Page 31

Allie

One year later…

The shelter smells like disinfectant, soap, and wet dog, a combination that should be unpleasant but somehow feels like hope.

Like those baths are the cleansing and beginning of their new, better lives.

I squeeze Thatcher’s hand as Duke races ahead of us, his small sneakers slapping against the linoleum floor, his excitement echoing through the corridor of kennels.

Biscuit trots obediently at my side, his leash loose in my fingers, his nose twitching with interest at the symphony of barks and whines that greet us.

“Remember, Duke, inside voice,” Thatcher calls out, his tone firm but gentle.

After a year together, I’ve learned to read the subtle variations in his voice—this one carries a smile beneath the instruction.

I lean into Thatcher’s ear and whisper, “I don’t think it matters in these walls… Dogs don’t exactly understand the concept of inside voices. ”

Duke spins around, those green eyes wide with barely contained enthusiasm.

“But Dad, they’re all being loud,” he argues, gesturing wildly at the kennels with a logic only a six-year-old could muster.

“See?” I tease Thatcher.

Thatcher rolls his eyes and gives my hand a squeeze.

“They’re dogs.” Thatcher counters, “You’re a Bryant.”

I bite back a laugh.

The man may have left his military career behind, but some habits die hard—like the expectation of discipline, even at a chaotic animal shelter on a Saturday morning.

“Plus,” Thatcher continues, “some of these dogs might get scared by your outside voice, kiddo. We have to be mindful of what they’re all going through, too.”

Duke seems to mull this over, his brows knitting in serious thought.

Finally, he nods and continues ahead quietly.

It’s been a year since Thatcher and I crashed into each other’s lives—a year since bullets and fear and secrets nearly tore us apart before we’d even begun.

Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding with phantom panic, only to feel his arm tighten around me, anchoring me to this new reality we’ve built: safe, stable, and almost embarrassingly domestic.

“Allie!” Duke whispers while tugging at my free hand, pulling me toward a kennel where a spotted mutt with mismatched ears presses its nose against the bars.

“Look at this one! He looks like a cookies and cream milkshake!”

I bend down to Duke’s level, my hair falling forward as I peer at the eager dog.

“He is pretty cute, isn’t he?”

“He’s perfect,” Duke declares with the absolute certainty that only children possess.

“Let’s see all our options first, buddy,” Thatcher says, ever the strategist.

His hand finds the small of my back as I stand up, a casual touch that still sends warmth spiraling through me.

“We need to find the right fit for all of us, including Biscuit.”

It still catches me off guard sometimes—how easily I’ve slipped into this role, how natural it feels to be part of their unit.

I feed Duke breakfast on weekday mornings while Thatcher goes for his run.

I know that Duke hates the crusts on his sandwiches but will eat them if I cut them into zigzags.

I’ve memorized Thatcher’s nightmare schedule, the way his breath changes right before he wakes.

We move down the corridor, stopping at each kennel as Duke provides a running commentary on every dog’s potential merits.

Thatcher, ever practical, asks questions about temperament and exercise needs, while I find myself drawn to the quieter ones, the dogs whose eyes hold stories they can’t tell.

“This one looks like he could keep up with Duke,” Thatcher says, nodding toward an athletic-looking shepherd mix that’s bouncing off the walls of its enclosure.

I wrinkle my nose.

“Maybe a little too much energy? I don’t think our backyard is big enough for his parkour ambitions.”

A shelter volunteer approaches us with a clipboard and a smile.

Her name tag reads “Katie,” and she has the kind, weary look of someone who’s seen too many animals in need and not enough happy endings.

“How’s it going over here?” she asks, her eyes warming as she spots Duke’s enthusiastic nods.

“We’re doing great,” Thatcher answers.

“Ideally, we’d love a medium-sized dog, good with kids and other dogs.”

“And not too old,” Duke pipes up, “but not a baby either. ”

I ruffle his hair.

“We figured a dog around two to five years old would be perfect—past the chew-everything-in-sight puppy stage but still young enough for Duke to grow up with.”

Katie nods, her smile widening.

“I think we’ve got quite a few who might fit the bill. Have any caught your eye yet?”

Before we can answer, I feel a tug on Biscuit’s leash.

My little fluffball, usually so well-behaved, is pulling toward the end of the corridor with uncharacteristic determination.

