Chapter 8 Behind Closed Doors #2
By the time I make it back to the clinic, the sun is setting, bathing the entire building in orange-gold light.
I’d forgotten how beautiful the place looks at this hour—the painted paw prints on the windows cast playful shadows across the floor, and the mural of the cliff trail on the back wall looks almost three-dimensional in this light.
For just a moment, I can pretend our problems don’t exist. That we’re not about to lose everything, and my biggest concern is whether Mia got into her treat bag again.
When I push through the door, Sara calls from the back. “You’re back! How did it go?”
I hold up the folder. “We might actually have a shot,” I say, feeling strange even voicing it out loud. “Zayn found violations in the lease. They’re required to give us six months’ notice, not three. And they have to help us find alternative space.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious? That’s incredible.”
I’m about to elaborate when there’s a loud crash from the kennels, followed by Stella bursting through, looking completely frazzled, hands on her hips, hair escaping its bun in every direction.
“You’re smiling,” she says, pointing at me accusingly. “Did you kiss him? Please tell me you kissed him.”
I laugh despite myself. “Absolutely not. No kissing happened. We just reviewed legal documents like boring adults.”
Sara studies me skeptically. “Was it awful?”
I consider the question. “It was like running into your ex at the worst possible time in the worst possible place. Deeply uncomfortable.”
Sara laughs. Stella just grins wider. “Well, at least you survived.”
“Barely.” I don’t mention how he kept watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking, or how my pulse jumped every time our hands accidentally touched, or that I can still smell his cologne clinging to my clothes.
I just say, “He’s drafting a letter to the landlord.
If they don’t comply, we might actually have leverage. ”
For a moment, I let myself feel it. Hope. Like maybe things could actually work out for once.
Then the phone rings, and Sara rushes to answer it. Stella disappears back to the kennels, muttering something about a “suicidal beagle with zero self-preservation instincts.” I stand alone in the hallway, clutching the folder to my chest, feeling lightheaded.
I make my way to the break room and sink into a chair.
My adrenaline from the meeting has evaporated completely, leaving me jittery and strange, like I’ve had too much caffeine and then rode a roller coaster.
I stare at the folder and replay Zayn’s words, how his expression softened when I talked about the animals, how he knew exactly what to say to make me feel better without me having to explain.
I know I should be grateful. I should focus on the clinic, on the strategy, on doing right by Dr. Martinez and everyone who depends on this place.
But I keep hearing him say, “You’re going to be okay, Sophie.
I promise.” Like he still has the power to make things right, like he didn’t already destroy everything five years ago.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but the message reads:
Need you.
I stare at the screen for a beat, then another text arrives:
Sorry, that came out wrong. Can you meet me at The Pearl? Found something in the case law that could strengthen our position. It's urgent.
I could ignore it. I could pretend I never saw the messages, make him wait around for once. But who am I kidding? Zayn doesn’t use words like “urgent” unless he means it, and I can’t afford to play games when the clinic’s future hangs in the balance.
I text back:
On my way.
Pearl Restaurant sits right on the waterfront, past the marina where the fishing boats dock.
At night they string up fairy lights that make everything look magical, but right now it’s just weathered wood, screeching seagulls, and late afternoon sunlight bouncing off the water.
I walk in still wearing my scrubs, and the hostess in her crisp navy dress gives me that look—the one that says “you don’t belong here” while keeping a professional smile.
She leads me to a quiet corner table where Zayn hunches over his laptop, legal documents covered in scribbled notes spread everywhere, an untouched plate of breadsticks pushed to the side.
He stands when he sees me approach. Ever the gentleman. “Thanks for coming.”
I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the chair back. “You said it was urgent.”
He gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit. Please.”
I do, but I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “So what couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He slides a yellow legal pad toward me, covered in his handwriting.
“I found precedent from a similar case three years ago—a community organization fighting eviction by a corporate landlord. They only lost because they missed the deadline.” His eyes lock onto mine, intense and hopeful.
“We won’t make that mistake. If we do this right, we could secure six additional months, even financial compensation for relocation costs if you’re forced to move. ”
I stare at him, processing. “That’s… huge. You really think we have a shot?”
He nods firmly. “If the judge see it our way, absolutely.” He runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “Sorry for dragging you out here, but I wanted you to see this before I presented it to Dr. Martinez tomorrow.”
