Page 10 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

Nicole seems to recognize my withdrawal and shifts back to professional mode. "One more antibiotic dose at midnight. I can set an alarm and come back—"

"I'll do it," I interrupt. "I'm up at that hour anyway." Seeing her questioning look, I add, "Some of the nocturnal residents need checking."

It's not entirely true—I do sometimes check the night creatures, but not on any fixed schedule. The reality is that sleep rarely comes easily for me, and midnight finds me awake more often than not.

"If you're sure," she says.

"I am." I move toward the door, a clear signal that our interaction is concluding. "You'll have a busy day tomorrow with the treatment regimen."

Nicole gathers her things, apparently accepting the dismissal. "I left detailed notes about the midnight dose on the counter. Come get me if anything seems off."

I nod, holding the door open as she and Max exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Nicole."

"Just Nicole," she corrects again, "And goodnight, Jack. Thank you for dinner."

"You cooked it," I remind her.

"I meant for sharing it," she clarifies. "For the company."

Before I can respond, she's walking away across the darkening grounds toward her cabin, Max at her side. I watch until she reaches the door, telling myself it's just to ensure she navigates the unfamiliar path safely in the growing darkness.

When she's inside, I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. One day down. One more to go. Then my sanctuary returns to normal—quiet, predictable, isolated.

The way I need it to be.

I move to the kitchen to clean up the dinner remains. The space still holds traces of Nicole's presence—a lingering scent of the herbs she used, the neat stack of cookware by the sink, two wine glasses where I normally use only one. Small disruptions to my ordered existence.

As I wash the dishes, I find myself thinking about her comment regarding animals and their complexity. About trauma responses and coping mechanisms. About the expectations we place on recovery—animal or human.

I glance down at my left arm, at the ridged scars visible beneath the pushed-up sleeve. Physical wounds heal according to predictable patterns. The body can be remarkably resilient, given proper care and time.

But some marks go deeper. Some can't be seen. Those are the ones that wake me at midnight, that keep me on this mountain, that make me flinch at unexpected kindness.

The ones Nicole seems determined to notice, despite my best efforts to keep them hidden.

Forty-eight hours, I remind myself again. It's almost nothing in the span of a life. I've endured far worse for far longer.

So why does the prospect of one more day in her company fill me with such unease?

Chapter 5 - Nicole

The cabin is quiet except for Max's gentle snoring from his bed in the corner. I should be sleeping too, but my mind refuses to settle. I've been staring at the wooden ceiling for the past hour, tracing the grain patterns visible in the moonlight streaming through the windows.

I check my phone: 11:47 PM. Almost midnight. Almost time for the eagle's next dose of antibiotics, which Jack insisted on handling.

Jack Mercer. The man is a puzzle with missing pieces. Brilliant with animals, skilled with his hands, clearly educated in medicine and wildlife management, yet so determined to avoid basic human connection that even accepting a compliment seems painful for him.

"What do you think, Max?" I whisper, though my companion is deep in canine dreams. "Professional distance, right? That's what we're maintaining here."

Professional distance. The phrase sounds hollow even in my own head. I've never been good at maintaining clinical detachment. It's both my strength and weakness as a veterinarian—I care, sometimes too deeply. Animals sense it, respond to it. People occasionally find it overwhelming.

Jack certainly seems to.

With a sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Sleep isn't coming, and I might as well check on our patient. Jack can handle the medication, but I want to see for myself how the eagle is responding to treatment.

I pull on jeans and a sweater, then slip my feet into hiking boots. Max raises his head at my movement, eyes questioning.

"Just a quick check, buddy," I tell him. "You can stay and sleep."

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