“Biscuit, heel,” I command, but he ignores me completely—something he never does.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Thatcher’s eyebrows lift.

“I think your dog has opinions about our new addition.”

We follow Biscuit’s lead, Duke skipping ahead, his curiosity piqued by this break in routine.

Biscuit leads us to the very last kennel, tucked away in a corner.

Unlike the other dogs who rush to the front of their enclosures, tails wagging and eyes hopeful, this kennel seems empty at first glance.

But as we peer in, I spot her—a medium-sized dog curled into herself at the back, her honey-colored fur dull in the fluorescent lighting.

She doesn’t even lift her head at our approach, doesn’t wag her tail, doesn’t even seem to register our presence.

Biscuit lets out a small whine, pressing his nose to the bars.

To my surprise, he lies down right there, trying to push his snout through the gaps.

It’s so unusual for my normally bouncy pup that I glance at Thatcher in confusion.

“What’s her story?” I ask Katie, who has followed us with a shadow crossing her face .

She sighs, the sound heavy with untold heartache.

“That’s Maple. She was rescued from a puppy mill two weeks ago. We estimate she’s about four years old, but it’s hard to tell—her body shows signs of multiple litters, probably from the time she was barely more than a puppy herself.”

“She looks so sad,” Duke whispers, pressing his small palm to the bars.

“She is,” Katie confirms, her voice softening.

“Some dogs bounce back quickly once they’re out of those situations, but others...” She shakes her head.

“Maple hasn’t shown any interest in other dogs, people, toys—nothing. It’s like she’s given up.”

Something twists in my chest, a deep ache that resonates through my bones.

I think of Thatcher when we first met, so closed off, so wounded by his past.

I think of myself, hiding behind fluff pieces and food reviews, afraid to chase my real dreams.

“Has she been checked medically?” Thatcher asks, his voice carrying that edge it gets when he’s trying not to show how much he cares.

“Complete workup.” Katie nods.

“Physically, she’s well. It’s her spirit that’s broken.”

Biscuit whines again, louder this time, and begins pawing at the bars separating them.

The sound finally draws Maple’s attention—just the slightest tilt of her head, but it’s something.

“Can we meet her?” I find myself asking.

“In a play area, maybe?”

Katie hesitates, her pen tapping against her clipboard.

“You can, but...I don’t want you to get your hopes up. She hasn’t engaged with anyone yet, and we’ve had some of our most experienced volunteers work with her. ”

“We’d still like to try,” Thatcher says, his hand finding mine, squeezing gently.

He knows me well enough now to read the determination in my eyes.

“Please?” Duke adds, his green eyes wide and pleading.

“Maybe she just needs friends.”

Katie’s resistance melts under the full force of Duke’s earnestness.

“All right then. Follow me to the meet-and-greet room, and I’ll bring her in. Just...prepare yourselves for not much to happen, okay?”

As we walk toward the playroom, I feel Thatcher’s eyes on me.

When I glance up, his mouth quirks into that half smile that still makes my heart skip.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Just thinking about how some strays find their way home in the most unexpected ways.”

I know he’s not only talking about Maple anymore.

He’s talking about all of us—the way we’ve cobbled together this family from broken pieces, the way we’ve healed each other’s wounds without even trying.

I lean against him briefly as we enter the bright, toy-scattered room.

“Some strays are worth waiting for,” I reply, feeling his arm slip around my waist.

Duke’s already exploring the space, picking up tennis balls and squeaky toys, his voice a running commentary on what he thinks their new dog might like.

Biscuit watches from beside me, unusually subdued, his eyes fixed on the door as if willing Maple to appear.

“Do you think she’ll like us?” Duke asks suddenly, his brows furrowed with worry.

Thatcher crouches down to his son’s level, his hand steady on the boy’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, buddy. But we can try to show her that she’s safe with us. Sometimes, that’s all a scared heart needs—to feel safe.”

He catches my eye over Duke’s head as the door opens.

Katie appears with Maple on a leash.

The dog follows reluctantly, her head down, her steps hesitant.

Up close, I can see the scars on her muzzle, the way her ribs still show slightly beneath her coat.

But there’s a quiet dignity to her, a gentleness in her amber eyes that tugs at something deep inside me.

“Here we go,” Katie says softly, closing the door behind them.

“Keep in mind that sometimes dogs like this just need a family to take a chance on them. Some bonds take longer to forge than others.”

