I stare at her text. Am I okay? My pulse still races out of control. The coffee I dumped on myself earlier has dried into a stiff brown stain shaped vaguely like Italy.
I'm fine. At work. Just needed to tell someone.
Complete lie. I’m the opposite of fine. But what am I supposed to say? That seeing him made me feel eighteen again for one terrible, wonderful moment? That I hate how good he looks now—even better than I remember? That the sound of him saying my name cracked open every emotion I’ve spent years trying to bury?
LIAR. You're not fine. Nobody's fine after seeing their ex. Especially THAT ex.
I slide down the cabinet until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to my chest. The tile is ice-cold through my scrubs. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, making everything look harsh and exposed. Nothing feels right.
I can hear the familiar rhythms of the clinic through the door—phones ringing, Jen’s cheerful voice greeting clients, the click of dog nails on linoleum. These sounds usually comfort me, make me feel at home. But right now they seem muffled and distant, like I’m underwater and everyone else is on the surface living their normal lives.
I need to get up. I need to prep vaccines for Dr. Martinez’s morning appointments. I need to act normal and not like someone whose entire world tilted sideways because her ex looked devastatingly good in a suit and smelled like expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him.
My phone buzzes again.
Sophie. TALK TO ME. What did he say? Did he follow you? Do I need to kill him?
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprising me. Harper’s protective streak runs deep and violent. She still fantasizes about keying Jake’s car for getting engaged three months after we broke up. And Jake barely scratched the surface of my heart. Not like Zayn, who carved his name so deep I’m still bleeding.
He just said my name. That's it. I ran out like a coward.
I push myself off the floor on unsteady legs. Focus, Sophie. Work now, fall apart later. I pull vaccines from the refrigerator and line them up in appointment order. The small glass vials clink together because my hands refuse to steady. I’ve done this exact routine a thousand times over three years. I could do it blindfolded. But today, even the simplest tasks feel impossible.
Why does it still hurt this much?
I check the schedule on the wall-mounted tablet. First appointment in fifteen minutes. Baxter, golden retriever, three years old. Just rabies and distemper shots. Simple.
I start preparing syringes, trying to focus on the steps. Draw back the plunger. Insert into vial. Check for air bubbles. My hands keeps trembling that I have to brace my wrist against the counter edge to keep steady. This is ridiculous. I’ve handled aggressive cats, scared dogs, even a ferret that bit clean through my thumbnail. But knowing Zayn is back in Bellrose has reduced me to this shaky mess.
My phone vibrates again.
Want me to come there? I can cancel my 10:30.
No. I'm FINE. Really. Just shocked, that's all.
The clock reads 8:50. Ten minutes until Baxter arrives. I need to pull myself together before then.
I lay out soft gauze squares, alcohol wipes, and treat bags. The exam table shines under the overhead lights, stainless steel cool and clean. I mentally rehearse the routine—greet Baxter and his owner, check weight, escort to exam room two, assist Dr. Martinez with vaccines, dispense treats for good behavior. Easy. Normal. Something I do every single day without thinking.
But my mind keeps replaying the coffee shop like footage stuck on loop. How Zayn filled the doorway with his presence. How those tempest eyes found me across a room full of people like I was the only person there. How my body recognized him before my brain caught up.
The door swings open and I nearly jump out of my skin. Dr. Martinez breezes in, eyes on her tablet. She glances up.
“Morning, Sophie. Baxter’s our first appointment—” She stops mid-sentence, concern crossing her face. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, too brightly. “Just didn’t sleep well last night. Spilled coffee all over myself this morning. You know how it is.”
Dr. Martinez studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes missing nothing. “Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t press, which is one of the many reasons I love working for her. “Let’s get ready for Baxter, then.”
I nod and turn back to my vaccine lineup. Dr. Martinez moves through the room checking supplies and humming softlyunder her breath. She radiates calm while I’m barely holding it together.
The front bell chimes. Baxter and his owner have arrived. I hear Jen’s cheerful greeting, hear Baxter’s excited bark echo through the waiting room. Showtime.
Dr. Martinez and I head to the exam room. I move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over. I smile at Mrs. Parker, scratch behind Baxter’s silky ears, help hoist his wiggling body onto the scale. These familiar motions temporarily quiet the chaos in my head.
“Eighty-four pounds,” I announce, recording the number. “Up two pounds from his last visit.”
Dr. Martinez nods and starts checking Baxter over—feeling his belly, looking in his ears and eyes, examining his teeth and gums. I stand ready with the shots, waiting for my cue.
