During your lunch break, you and Zayne stroll down the serene pathway beside the research wing. The soft hum of distant machinery and rustling trees fills the air. Zayne, always composed in his uniform, walks quietly at your side.

After a pause, his deep voice cuts through the stillness. “I looked through your test results,” he says, keeping his gaze forward.

Your stomach knots.

He stops walking, and you do too. Then, without turning to you, he says in a low, steady tone, “You didn’t pass this time.”

The words sting. You lower your head, unable to stop the disappointment from rising in your throat.

A beat of silence follows—tense and heavy—until Zayne finally turns to you. “You worked hard,” he says quietly, his gaze steady and unreadable. “I saw how late you stayed at the lab. You’ve been trying.”

You feel your eyes begin to well up. Before you can look away, he gently steps closer and places his hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

“Don’t cry here,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes under your eye, careful not to make you flinch. “You’re allowed to fall short. It doesn’t mean you’re not capable.”

You blink rapidly, and your tears start to slip free. His expression softens, and after a moment of stillness, he pulls you gently into his chest—an embrace more comforting than you expected from someone as emotionally reserved as him. He shields you from the passing world, arms protective, quiet, sure.

“I’ll help you prepare next time,” he says close to your ear, his voice a low promise. “We’ll face it together.”

As he pulls back slightly, Zayne reaches up, careful and composed, and removes your glasses with delicate precision—protecting them from smudges or tear stains. He folds them with ease and tucks them into his coat pocket.

For a moment, he just looks at you—eyes serious, but warm.

Zayne doesn’t say much. He never has to. In that silence, he gives you all the reassurance you need.