4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Even Pricks Have Feelings
Duke growls. Henri destroys medical supplies. And somewhere between the chaos of dogs and the quiet ritual of wound care, a man who's spent all day being hostile finds two words he didn't know he had in him. The doctor who's endured his hostility hears them land—and something between enemy and ally shifts into unfamiliar territory.
Some words take all day to find their way out.
Jamie surfaces from medicated sleep to Duke's familiar growl and an unwelcome discovery: Henri has destroyed several gauze dressings and claimed a bandage as his personal toy. The absurdity of it—surviving charcoal extraction only to lose medical supplies to a Shih Tzu—sits alongside the guilt that's been building since Glenda saved his life.
She works with quiet efficiency, redressing his wound while Jamie holds Duke close, keeping the hostile dog from interfering. The silence between them is layered—not comfortable, but no longer combative. A ceasefire built on exhaustion and grudging respect.
When Jamie finally speaks her name, Glenda freezes. Turns. Kneels beside him with concern creasing her brow.
"Thank you."
Two words. Simple. Inadequate for everything she's done. But sincere.
Glenda nods once. No grand reply needed. The moment of vulnerability, of quiet acknowledgement, lands deeper than eloquence could. Even pricks have feelings in them, somewhere, she thinks as Jamie's eyes drift closed. And something between them shifts.
