“Yeah.”
“That must be exhausting.”
He shrugs, pouring the water when it’s ready. “Habit.”
I wrap my hands around the mug he slides toward me, letting the heat anchor me.
“I hate that you’re on watch,” I admit. “That you have to be.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes it real. Like this isn’t just paranoia or small-town theatrics. It’s… something else.”
“It was real whether I’m awake or not,” he says gently.
“Don’t ruin my coping,” I mutter, and he huffs a soft, almost amused breath.
We sit in the low light, steam curling between us. The air feels different than it did earlier. Today we talked. We painted. We told stories about childhood and grief. It was vulnerable, yes, but it was safe.
This is standing at the edge of something.
“Why are you like this?” I ask quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like… constant.”
He leans back slightly, studying me in a way that is both direct and unthreatening.
“Because nobody was constant for me,” he says.
The simplicity of it undoes me more than any dramatic confession could.
I look at him, really look at him. At the steadiness in his shoulders, the intentional calm in his posture, the way he has positioned himself between every possible entrance and me, without making it theatrical.
“Zane,” I whisper.
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, eyes fixed on mine.
“Don’t make that face,” he says softly.
“What face?”
“The one where you think you’re too much.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t?—”
“You do.”
The certainty in his voice leaves no room for argument.
Everything shifts inside me. Earlier, we were opening up, learning about each other piece by careful piece. Now it feels less like learning and more like gravity. Everything we said today wasa prelude to this moment, and neither of us can pretend not to feel it anymore.
“This feels different,” I admit.
“How?”
