Page 87 of Easy, Tiger

Agent Ackley called last week to confirm Dr. Pascal took a plea deal rather than risk trial, admitting to conspiracy and obstruction in exchange for a reduced sentence. The other names in his files, two researchers, and a journal editor who'd buried my original data are all facing their own separate investigations now. The wealthy collectors who paid Nico for his samples and surveillance turned out to be an even longer list than his files suggested, private buyers scattered across four countries, several with enough political connections that Ackley admitted the case would likely take years to fully unravel. Nico himself pled guilty to everything they could prove without ever mentioning shifters again, whatever fantasy he'd been building in his head apparently not worth the credibility hit of repeating it in a courtroom.

His attempt to ruin me backfired beautifully, though. When the FBI seized Pascal's assets and my original publishing contract dissolved along with them, Mayor Tapper and the town council refused to let the project die. They pooled municipal funds, organized local donations, and partnered with a regional university press to publish the guide themselves.

The Regional Wildlife Field Guide for Red Pine Valley sits beside my laptop, advance copies fresh from the printer with that satisfying heft of completed work. The cover features my illustration of a red-winged blackbird perched on autumn cattails, wings spread against the crimson backdrop of October foliage. Inside, two hundred pages of my best work, detailed anatomical studies, behavioral sketches, and habitat illustrations that capture both scientific accuracy and the wild beauty that first drew me to this profession.

Professional Rehabilitation Weekly called it "a masterclass in scientific illustration." Nature Conservancy described the artwork as "breathtaking in its precision and emotional resonance." The review that made me laugh came from Outdoor Life: "Gallagher goes beyond drawing animals—she embodies their souls."

My phone buzzes with another interview request. This one is from a podcast about career comebacks, wanting to discuss "overcoming professional adversity and public disgrace." They probably expect me to be gratefully triumphant and ready to share inspiring sound bites about perseverance and vindication.

Instead, I close the laptop and pour another cup of coffee.

Through the kitchen window, I spot Nolan's truck arrive in the driveway of his own cabin, since I packed up the last of my things and let the Whitmore place gather dust two weeks ago. I even hired a moving company to clear out my old apartment in the city and permanently end my lease. Neither of us made a formal announcement about it. I simply stopped driving back some nights, then most nights, until my sketchbooks and half my wardrobe migrated here without either of us discussing it directly. The custom walnut frames Nolan built for me now hang proudly on the walls here, displaying the original illustrations from my field guide. Everything I own is finally here. He emerges toting two bakery boxes from Ellie's place and wearing that particular smile he reserves for mornings when he's caught me working too early.

"Please tell me you've eaten something besides coffee," he calls through the screen door.

"Coffee beans are technically a food group."

"That's not how nutrition works." He sets the boxes on the counter, releasing a waft of cinnamon and fresh bread. "Ellie sent blueberry scones and those brown sugar croissants you've been pretending not to crave."

Leaning against the doorframe, I take in him moving through this kitchen with the easy familiarity of a man who's lived here for years, feeling me adjust into it with the same ease. Three weeks have passed since Nico's arrest. Halloween came and went with the enclave's cubs trick-or-treating in town, wearing costumes that hid their true nature in plain sight. Now, Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and the town is already planning a massive communal dinner. Some mornings I catch him checking on me twice before he's fully awake, like some part of him needs to confirm I'm still here.

"The publishers are getting aggressive," I say. "One of them tracked down my new cell phone number directly yesterday—the one I got after moving my things in. Didn't even bother going through email first."

"Same people who wouldn't return your calls months ago?"

I accept the scone he offers, still warm from the oven. "Several of the exact same names, actually. Suddenly, I'm a valuable asset with tremendous market potential again. Funny how vindication works."

Nolan lounges against the counter, poring over my expression. "You don't sound excited."

"I should be, shouldn't I? This is everything I thought I wanted. Complete professional rehabilitation, publishers fighting over me, my reputation fully restored and enhanced." I break off a piece of scone, the blueberries bursting sweetly against my tongue. "Months ago, I would have cried reading these emails."

"But not now?"

A gesture toward the window highlights the morning light illuminating the forest that's become more home than any place I've ever lived. "Over six months ago, I measured my worth by how many contracts I could land, how prestigious my clients were, whether industry publications mentioned my name. Success meant staying busy enough to avoid thinking about anything else."

"And now?"

"Now I know the difference between being successful and being happy." He lets out a quiet, knowing breath, offering understanding instead of the confusion I'd expect from someone who hasn't lived through their entire identity crumbling overnight. "The work matters. Creating something beautiful and scientifically valuable that continues to drive me. But I don't need the validation of strangers anymore."

Nolan reaches for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. "So what do you want to do about the offers?"

"Accept the ones that let me work from here. Decline the rest." The decision feels surprisingly easy once I speak it aloud. "I want to build something sustainable instead of chasing the next big opportunity. I want to wake up in Red Pine and know I'm exactly where I belong."

Nolan advances a fraction, his hands framing my face with a gentle tenderness that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "Good," he says, his voice low. "Because I've spent every morning since you got here hoping you'd choose to stay, and I stopped being able to imagine this cabin without you in it weeks ago." He kisses me then, soft and sure, tasting faintly of maple syrup from the croissants, and it feels less like a kiss and more like a promise neither of us needs to say out loud anymore.

When our lips break apart, I'm grinning like someone who's discovered the perfect punchline to a joke the universe has been telling for months.

"Actually, I've already started making things more permanent." I tilt back enough to see curiosity replace tenderness across his features. "I talked to Mayor Tapper yesterday about opening a wildlife illustration studio here in Red Pine. Permanently."

His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You what?"

"Ben practically bounced out of his chair when I mentioned it during coffee at Ellie's. Turns out there's that empty storefront next to the hardware store—it has that perfect north light for my drawings that you promised me and enough space for both a working studio and a small gallery. The real estate agent says the owner's been searching for the right tenant for two years. Someone who'll contribute to the community instead of solely extracting profit."

"Halsey, that's⁠—"

"I've already run the numbers. Between commissioned illustrations, teaching workshops for tourists, and selling prints of local wildlife, I can make it work financially. Better than work, actually. Sustainable." Grabbing his hands, I need him to understand how right this feels. "Ben was so excited he insisted on a celebration tonight at Murphy's, the same spot as the harvest dinner. Said the whole town's going to want to hear about it."

Nolan throws back his head and laughs, the sound rich and delighted. "You can't beat small-town hospitality. Plan something in the morning and throw a party by evening."