He shakes his head like he wants to contradict me but doesn’t. He stands and walks to the coffee station in the corner. “Want some?” he asks, holding up the carafe.
I almost refuse, but my mouth is dry and my hands won’t stop trembling. “Sure.”
He pours coffee into two mugs and sets one in front of me. I wrap both hands around it, absorbing the warmth.
We sit in silence for a moment. Not talking, sipping coffee and pretending we don’t both feel the weight of our history filling every corner of this small office.
“I’m glad you came,” he says softly.
My breath catches. “I didn’t want to. Dr. Martinez basically forced me.”
He smiles, but it’s sad around the edges. “Still. I’m glad.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I look back at the lease documents, pretending to study them, but my thoughts are racing. I want to ask why he’s really doing this. Is it guilt? Does he still care? I want to know if he ever thinks about that last day on the cliff, or if he’s managed to forget me completely.
But I don’t ask any of those things. Instead, I say, “What happens next?”
He walks me through the plan—draft the cease-and-desist letter, wait for their response, prepare for escalation if necessary. He sounds confident, organized, everything I’m not. I nod along, trying to absorb the information, but mostly I’m watching him talk—how his eyes light up when he explains legal concepts, how his hands moves when he talks about strategy.
When he finishes, he looks at me again. “You’re going to be okay, Sophie. I promise.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him.
I stand and gather my empty folder. “Text me when you hear back?”
He nods, then hesitates. “Want me to walk you out?”
I shake my head, but I’m actually smiling now, despite everything. “I can find my way.”
I pause at the door and look back one more time. He’s still standing there watching me leave, the lighthouse model catching afternoon light behind him. I close the door without saying goodbye and finally let myself breathe.
By the time I make it back to the clinic, the sun is setting, bathing the entire building in orange-gold light. I’d forgotten how beautiful the place looks at this hour—the painted paw prints on the windows cast playful shadows across the floor, and the mural of the cliff trail on the back wall looks almost three-dimensional in this light. For just a moment, I can pretend our problems don’t exist. That we’re not about to lose everything, and my biggest concern is whether Mia got into her treat bag again.
When I push through the door, Sara calls from the back. “You’re back! How did it go?”
I hold up the folder. “We might actually have a shot,” I say, feeling strange even voicing it out loud. “Zayn found violations in the lease. They’re required to give us six months’ notice, not three. And they have to help us find alternative space.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious? That’s incredible.”
I’m about to elaborate when there’s a loud crash from the kennels, followed by Stella bursting through, looking completely frazzled, hands on her hips, hair escaping its bun in every direction.
“You’re smiling,” she says, pointing at me accusingly. “Did you kiss him? Please tell me you kissed him.”
I laugh despite myself. “Absolutely not. No kissing happened. We just reviewed legal documents like boring adults.”
Sara studies me skeptically. “Was it awful?”
I consider the question. “It was like running into your ex at the worst possible time in the worst possible place. Deeply uncomfortable.”
Sara laughs. Stella just grins wider. “Well, at least you survived.”
“Barely.” I don’t mention how he kept watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking, or how my pulse jumped every time our hands accidentally touched, or that I can still smell his cologne clinging to my clothes. I just say, “He’s drafting a letter to the landlord. If they don’t comply, we might actually have leverage.”
For a moment, I let myself feel it. Hope. Like maybe things could actually work out for once.
Then the phone rings, and Sara rushes to answer it. Stella disappears back to the kennels, muttering something about a “suicidal beagle with zero self-preservation instincts.” I stand alone in the hallway, clutching the folder to my chest, feeling lightheaded.
I make my way to the break room and sink into a chair. My adrenaline from the meeting has evaporated completely, leaving me jittery and strange, like I’ve had too much caffeine and then rode a roller coaster. I stare at the folder and replay Zayn’s words, how his expression softened when I talked about the animals, how he knew exactly what to say to make me feel better without me having to explain.
