Chapter 15
Fragile Truces
I’ve mastered the art of avoidance. Three days of arriving early before Zayn’s coffee delivery, volunteering for house calls to stay out of the office, taking the long route home to bypass his office building.
Three days of sending his calls to voicemail and pretending his texts don’t exist. Three days of ignoring the constant ache in my chest that keeps me awake at night.
I’m exhausted, but at least I haven’t had to face him.
Haven’t had to hear him say out loud that he’s leaving again.
I flip on the lights, my eyes burning from another sleepless night.
My desk looks wrong without the coffee cup that’s been appearing there for weeks.
I twist my hair into a messy bun, pull on my scrubs, and start prepping for the day before anyone else arrives.
If I look busy enough, maybe no one will notice my poor state or the dark circles I couldn’t quite cover with concealer.
By noon, I’ve messed up three vaccination records and nearly administered the wrong medication to Mrs. Peterson’s Chihuahua. My brain feels like it’s operating through thick fog.
“Sophie.” Dr. Martinez’s voice startles me. She’s standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face. “That’s the third time you’ve reviewed that same chart in ten minutes.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, shuffling papers aimlessly. “Just distracted.”
Dr. Martinez steps closer. “Is this about the preservation hearing? Or something else?” The way she emphasizes “something else” makes heat crawl up my neck.
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out too high. “Just tired.”
Dr. Martinez gives me a look that says she’s not buying it for a second. “Take a break. Eat something. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I nod, grateful she doesn’t push further.
I escape to the break room, which smells faintly of burned popcorn someone nuked yesterday.
The microwave clock reads 1:42. I sink into a chair and unwrap my turkey sandwich, appetite completely absent.
My phone buzzes again—the eighth missed call from Zayn in three days.
Thirteen unread texts I can’t bring myself to open. I power it off entirely.
This is pathetic, hiding from a grown man like I’m some lovesick teenager.
I’m twenty-three years old, not thirteen.
But he’s not any man, and I’m not just sad—I’m terrified of reliving it all.
Of hearing him actually say the words: I’m returning to Seattle.
The prestigious career won. You lost. Again.
“I should just quit,” I tell my sandwich. “Move to Montana. Work with ranch animals exclusively. No more Zayn, no more painful memories, no more—”
The break room door swings open. It’s Zayn. He looks rough—hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, shadows under his eyes that mirror mine. When our eyes meet, electricity shoots down my spine despite everything.
“You’re avoiding me,” he states flatly.
I set down my sandwich carefully. “I’m busy.”
“Busy ignoring my calls.” He steps inside and lets the door close behind him with a soft click. “Busy taking the long route home to bypass my office. Busy volunteering for house calls when you never want to do them.”
Emotion wells up. He’s been watching what I do. “Did you need something specific, or…?”
He moves closer, and I stand too abruptly. My hip collides painfully with the table edge. I wince.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice drops lower, frustrated but wounded underneath. “We were making real progress on the preservation case. We compiled all that documentation together. We were working as a team. Then suddenly—nothing. You won’t speak to me, won’t even look at me.”
“I heard you.” The words escape before I can trap them. “At the courthouse. With Cameron.”
His expression freezes. “What exactly did you hear?”
“Enough.” I wrap my arms protectively across my chest, trying to shield what’s left of my heart.
“Three hundred thousand dollars plus performance bonuses. Partnership track. Exactly like the position you couldn’t refuse five years ago.
” My voice cracks, betraying how much this still destroys me.
“Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be very successful back in Seattle. ”
His voice goes dangerously quiet. “You didn’t hear my response to him.”
“I didn’t need to.” I pivot away and busy myself with the coffee maker, anything to avoid his eyes. My hands shake so violently I spill water across the counter. “Let’s be honest—we both know how this story ends. Prestigious firm versus small-town veterinary clinic? Pretty obvious which one wins.”
“Is it?” He closes the distance between us.
I don’t turn around, but I can feel him right behind me now, close enough that his body heat radiates against my back.
He’s not touching me, but I catch the scent of his cologne and my resolve wavers.
