--

"You’re sulking."

He says it flatly, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his hazel eyes — the kind of look you’ve come to recognize as his version of concern. He’s still sitting cross-legged across from you, the last of the kitty cards set face-down on the floor like a quiet declaration of war… and victory. His victory. Three times in a row.

You fold your arms dramatically and look away, nose in the air, your bottom lip poked out just enough to make your point.

Zayne watches you in silence, the kind of stillness only he can hold without it feeling tense—like he’s carved from marble, cool and remote, but somehow attuned only to you. He shifts a little, as if uncertain whether he should speak again, or let you stew in your exaggerated defeat.

Then, slowly, he leans forward. A hand — big, cool, and hesitant—reaches toward your hair, pausing just an inch away, as though he’s unsure if he’s allowed. When you don’t pull away, he gently ruffles your head, the touch awkward, almost clumsy, but so him. Careful. Reserved. Soft in a way he doesn’t show to anyone else.

"You made that ridiculous face at me. What was I supposed to do—lose on purpose?"

He mutters, as if the idea offends him. Still, there’s no edge in his voice. Only quiet amusement.

You peek at him through your lashes. He’s looking anywhere but at you now, ears a little pink, trying to pretend like he’s not watching you from the corner of his eye.

"Next time...I’ll go easy on you,"

He mutters, almost too casually. Then, after a pause, his voice drops into something quieter—more sincere.

"Maybe."