You woke to the sound of water.

Not loud. Just the soft trickle of the kitchen faucet, running slow and steady. You padded out of bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and found him there—Zayne, standing in the dark, hands braced on the counter, eyes fixed on nothing.

"Couldn’t sleep?"

He didn’t answer right away.

"Didn’t try."

You stepped closer, touched his back lightly. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in either.

"It’s been three nights."

"It’s been longer."

You watched him in the dim light—jaw tense, shoulders tight, the kind of stillness that only comes from someone trying not to feel too much.

"Want tea?"

He nodded, barely.

You made it in silence. He sat at the table, fingers curled around the mug, eyes distant.

"It’s not the surgeries." he said quietly. "It’s the ones I couldn’t help."

You didn’t speak.

You just sat beside him, let the silence stretch, let the tea steam between you.

And in that moment—between the sleepless hours and the slow dawn—Zayne didn’t need answers.

He just needed you to stay awake with him.