Archive of Our Own ^beta

it took zayne four days, exactly, to realize someone had moved into the unit beside his.

not because he’d seen anyone—not a face, not a handshake, not even a box being carried in—but because he heard them. a low scrape across wooden flooring. the click of a lock at odd hours. the faint shift of weight along the hall floorboards past midnight. subtle things that would go unnoticed by most. but zayne’s ears were trained differently.

years of listening for faltering heartbeats, erratic rhythms, arrhythmic murmurs that signaled a ticking clock. you don’t get to be chief cardiac surgeon without learning how to hear what others missed.

at first, he thought it was the building settling. then he caught the sound of water running at 3:47 a.m., followed by silence so absolute it felt deliberate. calculated. as if someone was waiting to be sure they weren’t heard.

it wasn’t long before he began to note a pattern.

his neighbor—whoever he was—never left during the day. the silhouette moved only at night, slipping into the hallway sometime after zayne’s return from the hospital. sometimes, they crossed paths in shadow—one figure entering, the other leaving, never speaking. just the creak of the doorknob and the whisper of motion.

zayne couldn’t say much about the person next door. no name, no noise complaints, no deliveries, no visitors. just quiet. just strange. but not intrusive.

which, frankly, zayne appreciated.

he’d moved here for peace, not small talk. not nosy neighbors. not late-night awkwardness in the elevator. this suited him fine.

and so, like everything that didn’t require his professional input, zayne filed it neatly into a mental drawer labeled not my business.

but then came the men.

they weren’t loud. that was the concerning part.

slick shoes. plain clothes that didn’t match the season. they showed up in pairs—one leaning casually against the alley wall, the other pretending to smoke something that never lit. faces that didn’t look like they belonged in a quiet residential complex. always watching the unit next door. never knocking.

zayne didn’t ask questions. he didn’t need to. he was tired. he worked too much. and as long as they didn’t turn their eyes on his door, he could pretend it wasn’t happening.

a part of him—the part that stitched up stabbed teenagers and soothed panicked parents—wanted to care. but this was real life, not the operating room. he wasn’t obligated to fix what didn’t knock on his door.

the men never stayed longer than two days. they’d appear, lurk, then vanish. it happened three times in two months. no police. no noise. just the sense that whatever was happening was far too large for zayne’s brief moments of observation.

still, he took note. it’s what doctors do.

his neighbor, weirdly enough, never looked rattled. never changed their pattern. out after dark. in before dawn. one night, zayne even thought he heard someone humming behind the wall they shared—a faint tune, the kind that came from someone who's a bit too calm considering he's being tailed more than once now.

that night, zayne stood in his kitchen for five minutes too long, staring at the glowing blue numbers on his microwave.

who was this person?

he didn’t ask. didn’t need to.

because as long as they didn’t bring trouble to his side of the wall, zayne could live with the mystery.

ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

…at least, it had been.

until the night zayne opened his door, intending to grab the package he'd been too tired to collect yesterday, and instead stepped down into something wet.

he froze.

then looked down.

a long, narrow smear of blood, half-dried but still a deep, congealed red, ran across the concrete floor like a thread unraveling. it stretched from the stairwell—just beyond his sight—to the base of his neighbor’s door.

which was cracked open.

zayne’s mind didn’t jump to panic. it never did. years of trauma wards and red-code emergencies had taught him to compartmentalize, to act first, analyze later. but there was a flicker of something else. not fear. not curiosity.

concern.

not for his neighbor, exactly. he still didn’t know the man’s name, let alone his face. but zayne didn’t deal in names. he dealt in vitals. and a trail of blood that size meant someone was either hurt—or dying.

and that made it his business.

he stepped lightly toward the door, footfalls careful, silent. the hallway was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs.

from inside the apartment came a sound—a thump.

not loud. not panicked. just… off. a shift of weight. a chair bumping against tile. zayne moved closer.

he kept his distance, enough to avoid casting a shadow through the doorway, and looked in through the narrow gap.

dark.

but he knew the layout. their apartments were mirrored copies. entrance. short hallway. kitchen on the right. living space further in.

and someone was standing right at the threshold of the kitchen.

still.

too still.

zayne held his breath.

whoever it was hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound since the first noise. there were no footsteps. no words. just a human silhouette half-lit by the hallway glow.

zayne had been trained to read bodies. this one didn’t read right.

then, the figure moved.

just a little.

a tilt of the head.

and then, slowly—too slowly—turned toward the door, toward zayne.

the lights didn’t help much, but for a fraction of a second, they caught on something pale, reflective.

eyes. blue.

wide open. sharp.

zayne didn’t wait to see anything else.

he turned. walked back the way he came, quiet and measured, even as adrenaline started to push against his veins. his breath stayed calm. his face neutral.

he shut his door behind him with a soft click. locked it. bolted it.

slipped off his shoes and stared at the sole—blood on the edge of the right one. he walked to the bathroom, washed it under warm water. his fingers worked mechanically.

then the sink.

then his hands.

he changed clothes—casual pants, plain shirt, everything he hadn’t worn outside. it all felt rehearsed. the same motions he used after every shift in the operating room.

next, the kettle.

water. loose-leaf tea. a cup.

he didn’t drink it.

he sat with it instead, the steam curling into the silence of his kitchen, untouched. the city hummed faintly beyond his windows, the distant noise of cars, life, the static of the world continuing as if nothing had happened.

but zayne knew better.

when he finally went to bed, he lay stiff, facing the ceiling, the scent of tea clinging to his hands.

his mind replayed the moment—the blood, the open door, the stillness, and most of all, those blue eyes staring out of the dark.

he’d been quiet. controlled.

and yet the man inside had known he was there.

the human body wasn’t supposed to react like that without cause.

unless you were trained for it.

zayne stared at the ceiling for hours. the apartment next door was silent again. no more thumps. no footsteps. no voices.

he closed his eyes.

he didn’t sleep.

“you should probably move,” caleb said, voice serious enough that it cut through the buzz of the café. he didn’t blink. didn’t crack a smile. which was saying something—because caleb always smiled when giving zayne grief.

across the table, yuu sipped her iced matcha, eyes lazy with amusement. “still don’t get why you’re living in an apartment when you have an entire house. big, even.”

zayne sighed, pressing the lid of his untouched black coffee closed.

he hated sweet drinks in public. it made him feel predictable.

“the hospital’s been busy,” he muttered. “i needed a place closer. i clearly told you this before.”

“yes, clearly,” caleb echoed. “like six months ago.”

zayne shot him a tired glance. “you know what i mean.”

“do i?” caleb leaned back, arm slung along the backrest of the booth. “because last i checked, your place is fifteen minutes by train. and let me guess—you haven’t even opened half the boxes there, right?”

