I open the paper bag with shaking fingers. The scent hits immediately—sweet, buttery warmth. A cherry croissant, still radiating heat through the thin bag. Emotion swells, choking me. Rain drums against the windows, making the office feelsmaller, cozier. Steam rises from the coffee, carrying that vanilla scent I’ve come to love.
Five years ago. A different storm. Zayn and I huddled beneath the marina bridge, completely drenched after getting caught in a sudden downpour. We were laughing despite shivering, my hair streaming water. When the rain finally eased, he’d walked me to that tiny bakery on Third Street. Bought me a cherry croissant because I’d mentioned once—just once, months earlier—that they reminded me of rainy mornings with my mom when I was little. He’d remembered that throwaway detail and used it exactly when I needed comfort.
And now, five years later, he still remembers.
I shouldn’t care this much. I really shouldn’t. It’s just breakfast. Just an umbrella because mine died. Just a thoughtful gesture. But that note… “I remember.” Proves he’s been paying attention all these years to details I barely recall sharing.
Dr. Martinez passes by, slowing when she spots me frozen at my desk. I can feel her taking inventory—the coffee, the croissant, the umbrella with its little roses. She doesn’t comment. Just offers that knowing smile and continues toward her office.
I sink into my chair, still soaking wet. My scrubs make an embarrassing squelching sound against the leather. I need to change. I need to work. I need to ignore all this and keep my distance like I’ve been trying to do.
Instead, I pick up the coffee cup. Wrap both hands around it. Let the heat seep into my cold fingers.
“I remember.” Just two words. But they crack something open inside me that I thought I’d sealed permanently. Because if he remembers this—this minor detail about cherry croissants and childhood comfort—what else does he remember? Does he still know I prefer mint tea when I’m sick? That ticking clockskeep me awake? That I cry during pets commercials but stay dry-eyed through tragic movies?
I can’t stop staring at the umbrella. I trace my finger over the delicate roses pressed into the handle. They’re subtle, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. This isn’t a cheap one. It’s the kind built to last, to withstand actual storms.
Pain blooms beneath my ribs. For five years, I’ve convinced myself we weren’t real. That we were just kids playing at forever. That he moved on completely when he chose Seattle and his prestigious career.
But the coffee he delivers every morning tells a different story. This croissant tells a different story.
I bite into it. It’s still warm, layers flaking perfectly. The cherry filling strikes that ideal balance between sweet and tart. I make a small sound—partly because it tastes incredible, partly because of emotions I refuse to name.
Questions spiral through my mind as I eat. Did he wake up extra early to get this when he saw the forecast? Did he choose this umbrella specifically for the roses, or was it coincidence? Has he been waiting for a rainy day to surprise me with a cherry croissant, or did he just seize today’s opportunity?
I take another bite. Another sip of coffee. Rain batters the windows relentlessly, but I’m warm now. The heat spreads from my hands to my chest to somewhere deeper. This isn’t just coffee anymore. This isn’t just breakfast. This is Zayn demonstrating he remembers me. The real me. Not just the obvious things, but the small details that define who I am. The tiny specifics you only notice when you truly see someone.
And that terrifies me more than any storm.
Because if he still sees the real me, then my walls aren’t working. And if my walls aren’t working, what happens when he gets close enough to hurt me again?
I set down the croissant and suddenly remember I’m still dripping wet, my hair making a small puddle on the paper bag. Stella was right—I desperately need to change. I need dry clothes. I need to pull myself together. But as I grab the spare scrubs and head toward the bathroom, I can’t help glancing back at my desk. At the coffee. At the croissant. At the umbrella with those delicate roses on the handle.
And even though it terrifies me, I know without question that I’m taking that umbrella home tonight.
It’s after lunch when I spot him through the clinic window. Zayn strides past wearing a black suit, phone pressed to his ear, looking intense and professional—full lawyer mode. I freeze mid-step, clutching my clipboard. My heart kicks into overdrive. I hadn’t planned to thank him, hadn’t planned to acknowledge anything. But watching him walk by without even glancing toward the clinic—something shifts inside me.
Without overthinking it, I grab the umbrella from my desk and rush toward the door.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Jen at reception, who raises her eyebrows questioningly. I ignore her.
Outside, the air hangs heavy with moisture from this morning’s storm, though the rain has stopped for now. Puddles mirror the gray sky, and my shoes make wet slapping sounds as I jog after him.
“Zayn!” I call out, my voice pitching higher than intended. A couple walking their terrier turns to stare. Fantastic.
He stops and pivots slowly, like he can’t quite believe I’m calling his name in public. The surprise on his face would be comical if my heart wasn’t hammering so violently. He pockets his phone and looks at me like I might evaporate if he blinks.
“Sophie.” Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he says it makes my stomach do a double flip.
I stand there on the damp sidewalk with absolutely no idea what comes next. A car rushes past, splashing water from a pothole that barely misses us both.
“I, um—” I grip the umbrella handle tighter, using it to anchor myself. “Thank you. For the coffee. And this.” I lift the umbrella slightly. “And the croissant.”
I sound ridiculous. Like I’ve never expressed gratitude before in my life. But this is the first time in three weeks I’ve even acknowledged all his gestures, and we both know it. That knowledge hangs between us in the humid air.
Zayn’s expression softens. “You’re welcome.” He stays perfectly still, hands in his pockets, maintaining distance. Like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he moves too quickly. He’s probably right.
“Cherry croissants,” I say, studying a puddle instead of meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
