I know I should be grateful. I should focus on the clinic, on the strategy, on doing right by Dr. Martinez and everyone who depends on this place. But I keep hearing him say, “You’re going to be okay, Sophie. I promise.” Like he still has the power to make things right, like he didn’t already destroy everything five years ago.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but the message reads:
Need you.
I stare at the screen for a beat, then another text arrives:
Sorry, that came out wrong. Can you meet me at The Pearl? Found something in the case law that could strengthen our position. It's urgent.
I could ignore it. I could pretend I never saw the messages, make him wait around for once. But who am I kidding? Zayn doesn’t use words like “urgent” unless he means it, and I can’t afford to play games when the clinic’s future hangs in the balance.
I text back:
On my way.
Pearl Restaurant sits right on the waterfront, past the marina where the fishing boats dock. At night they string up fairy lights that make everything look magical, but right now it’s just weathered wood, screeching seagulls, and late afternoon sunlight bouncing off the water. I walk in still wearing my scrubs, and the hostess in her crisp navy dress gives me that look—the one that says “you don’t belong here” while keeping a professional smile. She leads me to a quiet corner table where Zayn hunches over his laptop, legal documents coveredin scribbled notes spread everywhere, an untouched plate of breadsticks pushed to the side.
He stands when he sees me approach. Ever the gentleman. “Thanks for coming.”
I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the chair back. “You said it was urgent.”
He gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit. Please.”
I do, but I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “So what couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He slides a yellow legal pad toward me, covered in his handwriting. “I found precedent from a similar case three years ago—a community organization fighting eviction by a corporate landlord. They only lost because they missed the deadline.” His eyes lock onto mine, intense and hopeful. “We won’t make that mistake. If we do this right, we could secure six additional months, even financial compensation for relocation costs if you’re forced to move.”
I stare at him, processing. “That’s… huge. You really think we have a shot?”
He nods firmly. “If the judge see it our way, absolutely.” He runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “Sorry for dragging you out here, but I wanted you to see this before I presented it to Dr. Martinez tomorrow.”
I look down at his notes, my head spinning with hope and anxiety and the fact that he’s sitting close enough that I can smell his cologne again. I can feel him watching me, waiting to see if I’ll bolt.
“You could’ve sent an email,” I say, my voice coming out softer than intended.
He leans back in his chair, making the wood creak slightly. “You hate email. I figured you’d want to discuss this face-to-face.”
He’s right. I do hate email. Words get misinterpreted in text. You can’t tell if someone’s being sincere or sarcastic or just rushed. I prefer to read the truth in someone’s eyes.
A waiter in a black vest appears and asks for our order. Zayn glances at me, then the menu. “Two grilled salmon,” he says without really consulting the options. “And another basket of breadsticks, please.”
I open my mouth to object, but the waiter’s already walking away, and my stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
“You still remember,” I mutter.
His smile is small but genuine. “Some things stick with you.”
We fall into silence. I pretend to study his notes, but I’m really watching the light dance across the water and the boats swaying gently in the evening breeze. I want to ask about Seattle, about his life there, about all those new tattoos. But I stop myself. This isn’t a date. It’s business.
He must sense the awkwardness because he shifts gears. “Tell me more about the clinic,” he says. “I want to understand exactly what we’re fighting for.”
I tell him about Max, the elderly golden retriever with failing kidneys who still wags his tail when I check his IV. About Mrs. Todd’s three rescue cats she saved from the streets. About the traumatized shelter animals who snap at anyone who gets too close, and how Sara can calm them by speaking softly. About Dr. Martinez, who worked night shifts at a diner to put herself through veterinary school, who keeps dog treats in every pocket, who never gives up on any animal.
He listens intently. His eyes never leave my face. He nods when I make important points. He jots down notes about details that matter. By the time our food arrives, I realize my arms aren’t crossed anymore. I’m leaning forward, completely absorbed in explaining everything to him.
The salmon is perfect. Crispy-skinned on top, tender and flaky inside, exactly how I like it.
Zayn eats more slowly, but when he sets his fork down, he says, “You’re incredible, you know that?”