We settle on the floor, Thatcher and Duke and me, forming a loose circle with Biscuit by my side.

Katie unclips Maple’s leash, but the dog doesn’t move, just stands there looking lost in a room full of strangers.

“It’s okay, Maple,” I whisper, though I know my words mean nothing to her.

“You’re safe now.”

And we wait, hope hanging in the balance, as Maple decides whether to take a chance on us—or whether some hearts are simply too broken to heal.

The playroom falls silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning unit overhead.

We sit together on the floor, no one moving, barely breathing, as if Maple might shatter if we make any sudden movements.

She stands where Katie left her, still as a statue, her amber eyes fixed on some middle distance that none of us can see.

I glance at Thatcher, finding my own concern mirrored in the tight line of his jaw.

“Give her time,” Katie whispers, settling cross-legged near the door.

“Sometimes, it takes them a while to realize they’re allowed to exist in a space.”

Duke fidgets beside me, his small fingers plucking at the hem of his T-shirt.

I place my hand over his, a gentle reminder to be patient.

He nods, his eyes never leaving Maple’s still form.

For a six-year-old whose default setting is perpetual motion, his restraint speaks volumes about how much this matters to him.

Minutes tick by, marked only by the subtle shifting of our bodies and the occasional sigh from Biscuit, who sits unusually still beside me.

Just when I’m starting to think this was a mistake, that we’re putting too much pressure on this broken creature, my little dog makes his move.

Biscuit rises to his feet with deliberate slowness, his nails clicking softly against the linoleum as he approaches Maple.

I hold my breath, ready to pull him back if she reacts negatively, but she doesn’t move a muscle.

He stops a foot away from her, his tail wagging tentatively.

“Careful, Biscuit,” I murmur, though I’m not sure why.

My dog has always had better instincts around other animals than most humans I know.

And despite Maple’s depression, she doesn’t seem to have an aggressive bone in her body.

Biscuit inches closer, his nose twitching as he takes in her scent.

Then, to my surprise, he sits directly in front of her and lets out a small, conversational whine—the same sound he makes when he wants me to share my dinner with him.

Maple’s ears twitch, the first real movement we’ve seen from her.

Her eyes, previously so vacant, flicker with something that might be interest.

Biscuit, encouraged, scoots forward on his butt until he’s close enough to touch her.

He stretches his neck out, his pink tongue darting to lick her muzzle.

I tense, expecting her to retreat, but instead, the miracle happens.

Maple blinks, and her nose lowers to sniff him back.

“Oh my God,” Katie breathes, her clipboard forgotten in her lap.

“That’s the first time she’s responded to anyone.”

Thatcher’s hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through my own with that quiet strength that’s become my anchor.

We watch, barely daring to hope, as Biscuit continues his gentle coaxing.

He stands up, turns in a circle, then plops down again, his entire body language saying, “Come on, this is fun!”

And then, like dawn breaking after an endless night, Maple takes a step.

Just one, hesitant and unsure, but it might as well be a marathon for the distance she’s traveled from that lifeless creature in the kennel.

Biscuit’s tail thumps against the floor, his entire body wiggling with encouragement.

“Dad, look,” Duke whispers, his voice tight with excitement.

“She’s moving!”

“I see, buddy,” Thatcher replies, his own voice unusually soft.

Biscuit rises again, taking a few playful steps backward, then forward, enticing Maple to follow.

She does, her movements stiff and uncertain, like she’s forgotten how her legs work.

But she’s moving, one paw in front of the other, her nose stretching toward Biscuit.

I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and blink rapidly.

Beside me, Katie isn’t even trying to hide her emotion, tears sliding freely down her cheeks as she watches the transformation.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, her voice choked.

“We’ve had professional trainers try to reach her, and your little dog...”

“He knows what it’s like to be scared,” I tell her.

“Sometimes, it takes one survivor to recognize another.”

Maple has now ventured several feet from her starting point, her body gradually loosening as she follows Biscuit’s playful lead.

There’s still caution in her movements, but something else is emerging too—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of trust.

And then, there’s just the littlest sway of her tail.

A slight wagging back and forth.

“Can I try?” Duke asks, looking to Katie for permission.

She hesitates, then nods.

“Take it slow, okay? No sudden movements.”

With painstaking care, Duke crawls forward on his hands and knees, stopping a few feet from where Biscuit and Maple are engaged in their cautious dance.

