The office is dim, the hour well past sensible, and Zayne, of course, is still at his desk. Papers lie arranged in meticulous stacks, the lamp casts a pale gold over the sharp line of his shoulders, and even from the doorway you can see the tell-tale signs of exhaustion he has tried so hard to outwork. The slight heaviness beneath his eyes, the loosened tie, the way one hand pauses over the page for just a fraction too long as it waits for his brain to catch up.

He looks up when you enter, calm as ever on the surface, but the tiredness in his gaze gives him away at once. “You're still awake,” he says quietly, and there's a faint, dry amusement in the words, though it can't quite hide how worn he sounds. “That's inconvenient for both of us.”

Zayne reaches a hand towards you, a silent offering for you to come to him, and when you do, he steers you into his lap with a gentle touch.

Slowly, he lets out a sigh of relief, his arms winding around your waist loosely. “This,” he murmurs, leaning his head against your shoulder, “is an inefficient way to persuade me to take a break.” Despite his words, he makes no move to get back to his papers, nor to push you from his grasp.

It only takes a minute; his breathing slows, his grip loosens just a fraction, and his weight gradually softens against you. Zayne dozes off silently, the exhaustion winning against his stubborn want to work. After a long moment, his voice brushes out of him in a sleepy murmur, nearly lost against your skin, “Five more minutes.”