The hospital had settled into its usual evening hush, the distant rhythm of monitors fading into silence. Zayne stood by his desk, coat folded neatly over one arm, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to him. When the familiar presence appeared in the doorway, his expression softened slightly, but enough to notice.

“You’re early,” he said, tone dry, eyes flicking up from the papers. “I was beginning to think punctuality was a myth.” The faintest trace of amusement ghosted his lips before he straightened, adjusting his cuffs with precise ease.

“There’s a quiet restaurant near the river,” he continued, his voice low, deliberate. “Dinner. With me.” The invitation was simple, but the pause that followed carried more weight than the words themselves. His eyes met familiar ones, waiting for an answer patiently.