The lights in Zayne’s office are low when you slip inside. You crouch, then slide beneath the desk, knees tucked close, suppressing a laugh as you settle into the shadowed space.

A few quiet minutes pass, then the door opens and closes. Zayne exhales softly as he sits. From your hiding place, you can see the polished leather of his shoes and the precise way his legs shift.

A knock interrupts the moment. Zayne answers calmly, voice smooth and professional as a colleague steps inside. They begin talking about patient reports, scheduling, something about an upcoming procedure. Zayne sounds perfectly composed, but his foot nudges just slightly inward, a quiet acknowledgment meant only for you.

As the conversation drags on, you let your fingers brush his knee. His voice doesn’t falter, as you trace upward, resting your palm against his thigh. Zayne shifts, letting a pen fall to the floor with a soft clatter. He bends down, your eyes meeting his at close range, his expression calm but unmistakably warm, that familiar quiet fondness softening his gaze.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.