“I don’t think you have any idea what I actually want anymore. ”
I whirl around, anger finally overtaking hurt. “Really? You’re going to stand there and claim you refused three hundred thousand dollars? Why would you possibly do that? For this tiny struggling town? For—” I can’t force myself to say for me. The words lodge in my throat.
“Yes.” His eyes lock onto mine with fierce intensity. That single word hits me like a physical blow.
Before I can process his answer, the door opens. Dr. Martinez stands there, taking in the scene—me pressed against the counter with a flushed face, Zayn looking like he might either punch the wall or break down entirely.
“Whatever’s happening between you two needs to wait,” she says with firm authority. “We have a clinic to save.”
I stare at my shoes, feeling like a child caught fighting when there’s actual crisis occurring.
Dr. Martinez enters fully, closing the door behind her.
“I’ve been strategizing about our options.
The historic designation is one approach, but I have another idea.
” She looks between us. “We mobilize the community. This town has successfully resisted developers before, but only when everyone unites.”
Zayn steps back, giving me space to breathe again. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“Town hall meeting. Let residents share testimonials about what the clinic means to them personally.” Dr. Martinez’s expression softens. “This community protects its own. It always has.”
I nod, grateful for the subject change away from the emotional bomb we nearly detonated. “The town square gazebo would be ideal. Central location everyone knows.”
“We need to move quickly,” Zayn adds, shifting into attorney mode. “Cooper won’t wait forever.”
Dr. Martinez studies us both carefully. “Can you two collaborate on this? For the clinic?”
What she’s really asking: Can you two be in the same room without fighting?
I meet Zayn’s eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. “For the clinic,” I say quietly. Not for him. Not for us. Just for the place that helped me survive when he left the first time.
“I’ll start making calls,” he says, already pulling out his phone. His voice is pure professional now, like he wasn’t emotionally raw sixty seconds ago.
I nod and head for the door, keeping maximum distance from him. My shoulder clips the doorframe as I rush out. I need air. I need space. I need to think without his proximity scrambling every rational thought in my head.
Behind me, I hear Dr. Martinez’s quiet voice: “Whatever you said to Cameron, mijo, she needs to hear it directly from you.”
The evening air feels like spring—salty from the ocean, sweet from the blooming roses, and something else that just smells like home.
My lower back aches as I position another row of folding chairs.
We’ve hauled at least fifty from storage at the community center.
The gazebo isn’t just decorative tonight—it’s our battlefield.
We’ve plastered flyers on every bulletin board, flooded social media, even convinced Pastor Williams to announce it during Sunday service.
We’ve done everything possible to mobilize people.
And I’ve done everything humanly possible to avoid Zayn since our confrontation two days ago.
He’s on the opposite side of the gazebo, wrestling with the sound system we borrowed from the high school. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows, exposing those tattoos while he connects cables and tests equipment. I’ve made sure we’re always doing different jobs so we barely have to talk.
“Testing, one-two,” his voice suddenly booms through the speakers.
I startle suddenly. He glances over and catches me staring, so I quickly pretend to straighten already-perfect chair rows.
This mutual avoidance would be almost comical if it wasn’t so exhausting.My whole body stays tense, like I’m ready to run away any second. Yet here we are, working toward the same goal, like two planets orbiting the same sun but never touching.
Zayn gestures toward the sidewalks filling with people. “We need more chairs,” he calls out.
“I’ll get them,” I respond without meeting his eyes, heading for the stack. When I pass him, our hands accidentally brush. I jerk away like I’ve touched a live wire. It was barely contact—just skin against skin for half a second—but electricity shoots up my arm. Ridiculous.
By seven o’clock, the square is packed. I spot the Wilsons with their pit bull who nearly died from parvo last year before Dr. Martinez pulled off a miracle save.
There’s Mrs. Taylor, who brings her three cats to the clinic for our manageable prices.
The high school biology teacher who tours her students through our facility twice annually.
Watching this turnout makes my throat tight with emotion.
Dr. Martinez stands beside me wearing her navy blazer—the one reserved for truly important occasions. “Look at this crowd,” she breathes, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I know,” I say, watching more people arrive in steady streams. “I never imagined—”