Chapter 1
Safe Harbor
SOPHIE
Too late, she’s already beside my bed, brown eyes locked on me, tail wagging so hard her whole back end moves with it. She’s ready for our walk, like she is every single morning.
“Wait a sec, girl,” I murmur, my voice still rough with sleep. I reach down to pet her white and tan fur, and the warmth of her grounds me the way it does every day.
I slide out of bed. My feet touch the cold floor. The apartment is quiet except for Mia’s happy little sounds as she runs to the door and back, her nails clicking on the floor.
“I’m coming,” I tell her as I put on my workout clothes.
I tie my black hair back. My work clothes are ready on the chair for later.
I like knowing what comes next. A therapist would probably have a field day with how I cling to routine, but I don’t see a therapist. That would mean talking about things I’ve locked away in boxes marked “Do Not Open”.
The apartment stays quiet around us. Harper won’t get up until 7:30, and Sara doesn’t start her shift at the clinic until 9:00 on Tuesdays. Lucky them, sleeping in while I’m out here chasing sunrises with my dog.
Mia stares at me, her whole body trembling with energy she can barely contain.
It amazes me how this dog—after everything she’s been through, the abuse, the shelter, the uncertainty—still greets each morning like it might bring something wonderful.
Like today could be the day everything changes for the better. I wish I had that kind of hope.
“Ready for our walk?” I ask, grabbing her leash. She pulls her lips back in a pit bull smile that might look scary to strangers. Her back end wiggles with joy. She definitely loves mornings more than I do.
The air outside feels damp and cool, typical spring weather here. Dawn breaks across the sky in shades of pink and purple. Mia tugs on the leash, eager to reach our usual path.
“Slow down,” I whisper, and she falls into step beside me. We’ve taken this same route every morning for nearly three years now. Three years of slowly rebuilding my life.
The path runs along the shore, quiet this early. People walking dogs or jogging nod hello. No one talks. I like that about morning walks, everyone keeps to themselves.
When we turn the bend where the path meets the cliffs, I catch that smell—salty ocean and the wild roses growing on the rocks.
Those stubborn flowers, blooming in places nothing should survive.
I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs.
The roses are out early this year. Probably because it’s been warm.
For a second, I think about the last time I saw these roses in bloom five years ago, when I walked here with—
No. Stop. I check my watch and force myself to focus on now, not then.
Waves crash on the beach below us. Mia stops to sniff every rock and bush, reading who passed by during the night like it’s her morning newspaper.Her white and tan fur shines in the early light.
She looks so healthy now, nothing like the scared dog I brought home from the shelter.
I rescued her, but honestly, some days I think she rescued me right back.
“Look at that sunrise, Mia,” I say as light breaks over the water, turning everything golden.
The ocean looks like it’s on fire, all that beauty burning itself out to start the day over again.
This view is why I drag myself out of bed so early every day, even when it rains.
In my romance novels, this would be when the heroine has some deep thought about life and love.
But really, I’m just remembering I need dog food and was wondering if my car’s weird noise is going to cost me a fortune to fix.
I need to be at the clinic by seven-thirty to prep the exam rooms before Dr. Martinez comes in at eight. Sara jokes that being on time is my love language. She says it with a smile, but I can tell it gets on her nerves sometimes.
An old man walks toward us with a fluffy white dog. Mia goes stiff beside me. She still gets scared around other dogs from when people were cruel to her. I ease us to the side of the path and shorten her leash.
“Morning,” the man says, sounding too cheerful for this hour.
“Good morning,” I answer with a polite smile. I keep my eyes on Mia while the other dog passes. “Good girl, Mia. You’re such a good girl.”
She relaxes under my touch and looks up at me. People should be more like dogs. Dogs don’t lie. Dogs don’t promise you forever and then disappear. Dogs love you without breaking your heart into pieces so small you’re still finding them years later.
I tug gently on her leash, signaling our turnaround. We’ve reached the bench overlooking the water—our halfway point. I used to sit here five years ago, daydreaming about a future with someone who said “always” like he meant it.
