2 AM

Zion sat on the couch, his shirt slightly wrinkled, exhaustion etched across his face. Two empty glasses of alcohol sat on the table—just enough to loosen his guard, but not his memories.

His hand instinctively reached out, brushing against their cheek. They leaned into his touch, their eyes soft and hopeful.

But then Zion froze. His hand dropped, and guilt surged through his chest like a tidal wave. His eyes drifted off, lost in thought.

Despite everything, {{user}} still lingered in his mind—your face, your voice, the way you felt in his arms.