Chapter Text
There are days it feels like you live in thirds. A third of you is bent over textbooks and digital coursework, chasing a degree that always looms just far enough ahead to make your knees ache. Another third is spent on your feet at the café just off campus, the one with creaky floorboards, overcomplicated drinks, and regulars who tip more in compliments than cash. And the last third… that part stays behind a locked screen, wrapped in pseudonyms, soft lighting, breathy sounds, and a silence that speaks louder than any script ever could.
Your mornings start like most others. Alarm. Snooze. Alarm again. You wake with a groan, limbs heavy with sleep. You shower quickly, half-conscious, dress in the kind of casual comfort that passes for effort, then stuff your laptop into the overstuffed tote that’s already begun to fray at the edges. Outside, the campus air bites at your calves. Inside the café, warmth greets you in the form of sputtering espresso machines and the low hum of indie playlists stuck on loop.
You smile easily there—for coworkers, customers, your manager who thinks you’re too quiet to be anything but sweet. It’s the kind of smile that comes from muscle memory, not comfort, but it works. People don’t ask questions when you wear that kind of smile.
Sometimes, you catch your reflection in the brushed metal of the machines—tired eyes, a faint smudge of concealer from rushing, lips bitten raw from absentminded nerves. No one looking at you now would guess what you filmed just two nights ago. Your knees spread wide, thighs trembling, back arched off soft bedsheets as you pressed the toy in slow, torturous circles—silent except for the gasp you couldn’t hold back when it hit too good to ignore. You never look into the camera unless you’re about to come. That’s your rule. You like the power of it, the control, the way eyes across the world wait, hungry, breathless for that moment. And you give it to them only when you decide.
Your videos are never live. You prefer the curated performance, the soft power of editing, of trimming away anything that feels too messy or raw. You don’t talk much on camera either. It’s all in the act, in the rhythm, the tension, the wet sounds of your fingers and the breath that catches when your body starts to shake. You don’t do it for the money—not necessarily. Not even for the thrill, entirely.
You just like being watched. You like the heat of unseen eyes. You like being wanted.
That side of you never bleeds into daylight. Not when you’re pouring oat milk into a cup or typing essays in the corner of the library. Not when your professors call your name or classmates ask if you’re coming to the party and you shake your head, smile, and lie. They don’t know you. Not really. No one does.
————
Zayne’s world is built on precision. Timing. Structure. A sterile kind of order that makes everything else easier to bear.
His days begin early—not in the reluctant, groggy way most people drag themselves out of bed, but with mechanical efficiency. The alarm never needs to ring twice. He moves through his apartment like clockwork: a clean shave, black coffee left to cool slightly while he reviews patient charts. His suits are always pressed, muted tones in grays and blacks, crisp lines and subtle textures chosen with the kind of quiet deliberation that fits his nature.
The walk to Akso Hospital is usually silent, save for the muted rhythm of traffic and his own measured footsteps. He prefers it that way—mornings still and untouched, like clean paper before the ink hits. By the time most people are settling into their first meetings, Zayne has already scrubbed in, gloved up, and cut through someone's ribcage with the focus of a man who knows what’s at stake with every breath.
He is known across the hospital for many things—his brilliance, his meticulous work, his ability to navigate even the most complex cardiac surgeries with unnerving calm. But also for his silence. His unshakable, unreadable stillness. Nurses whisper that he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink when things go wrong. Interns dread rounds with him, fearing the weight of a single, unimpressed glance through his silver wire-frame glasses. No one ever says it to his face, of course—no one dares—but the nickname floats down the halls in quiet breath: Ice Doctor.
They don’t know him. Not really. Zayne doesn’t mind. In fact, he prefers it. Distance is clean. Distance is efficient. But lately—for the first time in years—he’s started to notice the cracks.
They began with you.
He met you by chance. A standard consult. A low-priority case, routine enough that he barely glanced at the file until you sat down across from him, looking half-exhausted, half-annoyed, a mix of vulnerability and fire he wasn’t expecting to deal with on a Tuesday. You misunderstood him, at first. Most people do. You thought he was being cold, uncaring—but then you caught the subtle tilt of his mouth when he made a dry remark, the pause he took before speaking, as if weighing whether you’d understand what he didn’t say aloud.
You saw through him faster than most. And he saw more of you than he meant to.