“i opened the kitchen boxes,” zayne replied flatly.

“that’s just tragic,” yuu murmured, watching the foam in her drink melt.

it was the weekend. zayne’s first day off in twelve straight.

he’d planned to spend it horizontal in bed with the curtains drawn, blissfully unconscious. but caleb had shown up at his door—uninvited, cheerful, too loud—with yuu behind him carrying a brown paper bag of egg tarts like some sort of bribery. somehow, they had dragged him out to a café two blocks from his building.

zayne sipped his coffee. it was already cold.

“seriously though,” caleb leaned forward now, tone shifting again. “you said weird stuff’s been going on, right? strange people showing up, coming and going, leaving blood on the hallway floor?”

zayne didn’t answer right away.

instead, he tapped his thumb once against the table.

yuu gave caleb a look, unimpressed. “it’s not like he’s living in a crime drama. people can bleed for a lot of reasons.”

“i didn’t say it was a crime drama,” caleb replied. “but if it was, zayne would be the guy who refuses to call the cops while stitching up his neighbor in silence.”

“i’m not going to stitch anyone up,” zayne said.

“you’d sterilize the needle and everything,” caleb said, undeterred. “then pretend it never happened.”

yuu snorted into her drink. “god, that’s exactly what he’d do.”

zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “are we done?”

“no,” caleb said brightly. “because the weirdest part of all of this—aside from the possible felon next door—is that you’re not even curious.”

“i’m not paid to be curious,” zayne replied.

“you’re paid because you’re curious.”

zayne looked at him now, and for a moment, caleb quieted.

then yuu said casually, “you sure this isn’t you getting too used to being alone?”

zayne blinked.

that one actually hit.

“…i’m fine,” he said finally, looking out the café window.

outside, a group of college kids biked by, laughing. someone’s dog barked twice and chased a falling leaf. the world looked normal. safe.

but zayne couldn’t stop thinking about the trail of blood. the blue eyes. the stillness in that kitchen. and how the air inside unit 5c felt heavier than it should have.

“zayne,” caleb said again, softer this time. the teasing edge was gone. what lingered instead was warning—low, controlled. "i'm serious. you should really move out."

zayne didn’t look up from his coffee, but the pause in his motion—his thumb grazing the rim of the cup—betrayed that he heard it.

the change in tone wasn’t lost on yuu either.

she lowered her cup, straw making that last quiet slurp as she finished her matcha. then she tilted her head slightly, gaze shifting between the two of them. “you’re thinking about lumière again, huh?”

caleb’s jaw tightened.

zayne looked up then, slowly. “the vigilante?”

“that's the one,” yuu said, almost too casually, as she set her empty drink aside.

across the table, caleb’s fingers tapped once against his knee. restless. controlled. he looked over his shoulder briefly before leaning in, voice low. “it’s not just some tabloid nonsense anymore, zayne. back at base, we’re seeing serious chatter. every week, there’s a new leak, a new name going down, and every time, the signature’s the same—anonymous files, encrypted paths, buried surveillance.”

“always cleaned up like it never happened,” yuu added, her tone a little flatter now. “but if you know what to look for…”

caleb nodded. “it’s surgical. strategic. military-level. this guy’s not just playing hero. he knows what he’s doing. and someone trained him.”

zayne raised a brow. “and your concern with that is…?”

“because people like that don’t stay on the public’s good side forever,” caleb said. “they become targets. real targets. and if someone like that is operating here in linkon, near the hospital, near you, it makes me wonder.”

“wonder what?”

yuu leaned forward, folding her arms across the table. “that maybe he’s too close. closer than we think.”

caleb didn’t say anything for a beat. his eyes flicked toward zayne, scanning—reading—like he always did when something didn’t sit right.

zayne’s silence was steady, but his mind was moving.

he thought again of the blood on the floor. the open door. the blue eyes in the dark.

the perfectly clean hallway the next morning.

“you think i’m involved?” zayne asked flatly.

caleb shook his head. “not what i said. i’m just saying—if there’s trouble near you, i want you out of its path.”

yuu gave a half-shrug. “lumière’s not exactly a criminal. not officially. no one’s caught him, no one’s proven anything. and everything he’s leaked so far has exposed illegal ops, trafficking rings, corrupted biotech labs. some of which…” she paused. “...tie back to high-level corps.”

zayne didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation.

caleb looked at her. “you’re still investigating?”

“of course i am,” she said, straightening. “i have to. doesn’t matter if the guy’s saving puppies or burning down labs—he’s still a ghost in the system. that kind of person either becomes a martyr... or a scapegoat.”

a beat of silence.

the city hummed outside the café window—cars passing, pedestrians walking like nothing in the world was cracking underneath them.

zayne finally spoke. “you really think he’s here?”

“i think he’s not far,” caleb said. “and i think if he ever shows up bleeding at your door, you’re the kind of idiot who would try to help him.”

zayne didn’t deny it.

didn’t need to.

his silence said enough.

caleb looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t push. instead, he he signaled for the check.

“next weekend, we go to your place. i’m making braised chicken wings. you need real food.”

zayne nodded once. “fine. just don’t bring carrots.”

“i’d never betray you like that.”

yuu leaned over the table. “what if i bring matcha cake with cilantro frosting?”

“you will not live to see tomorrow.”

zayne watched them bicker, half-listening.

but his thoughts were elsewhere.

because no matter how much he told himself he imagined it—no matter how clean the floor was, how normal the hall seemed—the image of those blue eyes, cutting through the dark, lingered.

he knew the human body too well to mistake fear for awareness.

whoever lived next door wasn’t just wounded.

they were dangerous.

and zayne had the sinking feeling he hadn’t seen the last of them.

the flower shop always smelled like peace.

like soil and jasmine, damp petals and sun-warmed wood. even now, even with the world slowly hunting him down outside, even after nearly bleeding out just a few nights ago, xavier laid stretched out on the floor like a cat that didn’t care about anything at all.

the concrete was cool beneath his back. the filtered light through the leaves above painted slow-moving shadows across his face. two actual cats—marble and tuna—were dozing next to him, one tucked into his arm, the other sprawled across his ankles like a weighted blanket with claws.

it was safe here. quiet. tucked away between a convenience store and a noodle shop, philo flower shop looked like a place that sold wedding bouquets and sympathy arrangements.

and it did.

but it also happened to be a low-level staging hub for xavier’s second life.

the owner himself, jeremiah, stood a few feet away, spritzing water gently onto a row of lilies. his sleeves were rolled up, revealing tan skin and faint ink along one forearm—coordinates, maybe. his wavy brown hair was tied back half-heartedly, and his eyes were soft but sharp, like someone who was used to being underestimated.

no one looking at jeremiah would expect him to be capable of forging digital identities, scrubbing surveillance footage, or building encrypted paths through dark web data dumps.

which was exactly why xavier trusted him.

now, days after the incident at his apartment—the one where his ribs were still bruised and his shirt still had a bloodstain on the inside hem—xavier found himself hiding in the back of a flower shop like an outlaw housecat.

a nudge pressed into his side.

xavier cracked one eye open.

jeremiah stood above him, frowning. “move. i just cleaned that spot.”

xavier didn’t move.

well—he grunted, rolled maybe two inches to the left, which only displaced tuna, who meowed in protest and returned to sleep.

