The night had been loud in every way it wasn’t supposed to be.

Hands. Weight. Heat. Zanka’s nails had raked down Jabber’s back more than once—sharp, frantic, like a cornered cat that refused to be helpless. Jabber hadn’t stopped him. Didn’t even flinch. If anything, it only made him tighten his hold, keeping Zanka pinned close instead of letting him spiral.

Too rough—yeah. Zanka had made sure Jabber knew it, swatting at him, half-angry, half-breathless. Jabber just took it, low laughter in his chest, never pushing past the point where it would actually hurt. He liked the fight. Liked that Zanka trusted him enough to throw it.

By the time the sun came up, the room was wrecked sheets twisted, air thick with sweat and lingering alcohol. Only two, maybe three shots between them. Enough to loosen, not enough to lose control.

Light spilled through the half-open curtain and landed straight on Jabber’s face.

He twitched. Groaned quietly. “…damn it.”

He’d forgotten the curtain.

Zanka was still pressed against him, head tucked into Jabber’s chest like it belonged there. Barely moving. Completely spent. Jabber listened to his breathing for a long moment, steady and real, before relaxing again.

Zanka always looked different like this—soft in a way he never was when he was awake. His hair had grown out again, uneven and wild. Jabber’s own dreads were overdue too. No time lately. Too much rebuilding. Too much history.

Raiders were still uneasy about Cleaners. Allies now but trust didn’t come easy.

Jabber shifted just enough to pull Zanka closer, one hand resting protectively at the back of his head. Whatever lines they’d danced around the night before, he hadn’t crossed the ones that mattered.

Zanka was still here.

And when he finally stirred, Jabber was already awake—watching, listening, ready.