A week later, he walked into the café down the street and found you behind the counter—your apron askew, hair pinned up messily, hands moving on autopilot while you poured milk into a to-go cup. Your eyes widened when you spotted him. Not in fear, not embarrassment. Just surprise. Warmth. A flicker of something real.
It became a pattern after that. Not always intentional—he never made a point to come in on your shifts, not at first. But somehow, more often than not, the time aligned. He’d stop by after his rounds, fingers aching from holding instruments too tightly, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to his sleeves. And there you were—tired, smiling, sometimes annoyed at the espresso machine, sometimes lost in thought. But always there.
Over the past year, you’ve kept in touch. A message here. A passing conversation there. Long gaps. Quiet ones. But the thread held. He doesn’t say much—never has—but he remembers things. How you hate hazelnut syrup but pretend to like it when it's free. How you always carry a pen tucked behind your ear. How your smile changes when you’re genuinely amused, eyes squinting just slightly at the corners. How your voice softens when you're talking about something you care about.
He regards you as a friend. A curious one. Interesting. Sharp. Bold in ways he isn’t, soft in places he thought were best left untouched.
He hasn’t allowed himself to want anything more. He tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. That he doesn’t have time. That you deserve someone softer, more available, someone who doesn’t carry the ghosts of too many open chests and sleepless nights.
And yet… he remembers your coffee order. He notices when your wrist is wrapped in a brace. He sends a message to check if your fever has gone down—not phrased kindly, not overtly. Just, Did you rest? Did you take anything for it? Delivered without a hello.
You think he’s sweet underneath it all, and maybe you’re right. But he doesn’t know what to do with that…
It’s nearing six when you finally manage to drag yourself behind the counter again. Your body aches in places that shouldn’t ache from standing, your backpack’s digging into your shoulder like it has a personal vendetta, and you’re pretty sure your brain has been replaced with coffee grounds and static. Uni was a blur of deadlines and professors who didn’t believe in compassion. Work has been nothing but loud blenders, passive-aggressive customers, and the espresso machine threatening its own slow death.
You’re halfway through wiping down the counter when you hear the small chime above the café door. You don’t even bother looking up right away—it’s probably another regular wanting decaf with oat milk and something gluten-free.
"You're still standing. Impressive."
The voice is dry. Smooth. Low and effortless, the syllables pressed clean like he’s never known exhaustion.
You look up. And just like that, something in your chest—tight from the weight of the day—eases.
Zayne stands in the doorway, his coat collar slightly damp from the drizzle outside, a few strands of black hair fallen out of place and curling ever so slightly at his temple. His silver glasses fog faintly from the warmth of the room. He adjusts them with his thumb before sliding one hand into the pocket of his coat, scanning the near-empty café with that practiced calm he always carries, like he’s already memorized the layout, like he’s always a step ahead of everything.
You blink once, twice. Then you smile, slow and tired, but real. “Dr. Zayne. Back from the dead, I see.”
His brow twitches. “Haven’t died yet. Just caught up in hospital bureaucracy. And you?”
“Dying,” you say flatly. “But still clocked in, so. Yay capitalism.”
Something flickers across his expression—something subtle but warm. The corner of his mouth lifts just enough to pass as amusement. It isn’t a laugh, not quite. But you’ve learned his language by now. It is a smile.
You haven’t seen him in a while. A few weeks at least. You’d assumed he was buried in OR schedules or buried under paperwork—both likely true. But the thing is, with Zayne, distance never feels like absence. He doesn’t text daily. He doesn’t send memes at midnight or call just to chat. But he always replies. He always remembers. Always shows up when it matters.
Even now, even on a random day like this—he’s here.
You take his usual order before he even asks. “Black coffee. Splash of milk. No sugar. I’d say you’re predictable, but somehow I find it comforting.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmurs, glancing toward the window as he tugs off his coat, revealing a light gray vest under his dark suit. His sleeves are rolled up today, and you catch sight of the faint pale scars that line his forearms—surgical, clean, some old, some newer. You never ask about them.
While the coffee brews, you sneak over to the pastry case, grab a small box, and tuck a trio of macarons inside—lemon, raspberry, and pistachio. You know he has a sweet tooth. It’s not something he ever admits out loud, but you’ve caught the way his eyes linger on the dessert menu longer than necessary. The way he once looked genuinely betrayed when the last slice of tiramisu was gone.
You place the cup down in front of him along with the box. “On the house. Consider it a thank-you for being the only person today who hasn’t complained about the wifi or asked for gluten-free milk.”