“thanks,” jeremiah deadpanned, stepping over xavier’s limbs like he was used to navigating around unconscious vigilantes in his workspace.

he set the watering can down and crouched next to a tray of herbs by the open window, his voice casual as ever. “i heard your neighbor almost saw you that night.”

xavier stretched his legs. “he didn’t.”

jeremiah glanced over his shoulder. “you sure?”

“mm.” xavier’s hand drifted to scratch marble behind the ears. “he turned around. walked away. i heard his door shut.”

jeremiah raised a brow. “most people would scream. or call the cops. or at least react to seeing blood across the floor and a stranger standing in the dark.”

“maybe he’s not most people.”

“let me guess,” jeremiah said. “tall. wears suits. cold demeanor. doesn’t flinch under pressure. doesn’t know how to mind his own business even when he says he does?

xavier blinked slowly. “you just described you.”

jeremiah rolled his eyes. “i’m charming. that’s the difference.”

there was a pause.

then xavier muttered, “he’s curious.”

jeremiah gave him a look. “curious people are dangerous.”

“so are we.”

“mm. touche.”

a breeze drifted in through the window, rustling the petals.

xavier closed his eyes again. his ribs ached. his shoulder felt stiff. but for now, there were no footsteps outside, no drones overhead, no encrypted messages lighting up jeremiah’s cracked screen.

just flowers.

and cats.

and the quiet knowledge that this life was temporary, but real—for now.

“how many of us are left now?”

jeremiah’s expression softened. “you know the number.”

“i still like hearing you say it.”

jeremiah didn’t answer for a long moment.

“just me. and you.”

silence again, save for the sound of the store’s ceiling fan creaking softly overhead. a breeze rustled through the hanging eucalyptus.

“i asked if you wanted out,” xavier said eventually. “you could still take it.”

“i know,” jeremiah said, adjusting a potted basil plant. “still don’t want to.”

“…why?”

jeremiah smiled faintly without looking at him. “because someone has to be here to yell at you when you treat my store like a yoga mat.”

the cats meowed in tandem, as if in agreement.

“i hate yoga,” xavier muttered.

jeremiah leaned down and flicked him in the forehead.

“i know. but still,” jeremiah said, standing and dusting his hands off on his apron, “your neighbor looked a bit freaked out. it’d be nice if maybe you—i don’t know—try and make nice with him.”

xavier didn’t open his eyes this time. he just huffed, the kind of tired, unimpressed noise that only someone who regularly broke into biotech labs and got stabbed in alleyways could produce. “why should i? wouldn’t that blow my cover more?”

jeremiah crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “and leaving it as is won’t? come on, xavier. you left a trail of blood to your front door. the guy might not be screaming or calling the cops, but you don’t need to be a genius to figure out something shady’s going on.”

xavier finally cracked his eyes open, squinting up at him. “and like i said, he didn’t see anything.”

jeremiah tilted his head. “he saw enough. and if you leave him alone to stew in it, he might get more suspicious. and then who knows—he talks to one of his two close friends. one of whom, by the way, is an actual cop.”

xavier blinked slowly. “...you ran a check on him?”

there was a long pause.

jeremiah looked away.

xavier sat up slightly, staring. “emi.”

jeremiah gave a helpless shrug, his mouth pulling into a guilty grimace. “look, you were unconscious and leaking blood like a faulty faucet. someone had to make sure the guy next door didn’t suddenly become a problem.”

xavier groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “unbelievable.”

“responsible,” jeremiah corrected, moving past him to rearrange a row of succulents like this wasn’t the third felony-adjacent topic they’d discussed before lunch. “you live in a building. with other people. i’m just making sure you don’t get shot while taking out the trash.”

“so what’d you find?” xavier asked, leaning back on his palms.

jeremiah gave him a look, half stern, half exasperated. “you sure you want to know?”

“yes.”

another pause. then, with a sigh, jeremiah said, “his name’s zayne li. chief cardiac surgeon at akso hospital. graduated top of his class, skipped multiple years, youngest to win some big-deal medical award. lives alone. has two close friends—caleb xia, who’s a military pilot, colonel. and yuu okabe, city police investigations.”

xavier blinked. “...oh.”

“yeah. oh.”

there was a quiet beat.

then xavier muttered, “why does he live in an apartment if he has that kind of resume?”

jeremiah threw a small succulent at him.

xavier caught it. barely.

“focus,” jeremiah said. “point is, the guy next door is not only sharp enough to notice if something’s off—he has people he could actually report it to. one of whom is literally assigned to tracking down vigilantes.”

xavier exhaled, rubbing his face again. “so what, you want me to knock on his door and borrow a cup of sugar?”

“i want you to make yourself look normal,” jeremiah said. “normal people say hello. normal people apologize for weird noises. normal people wave, smile, and don’t disappear for four nights in a row while nursing knife wounds.”

xavier grimaced. “what if i mess it up?”

“you already did. that’s why we’re having this conversation.”

tuna meowed from her spot on the floor, like she agreed.

xavier stared at the ceiling for a long, heavy second. then, reluctantly. “...what if i bring him something?”

jeremiah raised a brow. “like what?”

“i don’t know,” xavier mumbled. “coffee? a plant?”

“you can’t even keep a cactus alive.”

“i could ask you to make something,” xavier said, squinting at him. “pretend i made it. you know, for social... camouflage.”

jeremiah narrowed his eyes. “are you asking me to make you a neighborly flower arrangement so you can lie to a surgeon about being a functioning adult?”

xavier shrugged. “you’re good at aesthetics.”

jeremiah looked heavenward like he was reevaluating every choice that led him to this moment. then he sighed and picked up his watering can. “fine. i’ll put something together.”

“thanks.”

“don’t screw this up.”

