Chapter 10
Cherry Croissants and Rain
There’s a coffee cup on my desk again this morning, steam curling upward with the unmistakable scent of vanilla.
Same spot as yesterday. And the day before.
And every single day for the past three weeks.
I set my bag down, hang up my jacket, and try to ignore the way my heart does that stupid little jump when I spot that familiar paper cup. It’s just coffee, Sophie. Get a grip.
I circle my desk warily, like the cup might somehow attack me. Which is ridiculous since it’s been appearing for twenty-one mornings straight. Twenty-one cups of coffee I never requested but keep drinking anyway.
The first one showed up the morning after that rainy day at the gazebo.
I’d arrived at work with damp hair, my mind still replaying Zayn holding his jacket over both of us in the downpour.
I was so distracted I nearly tripped over a water bowl in the kennel area.
And there it was—a cup from The Daily Grind with my name scrawled across it in black marker.
No note. Nothing. Just coffee.
I pick up the cup, feeling its warmth seep into my palms. Vanilla latte with an extra shot and almond milk.
Exactly how I take it. I’m honestly surprised Zayn even remembers this detail.
We barely drank coffee together back when we were dating—I was eighteen and convinced drinking green tea made me seem sophisticated.
I take a sip and warmth unfurls in my belly. Damn it. It’s perfect, like always. Not too sweet, but strong enough to actually wake me up. I turn away from my desk, trying to hide how ridiculously happy this coffee makes me.
“Morning, Sophie!” Stella breezes past with her clipboard, then stops short when she spots the cup in my hand. “Ooh, your mystery coffee delivery strikes again!” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“It’s nothing,” I say, aiming for casual indifference and missing completely.
“Twenty-one days of ‘nothing’ is definitely something,” she sings, disappearing into exam room one before I can throw my pen at her.
I’m getting disturbingly good at pretending—acting like it’s no big deal that Zayn gets up early every morning to ensure coffee is waiting at my desk before I arrive. I never thank him. I didn’t mention it during our festival planning meetings. I just drink it. Every single morning.
Dr. Martinez’s office door opens and she emerges carrying a patient file. She glances at my coffee cup, then at me. Her mouth twitches with a suppressed smile.
“Good morning, mija,” she says warmly. She doesn’t comment on the coffee, but her knowing eyes say everything. Everyone knows. In this small town, people probably started gossiping the moment Zayn purchased a coffee that clearly wasn’t for himself.
“Morning,” I mumble, my face heating. “I’ll prep the vaccines for the Keller puppy.”
“Take your time,” she says, still smiling. “Finish your coffee first.”
I hate how transparent I am. Everyone can read me like a book even when I think I’m hiding my feelings perfectly. I grab my cup and retreat to the back room where no one can witness my internal conflict.
I check on the overnight patients first, following my usual routine.
Max is still here recovering, his condition slowly improving.
His tail thumps weakly against the kennel floor when he sees me approach.
“Morning, handsome,” I murmur, opening his cage to check his IV line.
He licks my hand gratefully while I adjust his fluid drip.
Behind me, I hear Stella beginning her morning tasks—clipboard clicking, keys jingling on her lanyard.
Just another normal day at work. Same familiar routine. Except now there’s this coffee cup that materializes every morning whether I want it to or not.
I prepare for the day’s appointments—lining up syringes, counting inventory, noting what needs reordering.
My hands move through familiar motions while my brain spins with questions.
Why is he doing this? Is it guilt? Is he trying to win me back?
Is this some strategy? Is he just being kind?
And most confusing of all—do I actually want him to stop?
I pause at that last thought. Do I want him to stop?
I stare at the cup sitting on the counter. I should throw it away. Make it crystal clear I don’t need anything from him. But if I’m being honest, there’s this warm glow I feel every morning when I discover that cup waiting. Someone thought about me first thing today.
Even if that someone is the man who shattered my heart.
Three hours later, I’m examining Mrs. O’Malley’s elderly Siamese when I catch myself glancing at my empty coffee cup for the fourth time. It’s just sitting there, completely drained, but somehow it still matters. I should’ve tossed it hours ago. And now Stella’s noticed me staring at it. Again.
After Mrs. O’Malley leaves, Stella hip-checks me at the sink while we’re washing our hands. “So when are you going to actually thank him?” she asks.