Zayne glances at the box, then at you. His eyes—green threaded through gold—soften ever so slightly behind the glass.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, but his voice betrays him. It’s low, rougher than usual. There’s a flicker of concern there, just under the surface. “You look exhausted.”
You shrug, wiping your hands on a towel and avoiding the way your throat tightens. “I’m always exhausted.”
“That doesn’t mean it should be ignored.”
You meet his gaze. There’s something in it—something steady. Not pity. Not obligation. Just… attention. Care, measured in his own quiet, deliberate way.
And for some reason, that makes everything feel a little less heavy.
“You’re sweet, you know that?” you tease, leaning your elbows onto the counter, allowing yourself to sink just a little into the warmth between you. “Beneath all that brooding, you’re secretly a softie.”
He exhales slowly, looking away, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a smirk. “Don’t spread slander.”
“Too late.”
And just like that, the tiredness doesn’t disappear—not fully—but it softens. You feel it in the space between you, in the silence that isn’t awkward, in the way Zayne sits down at his usual table but still angles himself toward the counter, still watching you as you move, still present in that solid, dependable way that only he is.
You don’t know what it is between you exactly. You’ve never asked. Never pushed. But maybe that’s what makes it feel so steady—whatever this is, it’s growing on its own, slow and sure and real.
And right now, that’s enough.
The day ends like so many others—not with rest, but with collapse. A few more hours of wiping down counters, smiling politely, pretending like your spine isn’t screaming, like your brain isn’t soup from back-to-back classes and closing shifts. Zayne stayed for a while. Long enough for a few more quiet exchanges, a few soft jabs that made you roll your eyes but smile without meaning to. He left the macarons box empty, like always. You found a note under the lid—small, scrawled in his impossibly neat handwriting.
Try sleeping for more than four hours. Just once. Indulge me.
You didn’t text him about it, just tucked the note into the front pocket of your backpack like you weren’t saving it.
By the time you get home, it’s past eleven. Your shoes are kicked off somewhere near the doorway. Your bag drops with a thud. The floor is cold beneath your toes, and the tiny studio apartment hums with that late-night stillness that always makes you feel like you're the only person alive.
You should sleep. You know that. But your body is buzzing, skin prickling with something close to frustration—a dull, gnawing ache that’s been sitting low in your belly for days now. The kind that builds under stress, under pressure, under the exhausting demand to keep yourself contained.
You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. And then you decide—fuck it. It’s been too long.
You rise, slow but certain, and flick on the soft corner lamp. Warm light spills across the sheets as you pull open the drawer under your bed. Camera. Tripod. The sleek little toy you’ve come to know like a second pulse. Everything exactly where it always is.
You don’t think too hard about it—you never do. The setup is instinct by now. Angle. Lighting. Camera set to record, not live. That was always your boundary, and you’ve stuck to it. You like knowing you’re watched—but on your terms.
You undress slowly, peeling off each layer like a ritual. Tank top. Shorts. Underwear last. You stretch out on the sheets, limbs loose, eyes half-lidded as you glance toward the lens. Red light blinking. Recording. You inhale, long and steady, and slide your hand down the length of your thigh.
It’s not about pretending. Not for you. This part is real.
You reach for the toy—curved just right, smooth and familiar in your grip. You turn it on, the quiet hum teasing in the air, and press it against your clit. Soft at first. Just enough to make your legs twitch. Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as you sink deeper into the rhythm.
You don’t speak. It’s all movement, all sensation—the way your back arches, the way your fingers curl, the wet sound of slickness growing louder as you press harder. You imagine the way they watch you—faceless men, thirsty and obsessed, paying just to see you like this. To witness you unravel.
You don’t care who they are. You don’t need their names. All you need is the heat. The eyes. The knowledge that somewhere out there, someone is watching you lose control.
Your free hand grips the sheets as you circle tighter, faster, chasing the edge that’s been just out of reach for days now. Your breath comes fast, uneven, your hips rolling against the toy like your body’s forgotten how to be quiet.
And then it hits. It crashes through you all at once—your thighs shaking, a moan ripped from your throat before you can stop it, drawn out and helpless. You ride it through, breathless and twitching, clenching around nothing as your mind blanks out completely.
The toy drops from your fingers. You exhale like you haven’t breathed in hours. Chest rising. Falling. Sheets damp beneath you. Muscles trembling, toes curled.