As we head back, the harbor wakes up around us.
Fishing boats motor out, engines rumbling across the water.
People line up at The Daily Grind for their morning coffee.
The lighthouse keeper’s truck sits in its usual spot—he’s already finished his dawn rounds, right on schedule like he is every single day.
I’ve counted the romance novels I’ve read this year—thirty-eight so far.
In every single one, the main character’s careful life gets turned upside down when she meets the right man.
Her plans fall apart, and we’re supposed to think that’s romantic.
That chaos equals love. But real life doesn’t work that way.
When things break, they stay broken. I learned that lesson the hard way.
The path curves away from the ocean, leading us back toward the familiar streets. My work clothes are waiting upstairs, folded neatly on my chair. I can picture exactly how my day will unfold down to every single moment.
I check my watch one more time as we reach our building. Mia looks up at me with those soulful brown eyes, loving me even though I need everything to be perfect. I kneel down to scratch behind her soft ears, soaking in this simple moment of uncomplicated affection.
“Good walk, Mia,” I say as we climb the stairs to our apartment. “Same time tomorrow, okay?”
I turn the corner and see the vet clinic where I work.
It’s in an old house painted soft green with white trim.
The sign in the window says, “Pets Welcome, People Tolerated,” which always makes me smile despite myself.
Morning sun filters through the stained glass by the door, painting rainbow patterns on the sidewalk.
I check my watch—7:28. Two minutes early, perfect.
My scrubs are clean and pressed. My hair is pulled back tight.
I know exactly what I’ll do today, hour by hour, task by task.
This place feels like mine. I know who I am here.
I unlock the door and breathe in that familiar mix of antiseptic and pet shampoo that clings to everything.
I flip on the lights one by one. The waiting room comes to life—comfortable chairs arranged just so, posters about pet health covering the walls in neat rows.
The old wooden floor creaks under my feet as I walk toward the back, the sound as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Dr. Martinez surprises me when I pass her office.
“Morning, Sophie.” She’s early today, which throws me off for half a second.
Her dark hair is twisted into a perfect bun, and she looks far too put-together for this hour.
She holds out a paper cup with my name scrawled across it in black marker. “Got you this on my way in.”
My stomach does a little flip when I take it from her hands.
I’m not good with unexpected kindness. Never have been.
“Thanks,” I manage, and take a sip. It’s perfect—vanilla latte with almond milk, exactly how I like it.
Dr. Martinez has known my coffee order for three years now.
It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal. Still, warmth spreads through my chest, and it has nothing to do with the hot drink.
“The Peters’ cat is coming at eight-thirty for blood work,” she says, already scrolling through her tablet. “And Mrs. Donovan called about Duchess. The wiener dog got into something she shouldn’t have. I told her to bring her straight in.”
I nod, my brain already reorganizing the morning’s schedule around the emergency. “I’ll get everything ready.”
Dr. Martinez studies me over the rim of her reading glasses. “Are you okay, mija? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. It’s what I always say, my default response to any question about how I’m doing. I’m fine. I’m always fine. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
She gives me that look—the one that says she doesn’t quite believe me but won’t push.
That’s what I appreciate about Dr. Martinez.
She notices things, cares about her staff, but she doesn’t try to excavate my past like Sara does.
Sara thinks if she digs deep enough, asks the right questions, she can fix whatever’s broken inside me.
She doesn’t understand that some things stay broken.
“I’ll go check on the overnight patients,” I tell her, already backing away from the conversation.
I head to the treatment room first. I wipe down the stainless steel counters until they gleam, check that all the instruments are sterilized and properly arranged, restock supplies that don’t really need restocking yet.
It’s the same routine every morning, and something about the repetition settles the anxious flutter in my body.
Each drawer holds exactly what it should—gauze pads sorted by size, needles arranged by gauge, bandages lined up.
I test the oxygen tank, make sure the anesthesia machine is working properly.
The metal exam tables shine under the fluorescent lights, spotless and waiting for the day ahead.