I finish my rounds and head back down the hallway, past the painted paw prints Dr. Martinez stenciled on the walls to make the space more cheerful for nervous kids. My shoes squeak softly on the freshly mopped floor as I make my way back to the treatment room.
The front door chimes and Jen breezes in, already talking about traffic. She hangs up her jacket, flips on the computer system. I hear Dr. Martinez on the phone in her office, her voice warm but professional as she talks a worried owner through their dog’s symptoms. These familiar sounds wrap around me like a security blanket.
I’m different at work than I am anywhere else. Sara and Harper tease me about it all the time—how I’m warmer here, more open, more myself. At the clinic, everything makes sense. I know exactly how to gentle a frightened cat, how to use that particular soft voice that settles anxious dogs, how to make animals feel safe when they’re scared and hurting. With people, though, I keep my distance. I smile politely, answer questions efficiently, help when needed. But I never let anyone too close.
Animals don’t lie to you. A dog won’t promise forever then pack his bags and vanish. A cat won’t whisper “always” against your skin then prove that always has an expiration date.
The front bell chimes again. I glance at my watch—8:29, right on schedule. I take a slow breath, rolling my shoulders back. Time to be Work Sophie, the version of myself that actually functions.
“Sophie, the Peters are here with Mittens,” Jen calls from the front desk. “Room one whenever you’re ready.”
I smooth down my scrubs, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and head toward the waiting room. For the next eight hours, I know exactly who I am and what I’m supposed to do.
The clinic settles into its midday lull around noon. The morning rush of appointments has ended, and we won’t see another surge until the afternoon vaccination schedule starts at three. I’ve got maybe twenty minutes before I need to prep for the Andersons and their new golden retriever puppy. Perfect.
I grab my book from my bag before my ass even hits the chair. The paperback is well-loved—spine cracked, cover bent, pages gone soft from repeated reading. The title, Dark Prince: Claimed by the Mafia Don, glares up at me in embossed gold lettering against glossy black. I don’t bother hiding these anymore. Sara calls them my “emotional support mafia boyfriends,” and honestly, she’s not wrong.
I sink into the ancient blue armchair that’s been in this break room since before I started working here and flip to my bookmark—Chapter 18, where Valentina finally confronts Dante about locking her in his penthouse “for her protection.” I run my thumbs along the page edges, feeling the slight texture of the paper. There’s something about physical books that e-readers will never replicate—the weight of them in your hands, that particular smell of ink and paper, the visible evidence of how many times you’ve loved them.
Valentina plants her hands on her hips. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t walk out that door right now.”
Dante closes the distance between them in two strides, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Because you’re mine now,” he growls, his voice rough with possession. “Always. And I protect what’s mine.”
I roll my eyes even as my stomach does that stupid flip it always does at this part. The dialogue is absolutely ridiculous—nobody actually talks like this in real life. But I’ve read this scene four times already, and my pulse still kicks up when Dante declares her his. It’s fantasy, the kind of all-consuming love that rewrites your entire existence. Beautiful on the page. Devastating in reality.
Trust me on that one.
The fluorescent break room lights buzz overhead, but I barely notice as I keep reading. My shoulders drop away from my ears. Everything I hold rigid throughout the day, loosens, a fraction. I can breathe deeper here. For exactly twenty-three minutes, I get to be someone else. I get to feel things I don’t allow myself to feel in my actual life.
Sara loves to tease me about the way my face changes when I’m reading romance. “Your whole expression goes soft,” she says, like it’s some great revelation about my character.
Maybe that’s what happens when you stop bracing for impact. Books are safe. If someone’s heart shatters in a novel, it’s merely ink on paper. The couple always gets their happily ever after by the final chapter. Real life doesn’t come with thoseguarantees. In real life, when someone promises “forever,” what they actually mean is “until I decide I want something different.”
My phone vibrates against the break room table, jolting me back to reality. Text from Sara. Weird timing, like she somehow sensed I was thinking about her.
Dinner tonight? Harper's cooking. Thinking tacos or stir fry. We need to talk about something...
My stomach clenches at that smiley face emoji. When Sara adds a cheerful emoticon to “we need to talk,” it’s never actually good news. Last time, she informed me the barista at The Daily Grind has been flirting with me for weeks. The time before that, she showed me Jake’s engagement announcement on Facebook.
Either sounds good. Fair warning--I reserve the right to ignore whatever this is about.
The typing bubbles appear instantly.
You can totally say no after you hear it. Love you!
Something softens inside me despite my wariness. Sara and Harper are the sisters I chose, the ones who stuck around when everyone else drifted away. They drive me absolutely crazy sometimes, but only because they actually give a damn about my wellbeing. I glance back down at my book, hoping to steal a few more minutes with Valentina and her overprotective mafia don when?—
“Sophie!” Dr. Martinez’s voice carries from somewhere down the hall. “Emergency coming in five minutes. Hit by car. Suspected femoral fracture.”
I snap my book shut. Story time’s over. I’m on my feet before my brain fully processes the words, muscle memory taking over. “Coming!” I call back, already shoving my book into my bag.
Reading Sophie vanishes. Work Sophie slides into place—focused, efficient, ready. I head down the hallway, my mind already running through the checklist of what we’ll need.
I move through the prep room with speed. Surgery tools laid out in the exact order Dr. Martinez prefers. Anesthesia machine double-checked. IV fluids hung and ready. Pain medication drawn up in labeled syringes. The familiar clink of metal against metal as I arrange everything just so. The scent of antiseptic fills my lungs as I wipe down every surface.
I can hear Jen on the phone at the front desk. “Use the Elm Street entrance. Come straight to the back door. We’ll have everything ready.”
I check my reflection in the glass cabinet, smoothing back flyaway hairs and securing my ponytail tighter. My hands move with absolute certainty. This is when I feel most like myself—when I know exactly what comes next, exactly what’s required of me. No messy emotions to navigate. No trust to extend or withdraw. Just a clear sequence of steps I’ve performed a hundred times before.
