Epilogue 2
Sadie
Two Years Later
The clinic smells like lavender disinfectant and fresh hay—my signature blend of “comfort first, medicine second.” Sunlight pours through the big windows we insisted on, turning the polished concrete floors gold. Fig, one of the barn cats, is curled up in a patch of sunshine in the corner.
I stand in the doorway of my consultation room, white coat on, stethoscope around my neck, and let myself take it in. The framed degree on the wall, my name printed in bold: Dr. Sadie Callahan.
Outside the window, I can see the Havenridge Vet Program barn, where a few of the veterans are working with the horses this morning. Two years ago, I could barely breathe without checking the shadows for monsters. Now, the world feels wider than the horizon that holds this ranch.
The door opens behind me, and even without turning, I feel him. Wyatt’s steady, grounding presence settles around me.
“You’re staring at the wall again,” he says, voice low and amused as he steps inside. “Should I be jealous, or…”
I laugh softly. “Just making sure it’s real.”
His arms slide around my waist from behind, his chin brushing my shoulder. “It’s real, Doc. You did this.”
I rest my hands on his forearms. “We did.”
He makes a sound—half hum, half contentment—that vibrates through me. “Maybe. But you’re the one who stayed long enough to build it.”
Stayed. That word used to terrify me.
Now, it feels like oxygen.
Wyatt turns me gently, and I melt into him without thought. He studies my face carefully, attentively, like he always does. As if he wants to memorize every emotion that flickers across my face.
“You ready for your first official patient as Dr. Callahan?” he asks, brushing a kiss against my temple. “He’s very demanding.”
As if on cue, Maisie—our dog now—thumps her tail on the reception rug, a chew toy hanging from her mouth like a peace offering.
I smile. “She only wants treats. And cuddles. And validation.”
“Same,” Wyatt murmurs, eyes warm.
I loop my arms around his neck. “You get all three.”
His breath catches, the faintest hitch only I would notice. “Not sure what I did to deserve this life,” he says quietly.
“Survived,” I answer equally softly. “And let someone in.”
He kisses me then, and it’s like a promise renewed rather than spoken. It still astonishes me that something so gentle can feel so life-altering.
We pull apart as Fig winds herself around Wyatt’s legs, purring so loudly it’s almost a growl. He bends to pick her up, scratching under her chin until she goes limp with bliss.
“Traitor,” I tease. “She used to love me best.”
Wyatt smirks. “What can I say? I’m irresistible to beautiful creatures with trust issues.”
I swat his arm lightly. “Funny. I don’t see any beautiful creatures here.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t see what I see.”
Ugh. Melt.
“What do you see?” I ask softly, an echo of the first time we made love.
He leans in, forehead touching mine. “A woman who walked through hell and still came out brighter than anyone I’ve ever met.”
My throat tightens. He always does this—uses his words in a devastating way that frees something inside me every time.
There’s no grand gesture in this moment. No audience. No fanfare.
Just a man and a woman in a sunlit clinic, choosing each other the same way they did the first night fear tried to steal it—quietly, consistently, with both hands open.
I breathe deeply in a way that only happens when you know you’re safe all the way down to the bone.
I stayed. I built a life. And I’m not running anymore.
Wyatt kisses my temple again. “Ready, Dr. Callahan?”
I smile as the warmth of his love reaches every corner of me. “Yeah. Let’s take care of our little world.”
Together, we step into the morning light.
Thank you for reading!