I look down at his notes, my head spinning with hope and anxiety and the fact that he’s sitting close enough that I can smell his cologne again. I can feel him watching me, waiting to see if I’ll bolt.
“You could’ve sent an email,” I say, my voice coming out softer than intended.
He leans back in his chair, making the wood creak slightly. “You hate email. I figured you’d want to discuss this face-to-face.”
He’s right. I do hate email. Words get misinterpreted in text. You can’t tell if someone’s being sincere or sarcastic or just rushed. I prefer to read the truth in someone’s eyes.
A waiter in a black vest appears and asks for our order. Zayn glances at me, then the menu. “Two grilled salmon,” he says without really consulting the options. “And another basket of breadsticks, please.”
I open my mouth to object, but the waiter’s already walking away, and my stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
“You still remember,” I mutter.
His smile is small but genuine. “Some things stick with you.”
We fall into silence. I pretend to study his notes, but I’m really watching the light dance across the water and the boats swaying gently in the evening breeze. I want to ask about Seattle, about his life there, about all those new tattoos. But I stop myself. This isn’t a date. It’s business.
He must sense the awkwardness because he shifts gears. “Tell me more about the clinic,” he says. “I want to understand exactly what we’re fighting for.”
I tell him about Max, the elderly golden retriever with failing kidneys who still wags his tail when I check his IV.
About Mrs. Todd’s three rescue cats she saved from the streets.
About the traumatized shelter animals who snap at anyone who gets too close, and how Sara can calm them by speaking softly.
About Dr. Martinez, who worked night shifts at a diner to put herself through veterinary school, who keeps dog treats in every pocket, who never gives up on any animal.
He listens intently. His eyes never leave my face. He nods when I make important points. He jots down notes about details that matter. By the time our food arrives, I realize my arms aren’t crossed anymore. I’m leaning forward, completely absorbed in explaining everything to him.
The salmon is perfect. Crispy-skinned on top, tender and flaky inside, exactly how I like it.
Zayn eats more slowly, but when he sets his fork down, he says, “You’re incredible, you know that?”
I nearly choke on my water. “What?”
His smile is sincere, not teasing. “You always put everyone else first. You’re fighting for the clinic, for Dr. Martinez, for all those animals who can’t fight for themselves. You never prioritize your own needs.”
I set my fork down carefully. “That’s not true. I … it’s easier to focus on other people’s problems. Animals are straightforward. They don’t promise they care and then vanish when things get complicated.”
He flinches slightly. I catch it before he can mask it. Part of me wishes I could take the words back. But he just nods like he expected this eventually.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people leave because they think it’s the only way to protect the people they love.”
I turn to watch the boats outside, rocking gently on the darkening water. “And sometimes people leave because they care more about their ambitions than anyone else.”
We don’t speak for a while after that. Not reconciling, not really understanding each other. Just two wounded people sitting together, pretending we’re fine.
The waiter brings dessert—crème br?lée, which I love, though I never mentioned that to Zayn. He cracks the caramelized sugar with his spoon and slides it across to me.
Then he tells me about his first major case.
How he nearly got sanctioned for accidentally starting a small fire in the courtroom because he was so anxious he kept flicking his lighter in his pocket until it melted his pen and ignited his legal pad.
It’s such an absurd story that I can’t help it—soon I’m laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth with my napkin.
“See?” he says, grinning properly now. “Told you I’m not that intimidating.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
He raises his water glass. “To being ridiculous. And to saving the clinic.”
I clink my glass against his. “To saving the clinic.”
When we step outside, it’s fully dark, but string lights glow all along the boardwalk. The air is cool but not cold. The breeze off the water smells like salt and seaweed and something that feels like possibility.
He walks me to my car. We stand there in awkward silence, neither of us sure what to say next.
Finally, he ventures, “We make a good team.”
I don’t confirm it. But I don’t deny it either. I say, “See you tomorrow at the clinic.”
He nods, hands shoved in his pockets, looking at me like there’s so much more he wants to say. But he stays quiet.
As I pull away, I check my rearview mirror and see him standing there under the lights, hair wind-tousled, watching me go. For the first time in five years, I don’t feel like I’m running away from something. I feel like I might be running toward something and I have no idea what to do about that.