Chapter Two #2
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?”
“Cyril’s Café?”
“That’s the one.”
“I love that place.” Ryan felt himself blush.
“See you soon.”
Ryan could’ve sworn he’d heard a purr, but people didn’t purr. “See you soon.”
* * * *
Grayson left through the front entrance. Ryan stood in the supply closet for longer than necessary, staring at the bottles of disinfectant and telling himself to get a grip. Two o'clock was still hours away. He had work to do. Animals that needed him.
He managed to focus for most of the remaining morning. He gave medications, checked vitals, helped Dr. Sullivan with a cat that had eaten something it shouldn't have. But his eyes kept finding the clock on the wall. 11:15. 11:42. 12:06.
“You can leave early if you want,” Dr. Sullivan said around twelve thirty, catching Ryan checking his phone for the third time in ten minutes. “We’re slow today.”
“I’m fine until my shift ends.”
Dr. Sullivan gave him a knowing look but didn’t push. Ryan tried to ignore the way his face heated.
At one thirty, he clocked out and practically ran to his car. The drive home took twelve minutes. He had twenty-eight minutes to shower and change and somehow look like someone worth having coffee with. The math felt impossible.
His apartment was small and cluttered with veterinary textbooks and houseplants he kept forgetting to water.
He stripped off his scrubs in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes to the bathroom.
The shower ran hot, and he scrubbed away the smell of the clinic, shampooed his hair twice, stood under the spray longer than he should have.
Eighteen minutes left.
He pulled on clean jeans and stood in front of his closet trying to decide on a shirt.
The blue one made him look washed out. The green one had a stain on the sleeve he’d never managed to get out.
He settled on a soft gray T-shirt and a flannel button-up he left open.
Casual. Not like he’d tried too hard. He ran product through his hair, attempting to make the mess look intentional rather than accidental.
Twelve minutes left.
Cyril's Café was a ten-minute walk from his apartment. Ryan grabbed his keys and wallet and left before he could second-guess the outfit choice.
The afternoon sun sat warm on his shoulders as he walked.
Main Street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few people browsing the antique shop windows and an elderly couple walking a corgi.
The dog wagged at Ryan as they passed. He waved back at the owners, trying to ignore the way his stomach was attempting to climb into his throat.
This was just coffee. People got coffee together all the time. It didn’t mean anything. Except it did mean something, and Ryan knew it, and that knowledge made his palms sweat.
He reached the café three minutes early.
The outdoor seating area consisted of small round tables with mismatched chairs, shaded by a faded green awning.
Grayson wasn't there yet. Ryan stood on the sidewalk, trying to decide if he should sit down and wait or keep standing, and then Grayson rounded the corner and the decision became irrelevant.
He’d changed too. Dark jeans and a gray shirt that fit him in ways that should probably be illegal. His hair was still damp, like he’d showered recently. The thought of Grayson getting ready for this, standing in his own bathroom trying to decide what to wear, made Ryan’s stomach flip.
“Hey,” Grayson said, stopping a few feet away.
“Hey.” Ryan tried to remember how to act like a normal person. “You found it okay?”
“Hard to miss. It’s literally the only café on Main Street.”
“True.” Ryan felt his mouth curve into a smile. “Small-town problems.”
They went inside together. The café smelled like espresso and cinnamon, the air conditioning a relief after the warmth outside.
The girl behind the counter looked about sixteen and deeply uninterested in being there.
Ryan ordered an iced latte. Grayson got black coffee again, and Ryan made a mental note about that.
“You want anything to eat?” Grayson asked, gesturing at the pastry case.
“I’m okay.”
Grayson pulled out his wallet, but Ryan was already handing cash to the girl. “I've got it.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“Too late. Already done.” Ryan accepted his change and dropped it into the tip jar. The girl didn’t acknowledge it.
They took their drinks outside. Most of the tables were empty. Grayson chose one in the corner, partially shaded by the awning but still in enough sun that the light caught in his eyes. Ryan sat across from him and wrapped his hands around his cold cup, needing something to do with them.
“So…” Grayson said.
“So…” Ryan echoed.
They both laughed. The awkwardness broke like a bubble popping. Ryan took a sip of his latte and the sweetness helped settle his stomach.
“This is weird, right?” Ryan said. “The whole planned-coffee thing. It felt more natural at the clinic.”
“We could talk about work if that helps.”
“Please. I've been thinking about dog wounds all week. I need a break.”
“All week?” Grayson’s mouth curved. “We just brought them in on Thursday.”
Ryan felt his face heat. “You know what I mean.”
Grayson leaned back in his chair, looking more relaxed than Ryan had seen him. “Okay, no work talk. What do you do when you’re not at the clinic?”
“Sleep, mostly.” Ryan traced a finger through the condensation on his cup. “I know that makes me sound incredibly boring.”
