Two peas in a pod.
Maybe Sharon was right.
“That makes me think,” she said as she turned back to the filing cabinet, pulling out a single sheet of paper. “We got an adoption form for Pudding last night. Came through by email.”
The coffee mug froze halfway to my lips. “What?”
“Adoption form. For Pudding.”
“He's not ready.” The words came out sharper than intended. “He still needs to put on a few more pounds. He hasn't been posted on the website yet. Who the hell thinks they can just?—”
“Cal.”
“—submit a form for a dog that isn't even officially available? That's not how this works. We have protocols. We have?—”
“Callum.” Sharon's voice cut through my rant. “Just read it.”
She held out the paper.
I snatched it from her hand, scanning the form with growing irritation. Name, address, employment history, veterinary references...
My eyes caught on the name at the top.
Rosalie Hartley.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I read the name again, making sure it wasn't a mistake.
Rosie had filled an adoption form for Pudding.
The world shifted, pieces clicking into place with perfect clarity. She wasn't leaving. She was staying. She wanted Pudding, which meant she wanted to build something here, something permanent.
She's staying.
I stared at the printed email, reading her typed response. Under “Reason for adoption,” she'd written:I've fallen in love with this sweet boy, and I think we could help each other heal.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. She saw something in that scared, abandoned puppy that mirrored herself—both of them learning to trust again after being hurt. Both finding their way in a place that felt foreign at first. The paper trembled in my hands.
Sharon's voice broke through my spinning thoughts. “Still think she's going back to Seattle?”
I looked up. She was watching me with gentle understanding.
“You knew.”
“I got the email first thing this morning.” She returned to her filing. “Figured you needed to work through your feelings first.”
I stared at the form again, my pulse hammering. Rosie was staying. She'd chosen the farm. Chosen Alder Creek.
Chosen us.
“I need to—” I shoved the paper back at Sharon and bolted for the door.
“Go get her,” she called after me.
I didn't answer, already halfway across the parking lot. My house was fifty yards from the clinic, close enough that I usually walked. I ran.
The front door banged open. “Pudding!”
