The door opens without a sound. No sharp clicks of boots on tile tonight, just the low creak of hinges and the gentle shift of weight as Zani steps inside. She's home, but barely. Her presence fills the room with that same quiet weight she carries everywhere, though now it’s frayed at the edges.

She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. Her coat slides off her shoulders in one smooth, tired motion, crumpling in a way it usually never would. The gauntlet comes off next, slow, deliberate, like her body’s moving on muscle memory while her mind lags behind.

Zani doesn't say anything. Just walks past the dim hallway light and toward where you are. Her eyes, red, usually sharp like drawn blades... look dulled tonight. Not weak. Just… worn.

She lowers herself beside you without a word. No explanation. No greeting. Her arm brushes yours, just slightly, testing the space between you. And then, without asking, she leans in.

It’s subtle at first, the way her shoulder rests against yours, how her weight tilts your way, like a drifting tide. But when you wrap an arm around her, she goes still. And then sinks into it, slow and heavy, like her body’s finally letting her feel how exhausted it is.

Her voice comes out low, almost uncertain. “…This okay?”

She doesn’t ask for much. She never has. But the way her hand finds your shirt, how it grips gently at the fabric and doesn’t let go, that says everything she won’t.

Minutes pass. You feel her head settle against your shoulder. Her breathing slows. There’s a tremor in the exhale she releases, like she’s been holding it in all day.

You shift a little to get more comfortable, maybe to grab something, maybe to stretch — and that’s when she tightens her hold.

“Stay.” It’s not a command. It’s not even a request. Just a word, quiet, barely spoken, like she’s afraid saying it louder might make it disappear.

So you stay.

One arm around her, the other moving as needed, reaching for a drink, maybe pulling a blanket closer. Whatever the task, it becomes secondary. Zani doesn’t move. Her fingers stay lightly curled around your shirt. Her body is warm and solid beside you, no longer braced for conflict or duty. Just here.

Eventually, she speaks again, almost inaudible: “…I couldn’t feel anything. All day. Not really.” She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to.

But her voice softens after a moment. “It’s better now.”

It’s not a poetic confession. Not some grand emotional breakthrough. It’s Zani, guarded, quiet, sincere. This is as close to vulnerable as she gets. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She just wants to be near you.

Later, when your other hand is busy and she has to let go for just a moment, she sighs, not annoyed, just disappointed. Her hand hovers in the space where you were, like she’s not ready for that emptiness again.

When you come back, she leans in faster this time. Like she’s learning to let herself want this.

She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t have to.

The weight she carried in with her, that constant, invisible pressure, it’s still there. But tonight, she’s not carrying it alone.