“Long shifts?”
“Sometimes. And I pick up extra hours when they need coverage.” Ryan took another sip of his latte. “What about you? When you’re not doing construction or rescuing dogs?”
“Not much else, honestly. The rescue stuff takes up most of my free time.”
“Do you have a big team? For the rescues?”
“Just a few people. We keep it small.” Grayson’s fingers tapped against his coffee cup. “Easier that way. Less complicated.”
Ryan wanted to ask more, but the slight tension in Grayson’s shoulders told him to leave it alone. He shifted topics. “How long have you lived here?”
“About six months. Moved from two towns over when I got the construction job.”
“You like it? The town?”
“It’s quiet. People mostly keep to themselves.” Grayson looked at him over the rim of his cup. “You grow up here?”
“Born and raised. Everyone knows everyone, which is great until you’re trying to have any kind of private life.” Ryan caught himself. That sounded too much like he was implying something. “I mean, not that I have much of a private life. Just, you know, small towns.”
“I get it.” Grayson’s expression suggested he did, actually, get it. “Must be nice though. Having roots somewhere.”
“I guess. Sometimes it feels more like being stuck.”
“You ever think about leaving?”
Ryan considered the question. He’d thought about it plenty, especially during college when all his classmates talked about moving to cities and finding jobs at fancy specialty clinics.
But then he’d come back for a weekend visit and Mrs. Henderson's beagle had been sick, and Dr. Sullivan had offered him a job, and somehow, he’d never left.
“Sometimes,” Ryan admitted. “But I don't know where I’d go. And the clinic needs me.”
“They’re lucky to have you.”
Ryan looked down at his latte. The compliment sat warm in his stomach. “What about you? You plan on staying?”
“For now. Work is steady. And there's enough need for the rescue stuff around here.”
They fell into easier conversation after that.
Grayson told him about a construction project he was working on, renovating an old warehouse into office space.
Ryan told him about the chihuahua that came in every week for unnecessary visits because her owner was lonely and just wanted someone to talk to.
They talked about the town, about the places worth going and the ones to avoid.
Grayson hadn’t been to the diner on Fifth Street yet, and Ryan insisted it had the best breakfast in town, even though the coffee was terrible.
“Worse than the clinic coffee?” Grayson asked.
“Nothing is worse than the clinic coffee. That stuff could strip paint.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The sun shifted, sliding more shade across their table.
Ryan finished his latte and immediately wished he’d ordered a larger size so he’d have an excuse to stay longer.
But Grayson didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, looking more relaxed than Ryan had seen him.
“Can I ask you something?” Grayson said.
Ryan’s stomach fluttered. “Sure.”
“What made you want to work with animals?”
The question surprised him. People usually asked why he hadn’t become a full veterinarian instead of a tech. “I don't know. I've always just understood them better than people, I guess. They’re more honest. When a dog is scared or hurt, they tell you. They don't hide it behind words or excuses.”
“That makes sense.”
“What about you? The rescue work… Is it just about the dogs, or is there more to it?”
Grayson was quiet for a moment. He looked out at the street, at the few cars passing by, at the antique shop across the way. “Both, I think. The dogs need help. But there's also something about taking power away from people who abuse it. Making sure they don't get away with it.”
The weight in his voice made Ryan want to reach across the table. He didn’t, but the impulse was there.
“That’s important work,” Ryan said quietly.
“So is yours.”
They looked at each other across the table. The afternoon light caught in Grayson’s eyes, turning them almost gold. Ryan felt something pull tight in his stomach, something that had been building since Thursday morning when Grayson first walked into the clinic.
“Feel like taking a stroll?” Grayson asked.
The two headed out, their pace slow.
They stopped under a tree, Grayson cupping Ryan’s cheeks. “Been wanting to kiss you since we met.”
Their mouths crashed together. Grayson’s lips were softer than Ryan had imagined, and he’d definitely imagined them.
The contact sent electricity racing through every nerve ending.
Ryan made a small sound in the back of his throat, something embarrassingly needy, and pressed closer.
Grayson’s hands stayed on his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw, and Ryan felt like he might actually dissolve into the sidewalk.
The kiss deepened. Ryan’s hands found the front of Grayson’s shirt, fisting in the fabric to keep himself steady.
The taste of coffee lingered on Grayson’s tongue.
The scratch of stubble against Ryan’s skin made him feel dizzy in the best possible way.
He’d kissed people before, but nothing had felt like this.
Nothing had made his knees actually go weak like in some ridiculous romance novel.
Grayson pulled back just enough to breathe.
His forehead rested against Ryan’s, their faces close enough that Ryan could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.
Which he did want to, actually. He wanted to catalog every detail of this moment so he could replay it later when he was alone and probably still freaking out.