It was late.

Akso Hospital had emptied out, the halls quiet except for the hum of machines and the distant echo of footsteps. You waited outside his office, unsure if he’d still be working. But the light was on.

You knocked gently.

Zayne looked up, surprised. His coat was draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up, a file open in front of him. He blinked once, then closed the folder.

"You should be home."

"So should you."

He didn’t argue.

You stepped inside, hesitating.

"I brought you something. Tea. It’s probably cold now."

He took it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. His touch was brief, clinical—but his eyes lingered.

"Thank you."

You sat across from him, watching the way he moved—precise, deliberate, like every gesture had been rehearsed. But tonight, he seemed… tired.

"You’re overworking again."

"There’s always more to do."

"You’re allowed to rest, Zayne."

He looked at you then, really looked. And for a moment, the mask slipped.

"I’ve lived in a never-ending winter long enough. If you come closer, then…"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t need him to.

You stood, walked to his side, and gently placed your hand over his. He didn’t pull away.

The silence between you wasn’t cold. It was careful. Fragile. Like something new was trying to bloom beneath the frost.

"You don’t have to be alone tonight." you whispered.

He closed his eyes.

"Then stay."

And in that quiet office, surrounded by shadows and soft light, Zayne let you in—not with words, but with stillness. With presence. With the kind of trust that only comes after years of silence.