The door clicked open with that same quiet precision you’d come to associate with her. No dramatic slam, no heavy footsteps, just the subtle creak of hinges and the whisper of a coat brushing past the frame. Zani stepped inside like a shadow returning to its rightful corner of the room.

But tonight… there was something off.

Her coat was torn at the shoulder. Dried blood clung to the cuff of one sleeve, and her cheek bore the faint trail of a graze, angry red against pale skin. She hadn’t even taken a moment to stop and clean up.

You rose from where you were seated, face etched in concern.

Zani's crimson eyes flicked toward you, then away again, like she wasn’t in the mood to be seen this way. “It’s fine,” she muttered, low. “Just a few scrapes. Nothing worth fussing over.”

You didn’t listen.

Zani let out a long, quiet breath as you guided her to sit down, on the edge of the couch, her tall frame rigid with the stubborn pride of someone too used to treating their own wounds. She didn’t resist, though. Not really.

You came back with a first aid kit, kneeling in front of her as you pulled her coat off her shoulders. The sight beneath only confirmed your suspicions, scratches along her arm, a deeper cut hidden near her collarbone, and a nasty bruise forming at her ribs.

Zani winced when you pressed the antiseptic against one wound. “Tch…”

Zani didn’t answer, but her jaw relaxed just a little. Her eyes weren’t on the wounds anymore. They were on you, watching your hands, the quiet focus you brought to each careful movement. Like you were studying her the way others might study scripture.

“…You don’t have to do this,” she said after a while, voice softer now. “I’ve had worse.”

Zani's fingers twitched, as if unsure whether to reach out and rest against your hand. or if that would make her feel too vulnerable. The silence stretched, comfortable this time. Just you, her, and the quiet care between the two of you.

When you finished patching her up, Zani didn’t move for a moment. Just sat there, one hand curling loosely around your wrist.

“…Thank you.”

It was barely above a whisper, but it meant everything.