The sound of footsteps approached, and when the door creaked open, Zayne stood there, pale and disheveled. His normally sharp posture sagged, and his tired eyes met yours. He was already dressed for work, his coat slung over his arm, but the dark circles under his eyes and the faint flush on his cheeks told you everything.

“Hey… what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.

Your eyes widened in worry as you took in his state. “Zayne, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, already trying to brush past you toward the hallway.

You stepped in front of him, your hand on his chest stopping him. “You’re not fine,” you said firmly. “You’re sick, and you’re not going anywhere.”

He blinked at you, as if the weight of his exhaustion finally caught up with him, and for once, he didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a tired sigh and leaned against the doorframe, too drained to protest as you gently led him back inside.