For the first time all week, you feel light. Not fixed, not whole. But calmer. Fulfilled. Like the storm in your head finally went quiet.
You let the camera roll for a few more seconds, your eyes drifting lazily toward it. Then you reach over and press stop. You’ll edit it later. Upload it for your subscribers sometime tomorrow. You know it’ll do well—they’ve been waiting. But for now, you just lie there. Naked. Spent. The room warm and humming around you. You feel the ache in your thighs and the slow, heavy pleasure in your limbs, and you think—just maybe—you’ll sleep better tonight.
The next morning, you uploaded it with little fanfare—just a title, a few tags, and a click. That was it. No teasing caption. No promo. You didn’t need one. Your followers were loyal, patient, and generous. You’d built your small corner of that world on consistency and intensity—no gimmicks, no exaggerated moaning or roleplay. Just you, real and raw, caught in the haze of your own desire.
Then life resumed. Papers stacked high in your bag. Three hours of sleep, back-to-back lectures. Your manager texting you last-minute to cover someone else’s shift. The usual chaos. You moved through it like you always did—bleary-eyed and running on caffeine and quiet stubbornness, earbuds in, listening to soft background noise or lo-fi playlists just to keep yourself from mentally combusting.
But that week, a quiet thrill stayed beneath your skin. A subtle spark in your blood every time you checked your balance or saw the little notification pop up on your phone: another tip, another purchase. The video was doing well.
And so, despite everything—the exhaustion, the growing mountain of responsibilities, the ache that lived in your neck from sleeping on your desk—you smiled more. Just a little.
Meanwhile, across the city, Zayne was unraveling slowly in the background of his own life. Back-to-back surgeries. Consults stacked like dominos from 6am to well after sunset. He moved through the sterile halls of Akso Hospital like a ghost—crisp white coat, clipped strides, glasses slightly smudged from forgetting to wipe them between rounds. No one questioned it. Zayne lived in work. Always had. No one expected otherwise.
But when he returned home, keys sliding into the lock of his cold, quiet apartment, silence pressed down on him like a weighted hand. No music played here. No voice greeted him. Just the dull hum of the refrigerator and the soft click of his bedroom door as it swung open. The lights were automatic—they greeted him better than most people did. He unbuttoned his vest slowly, fingers tracing the familiar shape of the scars on his forearms as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing skin that rarely saw daylight.
He wasn't the type, they would say. Zayne? A man like that? Too cold. Too principled. Too composed.
But they didn’t see him like this. At 1am after his third emergency procedure of the week. When his body ached, his brain wouldn’t shut off, and the weight of every decision clung to him like blood under the nails. On nights like this, he needed release, not gentleness. Just something else. Something that burned hotter than the sterile quiet of his apartment. Something that could blot out the silence.
So sometimes, rarely, he gave in.
He didn’t browse. Didn’t search for fantasy or romance. It wasn’t about who. It was about rhythm. Sound. Timing. That quiet build-up of heat that pulled him out of his head long enough to forget the last chest he’d cut open. He’d scroll, eyes half-lidded, not even really looking, until something felt right. Click. Background noise. His belt unbuckled, trousers shoved down just enough. He’d stroke himself in silence, face calm even as his breathing stuttered, the faintest hint of a flush beneath the angle of his jaw.
Tonight was one of those nights. Dinner sat forgotten on the kitchen counter—half a reheated plate of something he didn’t taste. He stripped down to just his shirt, buttons undone, hair mussed from raking his fingers through it too many times. He dropped into bed, long legs splayed out, one arm propped behind his head, and opened the app.
He scrolled. Absentminded. Mechanical. Half-lazy strokes already beginning, just enough to coax his body into tension. He wasn’t really watching. Just letting the static buzz of arousal settle in his bloodstream like it always did. Something to quiet the chaos.
Until his eyes caught on a thumbnail. His hand paused. No. No, it couldn’t be.
He blinked. Stared. Dragged the screen back down and hovered his thumb over it. There you were.
At least… it looked like you. Same mouth. Same eyes. Same curve of your jaw when your head tipped back, lips parted, bathed in amber light.
He didn’t breathe. The blood drained from his face, pooling instead in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he wondered if this was a hallucination. Maybe he’d passed out mid-surgery and was dreaming. Delirious. This couldn’t be real.
