We work through lunch, the sandwiches he ordered sitting abandoned in the corner. Zayn pushes his aside to examine a document—evidence showing how the building served as a triage center during a flu outbreak in the 1930s.
“This could be significant,” he says, sliding it across. “Demonstrates the building’s importance beyond architectural merit.”
The light in his office shifts as hours pass, morning brightness transforming to golden afternoon glow. We establish a rhythm—I identify critical dates, he connects them to laws that could help us.
“Did you know the building treated wounded soldiers during World War II?” I slide a yellowed newspaper clipping toward him, trying not to fixate on how my fingers tingle where they accidentally brushed his.
He accepts the article, scanning rapidly. “This is excellent. Shows the building has consistently served the entire community.”
I watch him making notes, his handwriting clean and easy to read. I notice how his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends where it needs trimming. All these small details I used to know so well and tried desperately to forget.
It catches me off guard how natural this feels. How seamlessly we still collaborate when working toward a shared goal. Like two puzzle pieces that still interlock despite being slightly worn around the edges.
“I think we have a legitimate case,” he says, looking up with a smile that reaches his eyes. The world narrows—that smile that used to belong exclusively to me.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Working alongside him like this feels too good, too familiar, like finding a favorite sweater I thought was lost forever.
The sun’s sinking low outside Zayn’s windows, painting everything in deepening shadows. My eyes hurts from reading tiny print all day, and my back is stiff from hunching over his desk for hours. But we’ve made real progress. Our “keep” pile of documentation now towers over our “maybe” pile. I stretch,hearing my shoulders crack audibly. Our coffee cups sit empty, our sandwiches barely touched. I haven’t concentrated this intensely on anything in forever, except maybe on emergency surgeries.
“God, we’ve been sitting forever,” I say, massaging my neck. “My legs might have forgotten how to properly function.”
Zayn leans back and runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it in that way that makes him look more like the old Zayn, less like the fancy lawyer version. “But look at what we’ve compiled. Photographs from the ‘60s, ‘80s, and ‘90s documenting community significance. Documentation of the building’s role during the storm. That newspaper feature about it becoming the county’s first dedicated veterinary facility.”
I feel a warm spark of pride. “It’s more than just some old building. It’s part of Bellrose’s identity.”
“Exactly,” he says, his expression brightening. “That’s what we need to make the committee understand.”
The sunset stretches long shadows across the room, softening everything. It feels safer to talk now, with all these papers between us and the day nearly finished.
The words slip out before I can stop them. “Want to know why I love the clinic so much? It’s not just the animals, though they’re obviously the best part.”
He sets down his pen and focuses completely on me. My stomach flips when he gives me that undivided attention. “Why?” he asks simply.
“After you left…” I pause, not wanting to weaponize this, but there’s no way around it. “I was a complete mess. Some days I couldn’t even get out of bed except for classes. Then Dr. Martinez offered me the job three years ago. Suddenly I had somewhere to be. Animals that needed me even when I felt completely broken inside.”
His jaw tightens, but he maintains eye contact. “Tell me about them.”
I tell him about the three-legged tabby that hissed at everyone but me. The blind poodle that navigated so confidently you’d never know she couldn’t see.
“Months ago, this woman brought in the tiniest Chihuahua—skinny, bald patches on his back, shaking constantly.” My hands start moving as I talk. “Poor little guy had been trapped in a garage for years. Terrified of everything. I spent two weeks of lunch breaks just sitting near his kennel, talking softly. On day fifteen, he crawled into my lap and fell asleep.”
Zayn looks at me with such tenderness it makes my chest ache. “What happened to him?”
“Mrs. Peterson adopted him.” I smile at the memory. “Now he rides around in her purse like royalty. She sends me photos weekly.”
“You know how to heal broken things,” he says quietly.
The room suddenly feels weighted, like we’re both thinking things we won’t say aloud. I look down at our paperwork, nearly complete now.
“We should finish this,” I say, my voice slightly rough. “It’s getting late.”
He nods and shifts back into attorney mode as we finalize the application. Our evidence is stacked neatly—photographs, newspaper clippings, letters from longtime residents, and documentation of historical significance.
“This looks really solid,” I say, surprised by how hopeful I sound.
“It does.” Zayn nods, reviewing our work. “The committee would have to seriously consider—” His phone rings, interrupting mid-sentence. He checks the screen and frowns. “I need to take this. It’s Harold Cooper—the building’s new owner.”He gives me an apologetic look before answering. “Blackwell speaking.”
I can hear the man on the other end immediately—loud, aggressive, shouting. Zayn’s expression goes professionally blank, but his knuckles turn white gripping the phone.
