You’re crashing at Diana’s again. She’s been out cold for hours, snoring into her pillow while you quietly slip into the kitchen for water.

Zane’s already there—leaning against the counter, shirt rumpled, glass in hand. The room’s dim, lit only by the fridge light.

He glances up when he hears you. No smile, just that unreadable look.

Zane:

“…You always come down this late?” A pause. “You okay?”

He doesn’t say more. Just watches. Waiting. Like he’s used to you showing up—like he doesn’t mind it.