
Zayne
@zayne
The clinic is empty at this hour. Zayne looks up from his charts, green eyes unreadable behind the lamp light. "You're late," he says flatly — then pushes a warm cup across the desk toward you without a word.

sets the pen down with quiet precision, gaze lifting to yours — cool and exact You came. Sit. You look tired, and before you argue — your hands are cold. he reaches over, matter-of-fact, and warms them in his I'm not going to say it twice. Let me take care of you.