“Hi, Maple,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m Duke. That’s Biscuit, and he really likes you.”

Maple freezes, her eyes darting to this new presence, and for a moment I’m afraid we’ve lost all progress.

But Duke, with wisdom beyond his years, simply sits back on his heels and waits, offering his open palm low to the ground.

“It’s okay,” he continues in that same gentle tone.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore. We have a really nice house with a yard and lots of toys.”

Biscuit, as if understanding his role in this delicate negotiation, returns to Maple’s side and nuzzles her once more.

Then, to my astonishment, he walks over to Duke and back to Maple, creating a bridge between them.

Maple watches this journey with pointed ears, her body still tense but her eyes tracking every movement.

Then, with excruciating slowness, she takes a step toward Duke.

And another.

And another, until she’s close enough to sniff his outstretched hand.

“Oh my goodness,” Katie gasps.

“This is incredible.”

Duke remains perfectly still, allowing Maple to investigate him at her own pace.

When she finally gives his fingers a tentative lick, his face lights up with such pure joy that my chest aches with the beauty of it.

“She likes me!” he whispers, his eyes finding Thatcher’s and mine, seeking confirmation of this miracle.

“She sure does, buddy,” Thatcher says, and I hear the roughness in his voice that tells me he’s not as unmoved as he pretends to be.

Maple sits and then lowers to the ground in front of Duke, offering him her belly.

“Good girl, Maple!” Duke says, petting her gently.

Emboldened by Duke’s success, Biscuit bounces toward a tennis ball lying abandoned in the corner.

He nudges it with his nose, sending it rolling toward Maple.

She rolls over, still laying down and watches its progress with newfound interest, her tail giving the faintest twitch when the ball stops at her paws.

“Good girl,” Duke encourages.

“You can play if you want to.”

For a long moment, Maple stares at the ball.

Then, with an almost hesitant movement, she lowers her head and noses it, sending it rolling back toward Biscuit.

My little dog jumps on it immediately, his excitement contagious, and Maple’s tail—her tail that hasn’t moved in two weeks prior to today—gives another, more definite wag.

“I think,” I say to Thatcher, my voice thick with emotion, “we might be witnessing a miracle.”

His eyes, when they meet mine, are soft in a way that still takes my breath away, even after a year of waking up beside him.

“I’ve seen a few of those lately,” he replies.

Over the next several minutes, we watch in awe as Maple gradually emerges from her shell.

She doesn’t transform completely—there’s still caution in her movements, still shadows in her eyes—but there’s life there now.

She sniffs Biscuit’s ball, takes a few playful steps after it when Duke rolls it gently across the floor, and even ventures close enough to accept a scratch behind her ears from Katie.

Katie wipes her damp eyes.

“She’s been practically catatonic since she arrived, and now...” She gestures to where Maple is allowing Duke to stroke her side, her tail swishing tentatively.

I look at Thatcher, finding my own thoughts reflected in his eyes.

“I think that means she’s ours, wouldn’t you say?” I ask, my voice soft but certain.

He nods, that half smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Lucky for us,” he adds, “Maple and Biscuits go well together, huh?”

“They sure do,” I laugh.

“But we said we were going to name our new dog Pancake!” Duke whines.

“Her full name could be Maple Pancake!” I offer, watching as Maple—Pancake—allows Duke to gently pat her head.

“We can see if she responds to her new name. But I’m okay with Maple, too.”

Duke thinks for a long moment before nodding.

“I think the universe might be telling us she’s meant for us.”

I nod, marveling at the persistence of six-year-olds.

“I think you might be right.”

“The universe has excellent timing,” Thatcher agrees, something in his tone making me glance up at him curiously .

“What do you mean?”

But he just squeezes my hand, that secretive smile playing across his lips.

I look back at the scene before us: Duke sitting cross-legged on the floor, Biscuit hopping excitedly around him, and Maple Pancake cautiously accepting this new reality where gentle hands and wagging tails replace cold cages and cruelty.

Something warm unfurls in my chest, a feeling so full it’s almost painful.

I stand, drawn to this broken, beautiful creature who’s taking her first steps toward trust.

As I approach, Maple’s eyes find mine, and I see a reflection of the courage it takes to begin once more.

“Hey, pretty girl,” I murmur, kneeling in front of her.

