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He nods once, slow, like the words have to travel a long distance to reach him.

"He'll stay overnight," I add. "I want to monitor him. But he's going to be okay."

Another nod.

Then, so small I almost miss it, he exhales.

One careful breath.

Like a man who doesn't let relief come too fast.

"I can show you where he's resting," I offer. "If you want to see him before you go."

His eyes meet mine fully now.

"Yes," he says.

He sits on the floor beside Ranger's kennel, one hand resting through the grate near Ranger's paw. He doesn't speak. Doesn't perform comfort. He just stays like staying is what he's trained for.

I give him space and finish my notes.

When he finally stands, he looks like a man who's been holding his breath for two hours.

"Jack Sullivan," he says.

I glance up. "Emma Whitaker."

I hold out my hand. He shakes it. Firm grip. Warm palm. A handshake that says thank you without needing anything extra.

"Thank you, Dr. Whitaker."

"Emma," I correct gently.

He doesn't repeat it, but something in his eyes registers the offering.

He looks back at Ranger once. Then he reaches for his jacket.

At the door, he pauses and turns.

"You're the new vet," he says.

"I am."

A beat.

"Good," he says.

One word.

He leaves, and the clinic goes quiet again.

I stand there for a moment, the hum of the lights above me, the faint smell of antiseptic and someone else's legacy on the walls.

Good.

It shouldn't matter.

But alone in a clinic that still doesn't feel like mine, in a town that isn't home yet,