But the thumbnail moved. A preview looped—a low gasp, a roll of your hips, your eyes half-lidded and unmistakably yours.
Zayne sat up slowly, his hand falling away from himself like it no longer belonged there. The room was suddenly too warm. His heart was hammering, tight and confused in his chest.
He didn’t mean to watch it. At first it was just the thumbnail—looping on its own, as if daring him to look closer. A breath caught mid-gasp, your chest rising and falling in the low flicker of warm light. He told himself it couldn’t be you, over and over again. Tried to convince himself that he was tired. Imagining things. Misreading familiar shapes in unfamiliar context.
But when he tapped the screen, when the preview expanded, the sound came. Soft. Involuntary. Yours. It slid into him like a knife between the ribs.
Zayne’s breath stilled in his throat, muscles tight, body caught somewhere between instinct and denial. He was still touching himself—hand firm around his cock, half-hard from the lingering pressure he’d started absentmindedly before this whole thing derailed—but now it wasn’t mindless anymore. Now it was you.
And the video just kept playing. There wasn’t even a buildup—it dropped him right into the middle of it, your legs spread, your fingers glistening, mouth slack with pleasure. You didn’t say a word—you never needed to. It was the sound that did it. The staggered breaths. The slick rhythm. The choked noise that slipped out of you when your hips rolled just right.
Zayne felt like he’d been punched in the chest.
It was real. You were real. His friend—if he could even still call you that—was there, laid bare on his screen, fingers buried between your thighs, glowing in candlelight and shadows, and the worst part, the part that made his pulse thunder in shame and disbelief, was how fucking hard he was.
He knew he should stop. He knew it. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the phone like that could will the image away. This was wrong. Invasive. You hadn’t sent it to him. You didn’t know. You couldn’t. You didn’t film this for him. You didn’t look into the camera with his name on your tongue.
Your moans, soft and breathless, ghosted across his skin like smoke—like heat, curling low and unforgiving in his gut. His cock twitched in his hand. A hot flush climbed his neck, and still he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
He sat there—flushed, breathing unevenly, hazel eyes locked on the screen as you reached the edge. As your body shivered through release, legs shaking, head tilted back in the sweetest surrender he’d ever seen. Your thighs flexed, your chest rose in short, panting bursts, and a broken little sound spilled from your throat, caught somewhere between pleasure and relief.
Zayne exhaled sharply. His grip stuttered.
This wasn’t you, he tried to tell himself. Not the you he’d seen bent over a register, rolling your eyes at broken machines and slipping him macarons like it was a secret only you two shared. Not the girl who smiled at him after ten hours on her feet, who made him feel less hollow without trying. Not that version.
But this was you too. Unfiltered. Wild. Raw. And Zayne—private, controlled, unshakeable Zayne—couldn’t lie to himself: he wanted this version too.
His head fell back against the pillows, throat tight, his hand moving now not from boredom or stress, but from need. Desperate and hot and shameful. He pictured your voice, your expression, the exact shape your lips made when you moaned like that. The exact second your back arched, and your hand trembled, and you pressed the toy tighter between your legs.
He came harder than he meant to—panting, flushed, his body jerking once, twice as release flooded through him, leaving him wrecked and breathless in the dim glow of his bedroom.
The video ended. The screen faded to black. And for the first time in a long time, Zayne felt ashamed of how good something had felt.
He lay there, bare chest rising slowly, still holding the phone like it might burn through his fingers. Guilt curled in the pit of his stomach, thick and sour. His heart was still racing.
This was a line he should never have crossed. He cleaned up in silence, showered with water too cold, as if punishing himself might undo what had happened. As if it would rinse the memory from his skin. But it didn’t. And the worst part wasn’t that he watched it. The worst part was the next time he saw you.
A week passed. Nothing changed. Life resumed. But when he walked into the café again, the familiar chime above the door sounding, and he saw you—tired but smiling, apron crooked, hands covered in a dusting of flour—he hesitated. Just for a second. Not enough for you to notice. You greeted him with the same warmth, the same tired spark in your eyes.
But for Zayne, the moment your smile reached him, the image played behind his eyes with ruthless clarity—your lips parted, your back arching, your fingers sinking between your thighs as if your body couldn’t stand to be empty.
And he felt it again—that sharp, helpless ache. Nothing changed, he told himself. But it had. And now, he didn’t know what the hell to do with it.