“Welcome to the family.”

I extend my hand slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wants to.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she stretches her neck forward, her nose cool and damp against my palm.

My heart swells as those amber eyes hold mine, a soul recognizing a kindred spirit.

Behind me, a throat clears, the sound pulling me reluctantly from this moment of connection.

I turn, expecting to see Katie with paperwork for us to begin the adoption process.

Instead, I find Thatcher and Duke kneeling side by side, their expressions a mixture of nervousness and barely contained excitement.

Between them, nestled in Thatcher’s outstretched palm, is a small velvet box containing a glittering ring—a beautiful square diamond surrounded by emeralds.

“Allie,” Thatcher begins, his deep voice rougher than usual, “I know that a room scattered with toys and the smell of wet dog isn’t the most romantic setting?— ”

“It’s perfect,” I breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He smiles, that rare, full smile that transforms his entire face.

“Duke and I have been planning this for weeks. We wanted to wait for the right moment, and then when we decided to look for another dog today...”

“It was a sign from the universe!” Duke interjects, bouncing on his knees.

He’s been strangely obsessed with the universe lately and it kind of makes more sense now.

“Because now we can all be a real family—you and me and Dad and Biscuit and Maple Pancake!”

Thatcher’s eyes, so like his son’s, shine with a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show.

“This past year has been...everything, Allie. You barged into our lives with your ridiculous dog and your even more ridiculous determination, and somehow, you became everything we didn’t know we needed.”

Thatcher reaches for my hand, continuing, “The laughter, the chaos, the heart. I never thought I’d find this again—someone to love, someone to trust with my son, with my scars, with all the dark parts of me. But you never flinched, not once.”

My vision blurs with tears as I look between them—this man and this boy who have become the center of my world.

“I never flinched because I was falling in love with those parts too,” I manage, my voice cracking.

“All of you.” I pause to look over at Duke.

“I fell in love with both of you.”

Thatcher takes a deep breath, his fingers warm and steady around mine.

“Allison Larsen, will you marry me? Will you officially join our family? You and Biscuit?—”

“And Maple Pancake!” Duke chimes in.

“And yes, of course, Maple Pancake, too,” Thatcher finishes, his eyes never leaving mine.

For a heartbeat, I’m frozen, overwhelmed by the perfection of this moment—kneeling on the floor of an animal shelter, surrounded by the family we’ve pieced together from broken parts.

It’s nothing like the proposal I might have imagined as a girl, and yet it’s perfect because it’s us—messy and real and absolutely right.

“Yes,” I whisper, and then louder, “Yes, of course yes! It would be my honor to join your family. To be your wife. And your stepmom.”

The word barely leaves my lips before Duke launches himself at me, his small arms wrapping around my neck as he squeals with delight.

Thatcher follows more sedately, but his embrace is no less fierce as he pulls us both against his chest.

“She said yes!” Duke announces to the room at large, as if anyone could have missed it.

“We’re going to be a real family!”

“We already are, buddy,” Thatcher tells him, his voice thick with emotion.

“This just makes it official.”

He takes the ring from its velvet nest and slides it onto my finger, the cool weight of it unfamiliar but perfect.

I stare at it for a moment, watching how it catches the light, how it makes visible the promise we’ve been building for a year.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, the words inadequate for the swelling in my chest.

“Like you,” Thatcher replies, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me with a tenderness that makes my knees weak.

A whine breaks our moment, and we turn to find both Biscuit and Maple Pancake watching us curiously, tails wagging in a synchronized rhythm.

Katie stands by the door, her clipboard clutched to her chest, tears streaming down her face.

“Sorry,” she sniffles.

“But that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And with Maple—Pancake—coming out of her shell like that...it’s like something out of a movie.”

Duke beams, his whole face lit from within.

“We’re magic together,” he declares with absolute conviction.

“That’s what Dad says. We even slay dragons as a family!”

Thatcher’s ears redden slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“The kid’s right,” he murmurs, just for me.

“What else would you call this?”

I lean into him, watching as Duke returns to coaxing Maple Pancake into play, Biscuit bouncing around them both like the world’s fluffiest cheerleader.

In this moment, surrounded by the family we’ve built from scratch, I can’t think of any other word.

Magic.

Unexpected, imperfect, absolutely undeniable magic.

Thank you for reading Meet Cute or Your Money Back!