I stare at his outstretched hand. The tattoos running across his skin, new additions from the years apart. His fingers look longer than before, more refined. I cross my arms tightly over my chest instead of accepting the handshake.
“We’ve met,” I say, my voice flat and cold.
Dr. Martinez’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment on the obvious tension crackling between us. Sheknows our history—everyone in Bellrose does. She simply gestures to the empty chair beside Zayn.
“Please sit, Sophie. Zayn was just explaining how he might be able to help us.”
I perch on the very edge of the chair, angling my body away from him. His cologne reaches me anyway and my stomach flip traitorously.
“I’ve reviewed your lease agreement and the landlord’s notice,” Zayn says, his tone calm and businesslike. Like we’re complete strangers who share no history whatsoever. “I believe we have several viable options to explore.”
He starts outlining tenant protection laws, zoning regulations, and environmental impact studies that could delay or prevent the rent increase. These are the exact same concepts I spent hours last night trying to decipher online, but they’d made no sense. Now here he is, breaking them down like they’re simple, solvable problems. He speaks with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, like someone who solves problems for a living.
Dr. Martinez leans forward, the exhaustion in her face easing slightly. “So you think we have a real chance?”
“I think we have options,” he says carefully. “Better options than you currently realize.”
I dig my fingernails into my biceps hard enough to leave marks. Who does he think he is, waltzing in here like some knight in expensive clothing? Invading the one place I felt completely safe, offering help I never asked for from the last person I’d ever want to owe. My pulse hammers everywhere—in my throat, behind my ears, at my wrists.
“What’s this going to cost?” I interrupt suddenly.
Zayn’s gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Dr. Martinez. “Pro bono,” he says, his voice remaining even despitemy hostility. “This clinic is important to Bellrose. I want to ensure it stays operational.”
Dr. Martinez’s entire face transforms, like someone’s lifted a crushing weight off her shoulders. “That’s incredibly generous of you.”
He shakes his head slightly. “It’s simply the right thing to do.”
The right thing. As if he suddenly cares about doing the right thing. As if he’s some selfless hero in his pressed shirt and rolled sleeves, all those new tattoos proving how much he’s changed. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I can’t believe I’m sitting here being forced to accept help from the one person I swore I’d never need again.
But watching Dr. Martinez’s expression shift—seeing hope flicker back into her eyes, seeing her shoulders drop away from her ears—I know I have to endure this. This isn’t about my anger or my hurt pride. It’s about the animals who need our care, the staff who depend on their paychecks, and the families in this town who trust us with their beloved pets.
So I stay seated and force myself to listen while Zayn explains our legal options. His voice stays calm and certain throughout. I keep my rigid posture, my expression carefully blank and my arms crossed defensively. I look composed and professional on the outside.
But my hands are clenched so tight my knuckles have gone white, and my heart is racing so violently I can’t slow it down no matter how many deep breaths I take.
The door closes behind Dr. Martinez with a soft click. The office suddenly feels impossibly small. I can’t breathe properly with just Zayn and me trapped in here together. Everything about him demands my attention—the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the dark tattoos peeking out from beneath his rolled cuffs, the way he’s sitting so still like he’s waiting for something. I fix my gaze on the fake plant in the corner and start counting the dusty leaves. Twenty-three. Twenty-three reasons I should get up and walk out right now.
“Emergency with Max,” Dr. Martinez had said, her pager beeping insistently. “His kidney values are concerning. I’ll be right back. You two can continue discussing options.”
Continue discussing? We weren’t discussing anything. He’d been explaining legal strategies while I sat frozen in my chair, and Dr. Martinez had pretended we were just professional colleagues instead of… whatever we are. Nothing now. We’re nothing.
The clock on the wall ticks obscenely loud in the silence. Each second stretches out endlessly. A dog barks twice somewhere down the hall, then goes quiet. The heating system kicks on with a low hum. I’m cataloging these mundane sounds like they’re fascinating because it’s easier than acknowledging the man sitting two feet away from me.
Zayn shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly. I can feel him watching me, waiting. I know how this scene plays out in my romance novels—heroine finally looks up, meets hero’s eyes,feels that electric spark. But this isn’t fiction. This is my real life, crumbling piece by painful piece.
“I didn’t ask for your help.” The words escape before I can stop them, cold and clipped. My professional mask slips enough to reveal the hurt and anger simmering underneath.
He’s still watching me with those eyes that used to be my whole world. “You didn’t have to,” he says quietly. “This place matters to you. That makes it matter to me.”
My breath catches. I’d expected defensiveness or irritation at my hostility, not this raw honesty that throws me completely off balance and slips right past every wall I’ve built.
I look away and grab a pen from Dr. Martinez’s desk. I roll it between my fingers, focusing on how smooth and cool it feels, then tap it against the wood surface—once, twice. The sound seems deafening in the quiet.
“The clinic doesn’t need your charity,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears. Because we do need help. Dr. Martinez needs help. And if I have to swallow my pride to save this place… well, I’ve survived worse.
“It’s not charity,” he says in that maddeningly calm tone that reveals nothing. No anger, no hurt, nothing I can latch onto to fuel my own resentment. “It’s my job. And I’m very good at it.”
The pen spins faster between my fingers—a nervous habit I thought I’d broken years ago. Just like so many other things I thought were gone forever, resurfacing now that he’s back.