You were running on fumes and spite that afternoon. Your professor had spent the entire lecture acting like compassion was a foreign concept, refusing to grant you an extension on a project after you’d explained, calmly, that working double shifts at the café wasn’t something you could magically pause. That if you didn’t keep working, you’d have to cut back on food. Rent. Tuition.
He didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. The world kept demanding, and you kept bleeding for it.
So by the time you made it to your shift, still fuming and running late, your jaw was tight and your heart was thumping with quiet rage. The café smelled like burnt espresso and too much vanilla syrup, and you were already three orders deep before you even realized the bell above the door had chimed again.
"Coffee. Splash of milk. No sugar."
You glanced up. And your breath caught—not in any special way, not dramatically—but just for the slightest pause. Like your heart forgot which rhythm it was keeping for half a second.
Zayne stood by the register, his coat open over one of his usual three-piece suits. Grey today. Darker than usual, tailored to the shape of his shoulders like it had been made with reverence. His glasses sat just slightly lower on the bridge of his nose, as always. But his expression—it was… off.
You didn’t notice at first. You smiled like you always did, too wound up in your own chaos to analyze anything.
“You say that like evolving would mean drinking bitter bean water voluntarily.” you started prepping his drink. “No, Dr. Zayne, I’ll leave the self-torture to your operating rooms.”
You meant it lightly. A jab. Something to ease the day. You even added one of the pistachio macarons you’d stashed in the back—he never asked, but you always noticed the way his eyes lingered on that flavor. It felt like your small way of saying I see you.
But when you looked up again, something in his gaze snagged. It wasn’t tired. Not exactly. Zayne always carried a quiet exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders, the weight of long hours stitched into the seams of his suit. But this… this was different.
His eyes didn’t meet yours the way they usually did. His expression wasn’t unreadable; it was withheld. His replies, when they came, were shorter. Clipped.
“Rough shift?” you tried, voice softening as you slid the cup across the counter.
He glanced at it. Then at you.
“Long week,” he said finally.
That was all.
You hesitated. Just for a moment. That inner radar you’d honed from years of pretending things were fine when they weren’t—it started to twitch. Zayne was reserved, yes, but never cold. Not with you. And now something was pulling back from you, like he was afraid to stand too close.
You debated pushing. But in the end, you let it go. If anyone had earned the right to stay quiet, it was him. Maybe it was just another surgical complication. Maybe a patient. Maybe grief he didn’t name.
You didn’t ask again. He took his drink and sat at his usual table by the window, but didn’t stay long. You’d barely managed to sneak a glance over your shoulder—just to see if he’d eaten the macaron—when you noticed he’d already left. The box still sat on the table, unopened.
The shift ended, and you walked home with a strange heaviness curling around your chest, even heavier than the bags under your eyes.
Weeks passed. You posted again. Two more videos, both different in style. One was slower, softer—you wore lace and touched yourself with delicate fingers, teasing, stretching the moment until the moans came high and breathy and desperate. The second was rougher—new toy, deeper angle, your face flushed with exertion as you came harder, louder, lost in something deeper than just arousal. You didn’t talk in either, as usual. But you felt—and the screen captured every moment of it. Every arch of your back, every quake of your thighs.
And they both did well. Better than expected. The payments trickled in. Your following grew. You should’ve felt triumphant—and you did, a little. But there was still that weight.
Because Zayne hadn’t come by the café again. Not really unusual—his schedule was brutal, and you never expected regularity from him. But this time, the space between you felt different. His texts were fewer. Drier. When he did message, they were practical at best—neutral check-ins about health, about classes, never personal, never playful. Gone were the occasional sarcastic remarks or small jokes he used to slip in. Gone were the conversations that left you smiling at your phone like an idiot.
And it hit you, quietly, in the middle of a late shift—that something had changed.
You leaned against the counter as the espresso dripped, staring out the window at the blur of headlights, and whispered to yourself, “Did I do something?”
Maybe it was you. Maybe something you said. Maybe he saw the cracks in your mask and decided he didn’t want to see what was behind them. You tried not to let it sink in, but you’d always been too good at internalizing. Too good at filling in the blanks with blame.
So you told yourself he was busy. That it didn’t matter. That he was just Zayne—cold, private, unreachable Zayne. But a part of you… the part that always noticed when he shifted slightly closer, or how his eyes lingered a second too long when you handed him coffee—that part of you knew something was wrong.
And it was starting to hurt.