“no promises.”

zayne returned home later than usual.

the hallways were dim and empty, just the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the quiet scuff of his shoes against the floor. his long coat caught on the edge of the wind from the stairwell as he stepped into the corridor.

his building always had a strange kind of silence at night—never peaceful, exactly, but muted. like everything inside was holding its breath.

he moved on instinct. door. keys. lock. routine.

the past few days had been—thankfully—quiet.

his neighbor’s apartment had shown no signs of life. no footfalls at odd hours. no water running at 3 a.m. no humming behind shared walls. nothing. if zayne hadn’t known better, he might have thought the place was empty.

good, he supposed.

easier to sleep when you weren’t hyper-aware of your hallway being a revolving door for bloodstains and mystery.

he slid his key into the lock.

and then—

"you're my neighbor, right?"

zayne stilled.

his hand remained on the key. calm. controlled. he didn’t flinch. but internally?

a flicker of tension arced through his spine.

he turned, slow and deliberate.

behind him stood the man.

the neighbor.

now up close, the vague silhouette from the other night had shape. structure. and the eyes—those unmistakable eyes. pale, sharp blue, too still, too steady.

the man looked younger than expected. tousled grey-brown hair, loose sweater sleeves bunched at the wrists, casual like he belonged here. but his posture—his stillness—was wrong.

it wasn’t civilian.

“yes,” zayne said, coolly, his voice unreadable. “i am.”

the man gave a small nod, barely a tilt of his head. “i figured. you come home at the same time most nights.”

zayne said nothing to that.

he could smell something faintly floral—like fresh greenery, maybe lavender—lingering off the stranger’s sweater. odd. not what he expected.

“sorry,” the man continued, almost awkwardly. “i’ve been meaning to introduce myself. i’ve just been… out of town.”

right.

“xavier,” he added after a pause, gesturing loosely toward himself. “xavier shen.”

zayne studied him. slowly.

no visible injuries. no stiffness in his movements. either whatever happened the other night healed fast... or the damage ran deep and silent.

“i’m zayne,” he replied. “li.”

a beat passed. the hallway buzzed faintly in the silence.

behind them, a door opened on the far end of the hall—someone coming back from a late shift. xavier didn’t turn to look. but zayne noticed how he subtly angled himself, like shielding his back without being obvious.

xavier glanced at the door zayne hadn’t unlocked yet, then back at him. “i brought you something,” he said, suddenly.

zayne raised an eyebrow.

xavier held out a small plant. a neat, potted succulent wrapped in brown paper and string.

“i figured it’s the neighborly thing to do,” xavier said, his voice flat, but sincere. “peace offering. or maybe just... noise apology.”

zayne didn’t take it right away.

he didn’t move at all.

but after a moment, he reached out and accepted the plant, setting it under one arm.

“thanks.”

xavier offered a faint smile—small, but real.

zayne’s gaze lingered just long enough.

too clean. too controlled.

the timing of the apology. the absence. the reappearance.

and now this—an effort to normalize things.

calculated.

but not hostile.

for now.

zayne turned back to his door, unlocked it in one smooth motion, and stepped inside.

he paused in the threshold. “goodnight, xavier.”

“goodnight,” came the reply, quiet and even.

zayne shut the door behind him.

and exhaled.

zayne hadn’t meant to keep the plant.

it sat awkwardly in his hands that night after xavier handed it over—compact, neatly wrapped, unassuming. the kind of thing you could throw on a windowsill and forget. at least, that’s what zayne intended to do.

instead, he placed it on his balcony.

one green among the cold steel and glass.

just a little succulent in a brown ceramic pot. it didn’t take much space. didn’t ask for anything.

it was the kind of thing that should’ve died without effort.

but the moment zayne noticed a faint discoloration on one of the leaves—barely a shadow—he found himself researching. soil ph. sunlight cycles. drainage. by morning he’d ordered a tiny moisture meter, a new pot, and a nameplate he didn’t intend to use. his browser history had become a mess of “succulent rot or sunburn,” “how often to water jade plant,” and “succulent depression???”

he didn’t care. not really.

he just didn’t like watching something break apart slowly. that was all.

it became a quiet part of his routine—just a glance, each morning. a minor inspection. like checking a patient’s vitals before rounds.

xavier noticed it too.

the little green pot, perched near the edge of zayne’s side of the balcony, always facing the rising sun.

it made him grin the first time he saw it. he’d just come back from a long night—a sting gone sideways, someone tipped off, and a sharp chase through the underground train tunnels. he was sore, the gash on his side wasn’t deep but messy, and his hands still smelled faintly of rusted metal and antiseptic.

he’d taken the back entrance like always, sliding in through the alleyway and scaling up the fire escape—less exposure, fewer eyes. and on his way past, he nearly kicked the thing over with the swing of his leg.

he caught himself just in time, blinking down at it.

the same succulent he’d given zayne.

still alive. and definitely being looked after.

there was something ridiculous about it. that that man—sharp-suited, no nonsense, professionally terrifying—was apparently babysitting a plant like it owed him something.

xavier sat down beside it that night.

a towel pressed against his ribs. shirt folded on the concrete. moonlight catching in his bruises.

and the succulent stood there like a tiny, silent companion.

didn’t ask questions. didn’t look at him with pity or judgment. it was… nice.

but it looked... lonely.

the next morning, zayne woke early, as always.

showered. dressed. tea steeping. no messages yet. he slid the balcony door open for a breath of air, the city not yet buzzing at full volume.

and, as always, his eyes drifted to the succulent.

still healthy.

he exhaled—part relief, part reflex.

but something new caught his attention.

just across the railing, on his neighbor’s side, sat a second pot.

a twin, but not identical. a rougher ceramic, darker in tone. inside it, a small flowering cactus stood upright. orange blooms just starting to open—like someone had chosen it intentionally for contrast.

zayne stared at it.

it hadn’t been there yesterday.

it hadn’t ever been there.

he leaned forward slightly, looking at the position. directly across from his own. a quiet, strange symmetry. almost like… a reply.

he narrowed his eyes.

then stepped back.

sipped his tea.

and said nothing.

but he moved his succulent slightly to give the cactus more sun.

zayne wasn’t sure who started it.

not really.

it wasn’t the cactus—that had been deliberate. a reply. a quiet, oddly specific echo of his own plant’s placement. but after that, things began to… escalate.

subtly.

strangely.

without a single word exchanged.

one morning, zayne stepped out and noticed a small tin watering can hanging from a hook on his side of the divider. unlabeled. functional. matte black. he didn't ask questions. but he used it.

the next day, a wind chime appeared.

old brass and faded sea glass. it clinked gently in the early afternoon breeze—just enough sound to register, but not enough to be irritating. it wasn’t zayne’s style. which meant it wasn’t his.

xavier didn’t say a word about it.

neither did zayne.

two days later, zayne returned from a twelve-hour surgery and placed a simple white ceramic owl statue on the ledge between them. it was ugly. he knew it. he didn’t care. its eyes were wide and vaguely judgmental, and something about it made him feel marginally better.

the next night, a tea light lantern showed up beside the cactus. the kind meant for patios—glass paneled, rusty around the hinges. when zayne lit it out of mild curiosity, he found a small note tucked inside:

“you forgot to name the owl.”

no name. no handwriting clue. just that.

zayne didn’t react. but the following morning, he placed a smooth black stone at the owl’s feet. the name winston etched onto it.

after that, the balcony divider quietly turned into neutral territory for… whatever this was.

one of them would add something. the other would pretend not to notice. a tiny hanging pot of rosemary, a folded origami crane, a ceramic mushroom, even a weathered book left open to a page about alpine flora.

each object carefully chosen. or completely random. hard to tell.

zayne never said anything when he stepped out in the morning and saw something new.

and xavier, passing through the fire escape at night, only spared the occasional glance.

but the divider grew slowly alive—green, strange, quiet.

like a shared secret neither of them felt like ruining by speaking it aloud.

the hospital was still chaos. the city still heavy. but zayne came home to an ever-changing border where succulents leaned toward each other and owl statues sat guard, and that was…

he wouldn’t say comforting.

but bearable.

and for xavier—on the nights he returned late and aching, blood dried on his undershirt and fingers numb—he’d pass by that balcony border and find something new sitting on the ledge.

waiting.

not asking anything.

just there.

and that was enough to make him pause a second longer before going inside.

zayne didn’t think much about it the first time.

he was sleep-deprived, still half in surgical autopilot after back-to-back operations and a caffeine crash. the kettle was on, muscle memory took over, and he made two mugs of tea instead of one. not because he meant to. just because his hands went through the motions.

he didn’t even realize until he was carrying both outside.

the night air was cool. his balcony was dimly lit from the kitchen behind him. the plants sat quietly along the divider, winston the ceramic owl still watching with eternal judgment.

zayne set one mug down on the far edge of the railing. then sat in his usual chair with the other.

he didn’t expect anything.

he wasn’t even sure the guy next door was home. it had been… what? a week since the last strange offering? a folded paper frog? or was it the moss terrarium?

it didn’t matter.

the tea steamed quietly between them, zayne sipping his and staring at the skyline. he didn’t glance at the other mug again.

by the next morning, when he stepped outside, the second mug was gone.

no trace left.

and that night, it was back—clean, dry, and placed exactly where he left it.

zayne stared at it for a long moment.

then went inside, made tea, and did it again.

the first time he saw it, xavier froze.

two mugs.

one gently steaming. one untouched.

set out like some kind of offering. or trap.

he was climbing in through the back, same way as always—quiet footsteps, jacket slung over one shoulder, bruises blooming along his ribs, and a stitched wound pulling tight with every movement.

and there it was.

a mug. unattended. too perfectly placed.

his instincts screamed poison.

but then he looked closer.

the mug was plain white ceramic, a little worn at the handle. matched the one zayne had in his hand when he last glimpsed him through the kitchen window. and from this distance, xavier could practically smell the tea—too sweet, the sugar syrupy enough to make his teeth ache just from the scent.

it wasn’t poison. not unless zayne planned to kill with glucose overload.

he picked it up cautiously, fingers brushing the warmth still in the cup.

the first sip burned his tongue a little.

the second was fine.

the third… didn’t stop.

by the end of it, the mug was empty. and xavier wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself.

so, like the rest of this strange ritual they never acknowledged, he washed it, dried it, and returned it the next night.

no note.

no thank you.

just the cup. placed exactly where it had been.

it never happened at the same time.

sometimes, the mug was already there when xavier climbed up the fire escape. sometimes he arrived too early and waited. sometimes, it wasn’t out at all.

but whenever it was, he drank it.

always a little too sweet. always slightly different.

zayne, for his part, never said anything. never asked. he just left the second mug whenever he had the mental bandwidth to remember. on rough days, he forgot. on worse days, he left a thermos instead—sealed tight and still warm by the time xavier found it.

it became something unspoken.

not habit. not obligation.

just... presence.

proof.

that someone on the other side of that thin wall saw enough of him to care in the smallest, quietest way possible.

and for two men who had spent years learning how to survive alone, that small act was louder than most things ever said out loud.

zayne didn’t usually go shopping.

especially not for décor. especially not on a rare day off. but yuu had shown up at his door claiming she needed moral support to “prevent herself from emotionally destroying the ikea pillow aisle,” and frankly, after hearing about her week, he couldn't say no.

now they stood side-by-side in a small home decor store that smelled like cinnamon and fake lavender, surrounded by fake plants and aggressively cheerful wall art.

“life throws rocks at me, not lemons,” yuu muttered, scowling at a framed quote that said “live, laugh, love yourself first.”

she snatched a different one—a fluffy golden retriever pup with a speech bubble that read: “every day is a new day!” she didn’t look convinced. “my place looks like a crime scene. time to disguise my breakdown in pastel cushions.”

zayne eyed her side-eyeing a set of throw pillows like they owed her money. “what happened?”

yuu let out a sigh sharp enough to slice glass. “lumière.”

that got his attention.

“i swear they’re trying to kill my entire division,” she said, flipping over a price tag like it personally offended her. “too many dead ends, too many cover-ups. and now the shen family’s getting involved, which makes it so much worse.”

zayne’s fingers paused on the edge of the planter. “the shen family?”

“yeah. apparently,” yuu rolled her eyes and dropped the frame into her cart, “lumière killed their son. that's what they're telling the top brass, anyway. and now they want results. like, now.”

zayne finally looked up. “son?”

yuu let out a long sigh. “yep. though the whole thing is weird. no name. no photo. they say it’s private—‘sensitive family matter’ or whatever. and yet, it’s also directly tied to lumière, which should mean it’s fair game for investigation. but nooo—red tape. caleb nearly threw a chair last week.”

zayne hummed, but his mind was already drifting.

shen.

how common was that surname, really? enough to dismiss it?

he thought of the man next door.

xavier shen.

he thought of the silence. the eyes. the way he moved like someone trained to disappear.

but if he was related to that shen family, why live like… that? in an old apartment, climbing fire escapes like a raccoon. people with that kind of money didn’t microwave their meals in dim kitchens.

unless he wasn’t a part of them anymore.

or didn’t want to be.

zayne clenched his jaw, shook the thought off. overthinking again. paranoia. you don’t even know anything solid.

“i think i’m done,” yuu said, breaking his train of thought. she turned with a sigh—and then froze.

she stared into his cart.

zayne blinked. “what?”

“i thought you were a minimalist,” she said slowly, eyebrows raising. “so... what the hell are you buying?”

zayne glanced down.

his basket was… admittedly full.

a bag of decorative gravel. a mid-sized glazed ceramic pot. a small wooden plant stand. two herb cuttings—lavender and sage. a miniature ceramic frog. and a brass watering can shaped like a whale.

there was a beat of silence.

zayne looked back up, deadpan. “they’re functional.”

yuu gawked. “the frog is functional?”

he reached into the cart and held it up by its ceramic base. “it’s a moisture indicator.”

