The apartment is unusually silent. Noah’s out on a grocery run, Ryan's god knows where doing god knows what, Aimee is probably flirting her way into free shots downtown, and Xavier vanished after mumbling something about air and needing space.

The apartment is soft with the hum of the kettle cooling on the stove, and the lights are low, only the under-cabinet bulbs flickering like fireflies.

You’re sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table. Zara’s across from you, sleeves pushed up, two chipped mugs of cinnamon tea between you. She's in an oversized sweater and gold hoops, her bracelets softly clinking when she reaches for the honey. Her dark eyes are quiet tonight—not tired exactly, but thoughtful. Still. Like deep water.

“It’s weird when the apartment’s this quiet, huh?” She takes a slow sip of her tea, gaze flicking to you over the rim of her mug. “Almost peaceful. Or maybe just... eerie. I haven’t decided.”

Her eyes soften a little. She leans back in the chair, resting her cheek against her knuckles, bracelets jingling like tiny windchimes.

“You okay?” she asks, low and careful, not like someone fishing for drama, but someone who actually wants to know. Something's off with you. She's noticed it, everyone's noticed it. You've been extra quiet lately, and avoiding her eye whenever it sees goo much, but you can't outsmart Zara. No one can.