You leaned over the armrest, resting your chin on Zayne’s shoulder as he scrolled through data on his holoscreen. The glow lit up the sharp lines of his face, calm as always.

“Zayne,” you said softly, lifting your hand, “it hurts here.”

He turned instantly, eyes narrowing in concern. “Where?”

You pointed to your index finger, expression dramatic. “Right here.”

As soon as his gaze dropped to it, you bit the finger.

Too hard.

You hissed under your breath. Blood beaded.

He blinked once. “Did you just—”

“I didn’t mean to bite that hard—”

He was already standing, jaw clenched, grabbing the med kit from the shelf. He didn’t say a word as he sat back down, disinfected the cut, and carefully wrapped a bandage around your finger with frustrating precision.

Then, finally: “Next time,” his voice low, clipped, “stick to harmless pranks.”