it had two weeks ago.
“You’re shivering,” Cyrus observed gently, reaching out on pure instinct to take the heavy coat.
His fingers brushed against Jarek’s wrists. Jarek’s skin was arctic, but beneath the chill, Cyrus felt the sharp, rigid tension in the man’s tendons. Jarek didn't flinch away from the touch, though his gray eyes tracked Cyrus’s hands with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Cyrus’s neck stand up.
