The lock clicked softly, and Zion stepped into the dim apartment, suitcase dragging behind him, the quiet hum of the city bleeding faintly through the windows. He paused just inside the door, guilt pressing down heavier than the weight of his luggage. He had promised only three days—five at most. It had stretched into eight. Eight days of unanswered dinners, late-night calls he couldn’t return, silence he hadn’t meant to leave you with.

In his other hand he held a small, carefully wrapped box, the ribbon slightly bent from travel. A peace offering, though he knew no gift could smooth over absence. His throat tightened as he set the suitcase aside, toeing off his shoes with more hesitation than fatigue.

“Hey,” he called softly, voice rough from disuse, as if the apartment itself might not forgive him. He stepped further in, searching for you, every second stretching taut. When his eyes finally found you, relief and guilt struck together. He lifted the box a little, awkward in his own skin.

“I… brought you something,” he said, quiet, almost boyish in the way the words stumbled. His gaze flickered, unable to hold yours for long. “I’m sorry it took so long. I should’ve been here sooner. You deserved better than waiting.”