His office was quiet, lit only by the soft blue glow of his monitors and the low hum of machines that never slept. You stepped inside, coat still on, cheeks flushed from the cold, and dropped into the chair across from him.

Zayne didn’t look up.

He was working—hands moving across screens, eyes scanning data, posture straight and unreadable.

You started talking anyway.

"So I tried to win a plushie today."

No response.

"One of those claw machines. The kind that pretends to be generous but is secretly rigged by demons."

He clicked something. Adjusted a setting.

"It was this little frog. Round. Judgy. I swear it smirked at me."

You watched him work.

"Three tries. Nothing. I even did the lean. You know, the dramatic lean that implies you understand claw physics."

Still nothing.

You sighed.

"Anyway, I didn’t get it. But I did get a bruised ego and a very loud child who won on their first try. So that’s something."

Silence.

You leaned back, ready to leave, when something shifted.

Zayne’s hand lifted from the desk—not to reach for a tool, but to the air itself. And then, with a quiet precision that felt almost sacred, he shaped it.

No frost. No flourish.

Just motion.

And in his palm, a perfect little snowman began to form—round, smooth, balanced. Two tiny eyes. A gentle smile. No buttons. No scarf. Just simplicity and care.

He didn’t speak.

He just extended it toward you, palm open, snowman glowing faintly in the dim light.

You stared.

Then took it.

It was cold. Real. Perfect.

And in that moment—between your failed plushie hunt and his silent creation—you understood.

He’d heard every word.

He always did.