“you have one succulent, zayne.”

zayne’s eyes narrowed. “that’s no longer accurate.”

yuu stared at him. “...are you nesting? is this what nesting looks like for you? should i be concerned?”

“i just thought the balcony could use some variation,” he muttered.

yuu smirked. “variation. uh-huh.”

zayne shoved the frog back into the basket with all the dignity of a man choosing not to engage.

but in the back of his mind, shen still echoed.

and he wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—the name’s familiarity…

…or the quiet, amused smile that tugged at his lips when he pictured the mystery neighbor seeing that ridiculous frog and not questioning it at all.

it was still early.

the kind of early where the sun hadn’t fully committed to the day yet—soft light filtering between buildings, the city below just starting to yawn awake. zayne stood on his balcony, one hand loosely curled around his mug, steam rising into the crisp morning air.

the other mug—plain ceramic, filled and slightly too sweet—sat where it always did: on the divider between his and the neighboring unit.

he had just set it down when he heard it.

click.

the soft, clean sound of a lock turning. then the gentle scrape of glass as a sliding door opened.

zayne turned his head.

xavier.

standing barefoot just inside the threshold of his apartment, sweater slightly rumpled, hair a lazy mess that made him look far too relaxed for someone who regularly treated stab wounds in alleyways.

zayne froze.

they stared at each other, not quite tense—but unsure. like the stillness before a note in a song you weren’t sure would be a minor or major key.

zayne had to admit—he hadn’t expected this. for weeks, their exchanges had been built on indirect gestures. notes, mugs, frogs, plants. a ritual held together by mutual silence.

and now, the man behind the mugs was standing there in the flesh, looking at the second one like it was... foreign. out of place. but not unwelcome.

xavier’s eyes flicked from the mug, to zayne, to the mug again.

then, without a word, he stepped out.

he moved with quiet precision—like someone who didn’t want to be heard, even when there was no one around to hear him. he crossed to the divider, reached for the mug, and picked it up with one hand.

steam rose between them.

zayne didn’t move. he just nodded, barely perceptible.

xavier mirrored the motion.

and then, together, they turned and leaned silently against their respective railings, sipping tea in tandem—separated by a few feet and a shared understanding.

the city kept moving below them, indifferent.

nothing was said for a long stretch of time. just the soft clink of ceramic, the occasional whisper of wind, the smell of jasmine from one of the new pots they’d never discussed.

then, quietly—

“you know,” xavier said, voice as neutral and calm as always, “if you keep drinking this much sugar, your pancreas is going to file for retirement.”

zayne glanced sideways at him, unbothered. “i’m a cardiac surgeon, not an endocrinologist.”

“that’s not comforting.”

“i didn’t mean it to be.”

xavier sipped again, eyes on the skyline.

zayne did the same.

they didn’t speak again for the rest of the tea.

but the silence this time felt less like distance—

—and more like company.

zayne unlocked his door, stepped inside, and flicked on the lights.

his bag slipped from his shoulder in a smooth motion, keys still dangling from his hand when he froze in place.

there, in the middle of his living room, sitting on the rug like it owned the place, was a cat.

just... there.

staring at him.

large golden eyes. tuxedo pattern. unbothered by his presence. it tilted its head, blinked once, then gave a long, dramatic meow.

zayne blinked back.

he looked at the cat.

then at the door.

then at the cat again.

he wasn’t that sleep-deprived.

the door was locked when he arrived. his key had worked, the hallway was the same, his coat hung on the hook by the entrance. the faint smell of his cinnamon tea from that morning still lingered in the air. his balcony plant lineup was untouched. winston the owl still glared judgmentally from the corner.

this was definitely his apartment.

the cat meowed again. louder this time. like a complaint.

zayne sighed, walking slowly inside and setting his things down. “let me guess,” he muttered, unbuttoning his coat, “you broke in and now it’s dinner time.”

the cat trotted casually toward the kitchen, tail in the air.

he followed it with narrowed eyes. at least it hadn’t knocked over any of his plants.

xavier was experiencing his version of a crisis.

he was calm. externally. on the surface.

but internally?

panic.

he had been entrusted with two cats. two. jeremiah’s parting words echoed in his head: “just feed them. they’re chill. don’t let them die. or escape. or destroy any government property.”

and now one of them—tuna, the little tuxedo menace—was gone.

gone.

vanished.

not under the couch. not in the closet. not in the laundry basket. not in his freaking bathtub.

he had even climbed out onto the balcony to check the potted plants. no cat.

and that’s when it occurred to him—

the divider.

the neighbor.

the mug-leaving, frog-buying, suspiciously-silent doctor neighbor.

so xavier stood in front of his neighbor’s door, holding the second cat (marble, blissfully unaware) like a furry security blanket.

this was ridiculous.

but he rang the doorbell anyway.

the door opened.

and zayne stood there, shirt sleeves rolled up, towel over his shoulder, and the missing cat perched regally on his counter behind him, licking its paw like it paid rent.

they stared at each other.

“yours?” zayne asked, voice flat.

xavier blinked. “my friend’s, actually.”

“i see.”

there was a long pause.

xavier coughed, trying to recalibrate his brain. “i didn’t know she had a secret apartment-breaking side hustle.”

“she jumped the divider?”

“probably. she’s... determined.”

another pause.

“she didn’t knock anything over,” zayne added dryly. “yet.”

“that’s more than i can say for her sister,” xavier said, glancing down at marble, who had started chewing on the drawstring of his hoodie.

zayne stepped back from the door slightly. “you want to... collect her?”

xavier looked at the cat, who now seemed very comfortable in zayne’s home.

“she might hiss at me.”

“i might join her.”

a beat.

xavier sighed. “fair.”

tuna was eventually collected—with minimal hissing, some minor glaring, and a brief moment where she tried to climb zayne’s bookshelf like a ladder. xavier apologized with the same emotional expression as someone returning a wrong order to a cashier: polite, stiff, and so done.

zayne, despite himself, made a mental note to buy something cat-proof for the lower shelves.

and later that night, when he stepped out onto the balcony, there was a small bag of gourmet cat treats sitting next to the mug he’d left.

no note.

but the implication was clear.

zayne exhaled through his nose. faintly amused. slightly annoyed.

and the next day, he bought a second water bowl—just in case.

jeremiah sat tucked behind a vent shaft on the sixth floor of the gerenth tech building, watching a pair of security guards argue about snack orders through a pair of compact binoculars. his laptop—custom rig, untraceable—rested against his knee, screen filled with overlapping windows: camera feeds, code strings, security node maps.

his wireless earpiece hummed faintly with audio intercepts. his posture was perfect. his breathing calm.

stakeout going smoothly.

hack going even better.

all systems functional.

security wouldn’t detect him for at least another six hours. enough time to slip in, copy the intel, ghost out, and still make it back to his cats by tomorrow.

he was in the zone.

focused.

precision incarnate.

bzzzt. bzzzt.

his phone lit up.

incoming call: xavier.

jeremiah’s soul left his body.

he stared at the name like it had personally insulted his ancestors. a glance at the laptop confirmed nothing was crashing or exploding. against his better judgment, he answered.

