I nod stiffly. I won’t call him Mr. Blackwell, even if that’s what this setting demands. “You said one o’clock?”
He glances at his computer screen, then gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Right on time. I apologize for moving our meeting here. I got pulled into an emergency client situation.”
I sit. The leather chair is expensive and slippery, making me slide forward awkwardly. I grip my folder so tight the edges bite into my palms.
Zayn settles into his own chair, maintaining distance, though the office isn’t that large. His desk is mostly clear except for a legal pad, pen, and coffee mug that smells rich and dark. He nods toward my folder. “Is that everything?”
I nod. “All of it. Every lease, every amendment, every letter. I even brought the original rental application, just in case it’s relevant.”
His smile shifts, becomes genuine. “Of course you did.” For a moment, his eyes soften, and I’m transported back to being eighteen, convinced I’d never want anything more than this boy looking at me exactly like that.
I shove the memory down hard. “You wanted to review the actual documents, right?”
He pulls his legal pad closer, flips his pen between his fingers—a habit I remember. “Yeah. The devil’s always in the fine print.”
I exhale slowly, trying to steady my trembling hands as I open the folder and spread the documents across his desk. The top sheet is the lease renewal we signed three years ago, back when they raised the rent the first time. There’s a tea stain in the corner from the night I had my first panic attack about losing the clinic.
Zayn begins reading, his eyes tracking across each line. He’s always been a fast reader, but I can tell he’s genuinely focused—his brow furrows at exactly the clauses that made me want to scream when I’d pored over them at midnight. He turns to the next page, then another, making notes on his yellow pad.
I sit perfectly still, barely breathing. The office smells like him underneath the coffee—pine and that clean scent the air has after rain. My face flushes hot, remembering that smell on my pillows, my clothes, my skin.
He glances up. “You okay?”
I snap to attention. “Fine.” Too loud. I clear my throat. “Just want to get this over with.”
He nods like he expected exactly that answer. “I understand. This can’t be easy.”
We don’t speak for the next ten minutes. He reads, writes notes, turns pages carefully. The only sounds are his pen scratching and the air conditioner system humming. I try to focus on the beach photograph behind him, how the sunlight breaks through storm clouds, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands moving confidently over the documents.
Finally, he pauses on one page, tapping a section. “Did you catch this?”
I lean forward. My hair falls across my face and I have to pull it back. Our shoulders are nearly touching now. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and my stomach does that stupid flip I hate myself for.
He points to a line of dense text. “See this clause about tenant rights? It states they can’t terminate your lease without providing six months’ notice. And they’re required to assist in finding alternative space.”
I squint at the tiny print. “What does that mean for us?”
His smile grows slightly. “It means they violated the terms. They only gave you three months.” He flips to another section, finds something else. “And look—your original lease contains the same provision. Six months minimum. It’s actually a Bellrose municipal code requirement.”
My heart kicks into a faster rhythm. “So they’re breaking the law?”
He shakes his head, but his smile widens. “They’re hoping you won’t notice. Or that you can’t afford to fight it.” He looks up, those stormy eyes locking onto mine. “But if you fight? You’ll win. At minimum, three additional months. Possibly more if we can demonstrate the clinic’s essential community value.”
For the first time in days, I feel actual hope. It’s so unexpected I almost laugh out loud. “Really?”
He leans back, resting one arm along the desk. His tattoos shift with the movement, black roses rippling across tanned skin. “Really. I can write them a letter about these violations. Put pressure on them to follow the rules. Maybe even get them to drop the increase completely.”
I stare at him. Five years gone, and he still knows exactly what to say to make me believe everything might actually be okay. I want to hug him. Or throw his expensive coffee in his face. Maybe both.
I do neither. I just nod. “Thank you.”
We work through the remaining documents line by line. Sometimes our hands touch when we both reach for the same page. Each time, it’s like touching a doorknob after walking across carpet in socks. I jerk back immediately. His jaw tenses, but his expression stays neutral.
Two hours later, the folder is empty and my brain is swimming with legal terms. Zayn closes the final file and looks at me. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there that makes my chest ache.
“You really love that place,” he says quietly.
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “It’s my entire life. The only thing I haven’t completely screwed up yet.”
