“The house?” He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it exactly like he used to when we were younger and nervous. “I purchased it three years ago. Renovated while I was still inSeattle. The contractors got extremely tired of me being so picky about everything.”
My mind reels. “Three years ago? But that means?—”
“That I was planning to return here long before I knew anything about your current life. Whether you were dating someone. Whether you’d even speak to me.” He meets my eyes directly, not hiding anything. “I came back because this is where I belong, Sophie. Even if you never forgave me. Even if you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Why?” Such a tiny word for such an enormous question.
“Because leaving you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” His voice sounds different—not like the smooth lawyer voice he uses now. “I got the position I thought I wanted, the salary, the prestige. And I was absolutely miserable. Completely empty without you.”
His confession lands heavily between. For five years, I’ve been hurt and angry and grieving, and now here he stands in this house he created from our shared dreams, remembering details I barely recall mentioning, building this entire life just to be near me without any guarantee I’d ever forgive him.
Before I can formulate a response, his phone rings. Our charged moment shatters as he checks the screen.
“It’s Cameron,” he says, his expression shifting from vulnerable to professionally focused. “I need to take this.”
I nod and step back to give him privacy, but I can still hear his side of the conversation.
“What? When did this happen?” His voice sharpens. “No, they can’t do that. We’ve already filed the preliminary application.” Pause. “Forty-eight hours? Are you absolutely certain?” Another pause. “I’ll call you back.”
He disconnects, looking grim. “Cooper’s attempting to rush demolition permits through in two days, before the historic designation can be formally processed.”
Just like that, our intimate moment evaporates, displaced by crisis.
CHAPTER 17
Because I love you!
The lights overhead buzz non-stop, making my headache worse as I go through another pile of papers that might—just might—save our clinic. Dr. Martinez sits across from me, her usually tidy hair falling loose as she marks important parts in a law book. We’ve all been awake for almost two days straight, running on fumes and desperation. No one talks about what happens if we fail.
“Found it,” I say, pulling out a bent form from my stack. My voice sounds rough from not talking, like sandpaper against wood. “The original historic registry application from 1998.”
Zayn steps out from behind a bookshelf, phone at his ear. He reaches out his hand while still talking on the phone, and I pass him the form. Our fingers brush—just for a heartbeat—and that familiar electricity shoots through me. I jerk back too quickly and jostle an empty coffee cup. It wobbles but stays upright on the desk.
“Yes, that’s right,” Zayn says into the phone, sounding calm and professional while scanning what I handed him. “We have proof the building has been used for medical purposes since 1857, plus its connection to the Underground Railroad.”
I watch him walk back and forth by the window, silhouetted against the afternoon light. Even after everything, I can’t help but admire how he handles this emergency—staying calm when I know he’s running on coffee and willpower. He’s in full lawyer mode now, all business and focus.
Dr. Martinez catches my eye and gives me a tired smile. “He’s good at this,” she whispers.
I nod and go back to sorting papers. I can’t think about that right now—about how Zayn fights so fiercely for what matters to him, about how he remembers every detail I ever shared, about that house he built filled with my forgotten dreams. I need to focus on saving the clinic.
“Want more coffee?” Dr. Martinez asks, getting up with a wince. Her knees make a popping sound.
“Please,” I say, despite my stomach’s acid protest. I’ve consumed six cups already, and it’s only three p.m.
While she’s gone, I sort everything into three piles—historical documentation, legal precedents, and community testimonials. The paper feels dry on my fingers, brittle as old leaves. My heart won’t calm down no matter how many deep breaths I take.
Zayn hangs up and sits in the chair next to me. He smells like coffee and that cologne that still makes my pulse spike.“Judge Reynolds will look at our emergency request first thing tomorrow,” he says, running his hands through his hair until it sticks up at odd angles.
“Tomorrow? Not today?” My words come out sharper than I meant them to.
Zayn looks at me. “This was the earliest we could get.” His gray-blue eyes lock with mine, intense as a storm rolling in. “Cooper plans to start bulldozing on Friday.”
“Two days from now,” I whisper. “That’s cutting it close.”
“We’ll make it.” He sounds so sure I almost believe him.
Dr. Martinez returns bearing three mugs of coffee. It smells burnt, but I accept mine gratefully. The warmth feels comforting against my icy hands.
