“Is it?” He closes the distance between us. I don’t turn around, but I can feel him right behind me now, close enough that his body heat radiates against my back. He’s not touching me, but I catch the scent of his cologne and my resolve wavers. “I don’t think you have any idea what I actually want anymore.”
I whirl around, anger finally overtaking hurt. “Really? You’re going to stand there and claim you refused three hundred thousand dollars? Why would you possibly do that? For this tiny struggling town? For—” I can’t force myself to sayfor me. The words lodge in my throat.
“Yes.” His eyes lock onto mine with fierce intensity. That single word hits me like a physical blow.
Before I can process his answer, the door opens. Dr. Martinez stands there, taking in the scene—me pressed against the counter with a flushed face, Zayn looking like he might either punch the wall or break down entirely.
“Whatever’s happening between you two needs to wait,” she says with firm authority. “We have a clinic to save.”
I stare at my shoes, feeling like a child caught fighting when there’s actual crisis occurring.
Dr. Martinez enters fully, closing the door behind her. “I’ve been strategizing about our options. The historic designation is one approach, but I have another idea.” She looks between us. “We mobilize the community. This town has successfully resisted developers before, but only when everyone unites.”
Zayn steps back, giving me space to breathe again. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“Town hall meeting. Let residents share testimonials about what the clinic means to them personally.” Dr. Martinez’s expression softens. “This community protects its own. It always has.”
I nod, grateful for the subject change away from the emotional bomb we nearly detonated. “The town square gazebo would be ideal. Central location everyone knows.”
“We need to move quickly,” Zayn adds, shifting into attorney mode. “Cooper won’t wait forever.”
Dr. Martinez studies us both carefully. “Can you two collaborate on this? For the clinic?”
What she’s really asking:Can you two be in the same room without fighting?
I meet Zayn’s eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. “For the clinic,” I say quietly. Not for him. Not for us. Just for the place that helped me survive when he left the first time.
“I’ll start making calls,” he says, already pulling out his phone. His voice is pure professional now, like he wasn’t emotionally raw sixty seconds ago.
I nod and head for the door, keeping maximum distance from him. My shoulder clips the doorframe as I rush out. I need air. I need space. I need to think without his proximity scrambling every rational thought in my head.
Behind me, I hear Dr. Martinez’s quiet voice: “Whatever you said to Cameron, mijo, she needs to hear it directly from you.”
The evening air feels like spring—salty from the ocean, sweet from the blooming roses, and something else that just smells like home. My lower back aches as I position another row of folding chairs. We’ve hauled at least fifty from storage at the community center. The gazebo isn’t just decorative tonight—it’s our battlefield. We’ve plastered flyers on every bulletin board, flooded social media, even convinced Pastor Williams to announce it during Sunday service. We’ve done everything possible to mobilize people. And I’ve done everything humanly possible to avoid Zayn since our confrontation two days ago.
He’s on the opposite side of the gazebo, wrestling with the sound system we borrowed from the high school. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows, exposing those tattoos while he connectscables and tests equipment. I’ve made sure we’re always doing different jobs so we barely have to talk.
“Testing, one-two,” his voice suddenly booms through the speakers.
I startle suddenly. He glances over and catches me staring, so I quickly pretend to straighten already-perfect chair rows.
This mutual avoidance would be almost comical if it wasn’t so exhausting.My whole body stays tense, like I’m ready to run away any second. Yet here we are, working toward the same goal, like two planets orbiting the same sun but never touching.
Zayn gestures toward the sidewalks filling with people. “We need more chairs,” he calls out.
“I’ll get them,” I respond without meeting his eyes, heading for the stack. When I pass him, our hands accidentally brush. I jerk away like I’ve touched a live wire. It was barely contact—just skin against skin for half a second—but electricity shoots up my arm. Ridiculous.
By seven o’clock, the square is packed. I spot the Wilsons with their pit bull who nearly died from parvo last year before Dr. Martinez pulled off a miracle save. There’s Mrs. Taylor, who brings her three cats to the clinic for our manageable prices. The high school biology teacher who tours her students through our facility twice annually. Watching this turnout makes my throat tight with emotion.
Dr. Martinez stands beside me wearing her navy blazer—the one reserved for truly important occasions. “Look at this crowd,” she breathes, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I know,” I say, watching more people arrive in steady streams. “I never imagined?—”
I stop mid-sentence when I recognize someone striding toward the front row. Reed. My brother. Why is he here? We’ve barely discussed the clinic situation, and he wasn’t on any planning calls.
He spots me and nods, then—impossibly—walks directly to Zayn. They exchange words I can’t hear and shake hands. It looks slightly awkward but not hostile. Reed settles into the front row, arms crossed but expression open.
I lean toward Dr. Martinez. “Did you know my brother was coming?”
