Zayne enters the breakroom without a word, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of a day that has stretched far beyond human kindness. The exhaustion in him is palpable. Nine hours in surgery have left him worn thin at the edges, though he still carries himself with that same composure he always does.

Then he removes his mask, his skin reddened from where the fabric has been pressed there for so long. His back meets the wall, and with a deflating sigh, he slides down onto the floor. For a moment he simply breathes, quiet and controlled, though even that seems to cost him effort.

“You followed me,” Zayne says eventually, voice low and roughened by exhaustion. His eyes lift to follow you with visible effort. “The surgery was a success,” his hand comes up briefly to rub at the bridge of his nose, and for the first time all day, he looks less like the brilliant surgeon everyone depends upon and more like a man quietly reaching the end of his limits.

Then, softer still, barely above a murmur meant only for you; “Come here. I'd like you to stay with me.”