My heartbeat stutters, then races. “What?”
“The hot lawyer with all the tattoos. The one delivering coffee. Your ex who’s clearly still into you.” She ticks them off like items on a grocery list. “When are you planning to acknowledge this? It’s been almost a month.”
I scrub my hands with the paper towel too aggressively. “It’s just coffee.”
Stella rolls her eyes dramatically. “Please. Men don’t bring coffee every single day for three weeks unless it means something.”
I can’t think of anything to say back. She’s absolutely right and I know it, and the butterflies rioting in my stomach know it too. It’s not just coffee. It’s Zayn’s way of saying he sees me, he’s thinking about me, without demanding more than I’m ready to give.
The rain hits without warning. I’m halfway to the clinic when my cheap drugstore umbrella flips inside out with a pathetic crunch of metal.
Perfect. Just perfect. I abandon it in a trash can and sprint the rest of the way, shoes squelching, hair plastering to my face, scrubs clinging to my skin like a second layer.
By the time I burst through the front door, I’m leaving puddles everywhere I step.
“Whoa!” Stella calls from the reception desk. “Did you swim here?”
“Hilarious,” I mutter, peeling off my soaked jacket. It makes a disgusting sucking sound as it separates from my even wetter scrubs underneath. I can’t stop shivering. “Spring in Bellrose. So romantic.”
Stella gives me a sympathetic look and tosses me a stack of paper towels. “There are extra scrubs in the supply closet. The blue ones should fit.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” The paper towels falls apart the moment they touch my dripping hair. Naturally.
I squelch down the hallway, leaving wet footprints on the linoleum. My clothes stick uncomfortably to every part of me. I’m so focused on my misery that I almost miss what’s waiting at my desk.
The usual coffee cup sits there, steam rising in the chilly air. But today there’s something different beside it.
A small paper bag rests next to the coffee. And propped carefully against my desk lamp is… an umbrella. Not any umbrella—a sturdy navy blue one with delicate roses etched into the wooden handle. The kind that won’t flip inside out the second wind picks up.
My stomach does a slow flip as I approach cautiously. Like if I move too quickly, everything might disappear. There’s a note tucked beneath the coffee cup. Two words in Zayn’s familiar handwriting:
I remember.
My hands tremble as I pick up the slip of paper. It’s just paper. Just ink. Two simple words. But they hit me harder than the storm raging outside.
I open the paper bag with shaking fingers.
The scent hits immediately—sweet, buttery warmth.
A cherry croissant, still radiating heat through the thin bag.
Emotion swells, choking me. Rain drums against the windows, making the office feel smaller, cozier.
Steam rises from the coffee, carrying that vanilla scent I’ve come to love.
Five years ago. A different storm. Zayn and I huddled beneath the marina bridge, completely drenched after getting caught in a sudden downpour.
We were laughing despite shivering, my hair streaming water.
When the rain finally eased, he’d walked me to that tiny bakery on Third Street.
Bought me a cherry croissant because I’d mentioned once—just once, months earlier—that they reminded me of rainy mornings with my mom when I was little.
He’d remembered that throwaway detail and used it exactly when I needed comfort.
And now, five years later, he still remembers.
I shouldn’t care this much. I really shouldn’t. It’s just breakfast. Just an umbrella because mine died. Just a thoughtful gesture. But that note… “I remember.” Proves he’s been paying attention all these years to details I barely recall sharing.
Dr. Martinez passes by, slowing when she spots me frozen at my desk. I can feel her taking inventory—the coffee, the croissant, the umbrella with its little roses. She doesn’t comment. Just offers that knowing smile and continues toward her office.
I sink into my chair, still soaking wet. My scrubs make an embarrassing squelching sound against the leather. I need to change. I need to work. I need to ignore all this and keep my distance like I’ve been trying to do.
Instead, I pick up the coffee cup. Wrap both hands around it. Let the heat seep into my cold fingers.
“I remember.” Just two words. But they crack something open inside me that I thought I’d sealed permanently.
Because if he remembers this—this minor detail about cherry croissants and childhood comfort—what else does he remember?
Does he still know I prefer mint tea when I’m sick?
That ticking clocks keep me awake? That I cry during pets commercials but stay dry-eyed through tragic movies?