prologue
. . .
Violet
I’ve always heard you experience three types of love in your life.
The first puts your heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach. It makes everything glitter with newness and teaches you how good it feels to fall.
Your second love wrecks you. It’s a wildfire. A slow unraveling. It drags out your darkest parts and forces you to reckon with them.
Then there’s the third love. It’s the one that finds you when you’re no longer chasing it. The third love is the one that stays.
At least, that’s what they say. Whoever “they” are.
But sometimes I wonder—what if those three loves aren’t three different people? Could the rush of the first and the ruin of the second be stepping stones to the third? What if the person who lit you up and then tore you apart is also the one who eventually learns how to love you?
What if timing really is everything?
Maybe we’re not supposed to circle back, and most people don’t. But what if some do? What if some people just mean too much to fit into only one version of love?
one
. . .
Violet
"You're okay," I whisper to the dog in front of me. My fingers brush lightly over his fur between his tired eyes, just the way he likes it. “It’s just your senior checkup, nothing scary today, I promise.”
Charlie exhales a slow, rattling whine and gives a lazy thump of his tail against the cold metal table. It’s late February in Kentucky—mud season, as my mom used to call it. That limbo between winter’s sharp edge and spring’s first bloom. The air smells like thawing dirt and rain-soaked gravel, and everything is a little gray around the edges.
Behind me, Dr. Langford mutters something about blood panels as he rummages through one of the upper cabinets.
“Did he eat this morning?” he asks without looking over.
“No. Mrs. Ashby said he’s been picky again.”
He flips through the clipboard. “You checked his ears?”
“Left one’s a little inflamed. I can prep drops if you want.”
He gives a low grunt, which usually means he’s giving the go-ahead without saying much else, and scribbles something on the chart.
Being a vet tech at his clinic for the last few years, I’ve gotten used to Dr. Langford’s language of quiet gestures and half-spoken words. He’s gruff, but he trusts me. That matters more than anything he could say out loud.
Charlie’s tail thumps again, this time with a little more heart.
“You’re my brave boy,” I murmur, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “We’re almost done, promise.”
The exam room door creaks open, and Callie sticks her head in, ponytail swinging. “Violet? There’s a guy at the front desk asking for you.”
I glance up from Charlie, brows pinching. “Me?”
People don’t usually ask for me by name. Not unless I’ve forgotten to fax records or someone’s pet lost a tooth in the waiting room.
“Yeah. He’s got a big dog.” Her brows lift like she’s expecting that to mean something to me.
It doesn’t.