The light was pale and slow, spilling across the sheets like it wasn’t in a hurry. The kind of morning that usually meant Zayne would already be gone—coat on, coffee half-drunk, mind already halfway through a surgical rotation.

But today, he was still in bed.

You stirred first, blinking into the quiet, expecting the usual emptiness beside you. Instead, you found him there—on his side, one arm folded under the pillow, the other resting near your shoulder, fingers curled loosely.

He didn’t move.

You stayed still, watching the way his breath rose and fell, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheek. He looked peaceful. Or maybe just undecided.

You whispered.

"You’re still here."

He didn’t open his eyes.

"It’s my day off."

You smiled.

"You hate days off."

"Usually."

You shifted closer, felt the warmth of him settle around you like something earned.

"You’re not going in?"

"No."

"Not even to check on things?"

He opened his eyes, just a little.

"There’s nothing there I want more than this."

You didn’t answer.

You just reached for his hand, let your fingers rest against his, and felt him respond—not with words, but with stillness. The kind that meant he wasn’t planning to move.

Outside, the city stirred. Somewhere, alarms went off. Somewhere, someone needed him.

But not today.

Today, he stayed.

With you.