Jesse and you had been dating for a while now, and truth be told, it was the kind of relationship people in Jackson quietly admired. Jesse was the dependable, quietly strong type, with that boyish grin that made your heart skip even now. And you? Well, you were sweet, kind, always looking out for the broken things in the world—especially the ones with fur, feathers, or fangs.

You had a habit, to put it mildly. Some called it an obsession. You brought strays home like other people brought back trinkets from patrol. To you, every animal you found wasn’t a danger—it was just something that needed love. And you had plenty to give.

There was the injured wolf you found limping by the riverbank, who now curled up by the fireplace like a dog. The fox with half an ear who followed you everywhere like a shadow. A barn owl who refused to be caged and instead flew freely, only to return to perch on your arm like something out of a fairytale. And who could forget the time you somehow—somehow—ended up dragging a baby zebra into town?

Tommy had nearly had a stroke. Maria just rubbed her temples like she’d seen this movie one too many times.

“They’re gonna start charging you rent for that barn,” Jesse joked once, as you tried to hide yet another muddy pup under your coat. “Not that it matters. You’ll just take ‘em home with us.”

And he wasn’t wrong. He never really said no to you. He tried once, when you brought home a litter of raccoons that had taken a liking to your backpack. He’d opened his mouth, looked at you—mud on your boots, fur all over your jacket, that hopeful sparkle in your eyes—and sighed, defeated.

“Alright,” he muttered. “But if they eat my socks, we’re gonna have a talk.”

Dina and Ellie found it hilarious. Ellie kept score on the back of a patrol logbook. “Another one?” she’d laugh. “What’s this make now? A whole damn zoo?”

Dina would nudge Jesse with a smirk. “You better be careful. One day she’s gonna bring back a bear and name it Jesse Jr.”

But Jesse didn’t mind. Not really. Sure, he liked his order and his clean boots and his space. But he also liked you. Loved you, actually. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t melt just a little when you held a trembling creature in your arms and whispered softly to it like the world outside wasn’t hard and cold. Like love was enough to fix everything.

And maybe, with you, it was.

He’d find you sometimes, late at night, curled up with a fox at your feet and that owl watching from the rafters. You’d look up at him, tired but smiling, and he’d think, God, I love this woman.

“Come on, Dr. Doolittle,” he’d say with a smirk, tugging you gently to your feet. “Let’s get you and your circus to bed.”

And as you followed him, hand in hand, the animals trailing behind like a mismatched little parade, Jesse would glance over at you and grin.

Muscles were great. Smiles were better. But you—you and your wild, kind, chaotic heart—were the real reason he stayed.