“xavier,” he whispered sharply. “this better be life-threatening.”

“hi,” came xavier’s entirely too calm voice. “quick question.”

jeremiah rubbed a hand down his face, already tired. “i told you i was going to be busy for three days. remember? the words were: do not contact me unless something’s on fire.”

“this is adjacent.”

“no.”

“emotionally on fire.”

“xavier.”

“okay,” xavier said patiently. “what’s the easiest recipe i can make that involves, say… leftover rice, some vegetables, and maybe eggs? i think it’s called something like fried—”

jeremiah’s brain short-circuited. “are you seriously asking for a fried rice recipe right now?”

“it’s your cats’ fault.”

there was a long pause.

“…explain.”

“they broke into my neighbor’s place again.”

“again?! what do you mean-”

“they ate his dinner. or most of it.”

“you’re telling me—on a secure call line, during my surveillance of a live criminal network—that my cats committed b&e and food theft and now you want to compensate by cooking?”

“precisely.”

jeremiah made a sound that wasn’t human.

“i told you,” he hissed, “you’re banned from the kitchen for a reason. you set pasta on fire once. boiled pasta.”

xavier, perfectly unfazed, replied, “that was one time. i’ve improved. i can toast things now.”

“i left you with a kettle and a toaster for a reason, xavier.”

“i’m not using either.”

jeremiah slapped his forehead. “this is why i don’t go on missions anymore. not because i can’t infiltrate a digital fortress. it’s because you might burn down your apartment from a moral cooking endeavor.”

“i thought you’d be proud. i’m taking responsibility.”

there was an actual silence after that.

jeremiah slowly exhaled. his hands returned to the laptop keyboard.

“leftover rice,” he muttered. “eggs. any vegetables?”

“carrot, corn, frozen peas. maybe something green.”

“do you own a wok?”

“i have a pan. it's vaguely flat.”

jeremiah closed his eyes.

“fine. put oil in the pan. heat it first. scramble the eggs, then set them aside. dump the vegetables in, stir until they don’t look frozen, then throw in the rice. don’t drench it in soy sauce. stir it like your life depends on it. egg goes back in last.”

“understood,” xavier said. “i will avenge my neighbor’s dinner.”

jeremiah opened one eye. “is he mad?”

“he hasn’t said anything yet. but he did stare at me for a full ten seconds across the balcony this morning while watering his plants.”

jeremiah groaned. “you’re on thin ice.”

“i’m always on thin ice.”

the call ended.

jeremiah sighed, stared at his laptop, then muttered to no one, “if that man dies trying to make fried rice, i’m not bringing him back to life.”

zayne was halfway through a medical journal article, comfortably reclined in his living room chair, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose. the apartment was quiet. still. peaceful.

then he heard it.

a thunk—loud, sharp, metallic. followed by the unmistakable crash of something hitting the floor.

he froze.

seconds later, two cats launched themselves through his open balcony door like they were fleeing a warzone. marble darted beneath his coffee table. tuna immediately claimed his reading chair, tail puffed like a feather duster.

zayne blinked.

he slowly removed his glasses.

another clang echoed from the apartment next door.

he looked out onto the balcony. sure enough, a faint haze was beginning to rise on xavier’s side. was it steam? smoke? did he dare ask?

tuna meowed at him. judgingly.

zayne sighed. “i should’ve just asked for another plant.”

another crash.

okay, that’s it.

he stood, placed his journal aside, and crossed the balcony. paused briefly at the divider. knocked twice on the glass of xavier’s sliding door. no answer—though he could definitely hear movement. something sizzling angrily.

zayne slid the door open and stepped inside without ceremony.

the first thing to hit him was the smell.

burnt egg. maybe soy sauce. definitely something scorched. and smoke—nothing dangerous, yet, but enough to trigger judgment from any decent fire alarm.

the second thing to hit him was the sight of xavier, standing at the stove like a man trying to defuse a bomb with a spoon.

there was rice on the counter. on the floor. in his hair. a pan hissed on the burner like it was protesting its role in this drama. and in the middle of it all, xavier stood utterly composed—sleeves rolled up, spatula in hand, expression calm.

“...hi,” xavier said, without turning. “you’re early.”

zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “what is this?”

“apology dinner,” xavier replied, carefully flipping something that should’ve been rice but now looked more like abstract performance art.

“for what, exactly?”

“the cats ate your food.”

zayne glanced around. “you mean my dinner, or my will to live?”

there was a faint pop from the pan. xavier turned down the heat. “they were unsupervised. i was reconfiguring a system.”

“you let the cats roam free during a reconfiguration and decided to cook at the same time?”

xavier paused. “technically, yes.”

zayne stepped forward, surveyed the crime scene. “that’s not fried rice.”

“it was fried rice,” xavier said. “it’s evolved.”

“you’ve caramelized peas.”

“they’re sweeter that way.”

zayne didn’t respond. he just walked over, turned off the stove entirely, and picked up the pan with a towel.

xavier watched him, mildly. “should i be worried?”

“no. but your cookware should.” zayne gave the pan a tilt. “this one’s not surviving another round.”

behind them, marble crept in through the open door, sniffed the air, and immediately turned back around.

xavier sighed. “traitor.”

zayne looked over his shoulder. “if this is compensation, i’m considering returning it for store credit.”

xavier scratched his cheek, sheepish for once. “i meant well.”

zayne paused. then, finally, he said, “...next time, just send tea.”

xavier smiled faintly. “noted.

zayne looked at him. just once. "...good. now, sit.”

xavier blinked. “are you—”

“i’m cooking. you’re sitting.”

there was no room for argument. the spatula in zayne’s hand might as well have been a scalpel.

xavier raised his hands in mock surrender and backed up until his knees hit a barstool. “you don’t trust me.”

“you set off a small explosion.”

