I’m getting disturbingly good at pretending—acting like it’s no big deal that Zayn gets up early every morning to ensure coffee is waiting at my desk before I arrive. I never thank him. I didn’t mention it during our festival planning meetings. I just drink it. Every single morning.
Dr. Martinez’s office door opens and she emerges carrying a patient file. She glances at my coffee cup, then at me. Her mouth twitches with a suppressed smile.
“Good morning, mija,” she says warmly. She doesn’t comment on the coffee, but her knowing eyes say everything. Everyone knows. In this small town, people probably started gossiping the moment Zayn purchased a coffee that clearly wasn’t for himself.
“Morning,” I mumble, my face heating. “I’ll prep the vaccines for the Keller puppy.”
“Take your time,” she says, still smiling. “Finish your coffee first.”
I hate how transparent I am. Everyone can read me like a book even when I think I’m hiding my feelings perfectly. I grab my cup and retreat to the back room where no one can witness my internal conflict.
I check on the overnight patients first, following my usual routine. Max is still here recovering, his condition slowly improving. His tail thumps weakly against the kennel floor when he sees me approach. “Morning, handsome,” I murmur, opening his cage to check his IV line. He licks my hand gratefully while I adjust his fluid drip. Behind me, I hear Stella beginning her morning tasks—clipboard clicking, keys jingling on her lanyard.
Just another normal day at work. Same familiar routine. Except now there’s this coffee cup that materializes every morning whether I want it to or not.
I prepare for the day’s appointments—lining up syringes, counting inventory, noting what needs reordering. My hands move through familiar motions while my brain spins with questions. Why is he doing this? Is it guilt? Is he trying to win me back? Is this some strategy? Is he just being kind? And most confusing of all—do I actually want him to stop?
I pause at that last thought. Do I want him to stop?
I stare at the cup sitting on the counter. I should throw it away. Make it crystal clear I don’t need anything from him. But if I’m being honest, there’s this warm glow I feel every morning when I discover that cup waiting. Someone thought about me first thing today.
Even if that someone is the man who shattered my heart.
Three hours later, I’m examining Mrs. O’Malley’s elderly Siamese when I catch myself glancing at my empty coffee cup for the fourth time. It’s just sitting there, completely drained, but somehow it still matters. I should’ve tossed it hours ago. And now Stella’s noticed me staring at it. Again.
After Mrs. O’Malley leaves, Stella hip-checks me at the sink while we’re washing our hands. “So when are you going to actually thank him?” she asks.
My heartbeat stutters, then races. “What?”
“The hot lawyer with all the tattoos. The one delivering coffee. Your ex who’s clearly still into you.” She ticks them off like items on a grocery list. “When are you planning to acknowledge this? It’s been almost a month.”
I scrub my hands with the paper towel too aggressively. “It’s just coffee.”
Stella rolls her eyes dramatically. “Please. Men don’t bring coffee every single day for three weeks unless it means something.”
I can’t think of anything to say back. She’s absolutely right and I know it, and the butterflies rioting in my stomach know it too. It’s not just coffee. It’s Zayn’s way of saying he sees me, he’s thinking about me, without demanding more than I’m ready to give.
The rain hits without warning. I’m halfway to the clinic when my cheap drugstore umbrella flips inside out with a pathetic crunch of metal. Perfect. Just perfect. I abandon it in a trash can and sprint the rest of the way, shoes squelching, hair plastering to my face, scrubs clinging to my skin like a second layer. By the time I burst through the front door, I’m leaving puddles everywhere I step.
“Whoa!” Stella calls from the reception desk. “Did you swim here?”
“Hilarious,” I mutter, peeling off my soaked jacket. It makes a disgusting sucking sound as it separates from my even wetter scrubs underneath. I can’t stop shivering. “Spring in Bellrose. So romantic.”
Stella gives me a sympathetic look and tosses me a stack of paper towels. “There are extra scrubs in the supply closet. The blue ones should fit.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” The paper towels falls apart the moment they touch my dripping hair. Naturally.
I squelch down the hallway, leaving wet footprints on the linoleum. My clothes stick uncomfortably to every part of me. I’m so focused on my misery that I almost miss what’s waiting at my desk.
The usual coffee cup sits there, steam rising in the chilly air. But today there’s something different beside it.
A small paper bag rests next to the coffee. And propped carefully against my desk lamp is… an umbrella. Not any umbrella—a sturdy navy blue one with delicate roses etched into the wooden handle. The kind that won’t flip inside out the second wind picks up.
My stomach does a slow flip as I approach cautiously. Like if I move too quickly, everything might disappear. There’s a note tucked beneath the coffee cup. Two words in Zayn’s familiar handwriting:
I remember.
My hands tremble as I pick up the slip of paper. It’s just paper. Just ink. Two simple words. But they hit me harder than the storm raging outside.