“it technically wasn’t an explosion,” xavier muttered. “just aggressive heat redistribution.”

zayne didn’t flinch. “you toasted rice to carbon. i saw the pan.”

xavier tried again. “this defeats the whole purpose of compensating—”

“you are compensating,” zayne said, flipping the burner back on with calm, controlled motions. “by not setting the building on fire.”

and honestly?

fair.

xavier leaned against the counter, watching the man who had forcibly stolen back control of the meal like it was his personal mission to restore culinary order.

he was calm. precise. the pan was already wiped clean and refilled with a modest layer of oil. the leftover rice was added with a deliberate hand. not too much. even distribution. like stitching muscle back together, but edible.

still, zayne didn’t talk.

not while scrambling the eggs. not while slicing scallions with the kind of focus usually reserved for surgical incisions. he only broke the silence once—to pick up a bag of julienned carrots, sneer at it like it personally offended him, and then nudge it off the cutting board with a pair of chopsticks.

xavier snorted.

“that serious, huh?”

zayne didn’t look up. “they’re an abomination.”

“you know carrots are kind of standard in fried rice?”

“so is competence.”

xavier grinned. “i like this side of you.”

“i have no sides. i’m a cylinder.”

“that is... the worst metaphor i’ve ever heard.”

zayne shrugged, already sliding the ingredients into the pan.

to be frank, xavier should’ve been on edge.

he was sitting in his own kitchen with a man who, until recently, was just a silhouette on a balcony. a stranger. a surgeon. a question mark.

now he was calmly making dinner in a borrowed pan like he owned the room, sleeves rolled up, scowling at vegetables.

but oddly, xavier didn’t feel tense. not even a little.

maybe it was the way zayne moved—methodical, practiced, no wasted effort. maybe it was the subtle weight of his presence, quiet but grounding. or maybe it was just the novelty of having someone else in this space who didn’t need him to explain anything.

not even why there were anti-tracking blockers on his fridge magnets.

“what?” zayne asked suddenly, not looking up.

xavier blinked. “what?”

“you’re staring.”

xavier leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “you’re in my house.”

“you invited this.”

“technically, your dinner did.”

“don’t expect this again,” zayne said evenly, tossing the eggs back into the pan with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“too late,” xavier replied, tone light. “i’m already imagining our next ten dinners.”

zayne gave him a look. a long, flat, unimpressed look.

then turned back to the stove.

xavier just smiled, more to himself than anything.

maybe he really had started the fire.

just… not the literal kind.

the food turned out surprisingly good.

zayne set the plates down with precision—fried rice, warm and fragrant, the kind of meal that settled into the bones. he didn’t say you’re welcome, and xavier didn’t say thank you. that wasn’t how either of them operated.

they just sat.

across from each other. quiet. calm. the window was cracked open, letting in the sound of a city softening into sleep. somewhere nearby, a cat knocked over something ceramic, but neither moved to check.

they ate in silence for the first few minutes. not awkward silence—just… unspoken agreement. this wasn’t a space for questions. not yet.

zayne ate slowly, mechanically. he always did. exact forkfuls. measured bites. probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. xavier, by contrast, ate like someone making a mental note of every flavor just in case he wanted to recreate it—with a toaster and a prayer.

conversation drifted in gently, like steam from their mugs.

they talked about the cold weather creeping in. about the ridiculous price of grocery staples. xavier made a quiet observation about how zayne folded his napkin like a table display. zayne noted that xavier’s spice rack was arranged by vibes instead of alphabet.

and somehow, that was enough to carry the moment.

it should’ve felt weird.

they both knew it.

neither one mentioned the obvious.

not the night zayne saw him—still, bleeding, shadowed by hallway light. not the blood trail that had vanished by morning, like it had never existed. not the second mug ritual, or the quiet understanding, or the cats using zayne’s balcony as a bunker.

none of it.

they talked about basil.

until zayne set down his glass and, without warning, asked.

“...why did you move here?”

xavier didn’t flinch. but he did stop chewing.

just for a second.

the question wasn’t aggressive. wasn’t suspicious. just… there. hanging between them like steam that didn’t quite fade.

zayne didn’t press. he looked down at his plate. one bite left, untouched.

xavier had a thousand responses ready. clean, sharp alibis. a job that relocated him. a breakup. a need for “quiet.” he could say any of them. could slide one out and tuck this moment back into the safe corner of vague familiarity.

but instead, he just swallowed and said, quietly:

“just... family stuff, i guess.”

he didn’t look up.

zayne didn’t call him out on it. didn’t push.

just hummed, low in his throat. a sound of vague acknowledgment. or maybe understanding.

he took the last bite of rice.

across the table, xavier finally met his gaze. and for a moment, neither one looked away.

whatever zayne saw there, he didn’t speak it.

whatever xavier meant by his answer, he didn’t explain it.

but the silence after wasn’t tense.

it was acceptance.

fragile. unspoken.

but real.

jeremiah sat on his workbench, one leg up, slowly brushing tuna’s fur with a gentle rhythm that barely masked his judgment. the light from the front window streamed through the hanging plants and reflected off the jars of preserved flowers on the shelves. calm. serene. deceptively peaceful.

xavier stood across from him, leaning against a stack of boxes labeled fragile, casually pretending like his friend wasn’t staring into his soul.

jeremiah didn’t blink.

“you know,” he said finally, brushing through a knot with all the care of a disappointed parent, “when i said go and make nice with your neighbor, i didn’t mean make him dinner, share tea, build an emotional bridge with potted plants, and let my cats move in with him.”

xavier tilted his head. “i don’t recall you being that specific.”

jeremiah sighed so deeply even tuna looked mildly concerned.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” xavier added, folding his arms in the most obviously defensive way possible.

jeremiah didn’t even pause in brushing. “xavier.”

“emi.”

“i have eyes everywhere.”

“still creepy.”

“especially around you,” jeremiah continued, sharp now. “because god knows how many alarms you’ll set off if left unsupervised for more than two minutes. and what do i come back to?”

he gestured toward him with the brush. “you’re out here courting your neighbor like it’s a low-stakes romcom. wooing him with plants. my cats. dinner. if we’re being generous.”

“it was edible.”

jeremiah narrowed his eyes. “that’s debatable.”

xavier shrugged. “you said make nice. i made nice. he’s not reporting me to the authorities. i’d say it’s going well.”

“i said make nice so he doesn’t start connecting the dots. not so you start emotionally bonding over overcooked rice and ceramic owls.”

“he named it winston.”

“i know. i watched it happen on the security feed.”

“that’s definitely a violation of privacy.”

jeremiah leveled a look at him. “i watched it because i was fully expecting you to collapse mid-sauté or reveal your vigilante identity while reciting a tea recipe.”

xavier opened his mouth. closed it. then muttered, “...it was a good tea.”

jeremiah set the brush down. stared him dead in the eye.

“you’re getting attached.”

xavier blinked. “to your cat?”

“to your neighbor.”

there was a pause.

xavier glanced sideways, like that would help him dodge the question. “he cooks well.”

“you’re impossible.”

“he has plants.”

“xavier.”

another pause.

this time, quieter.

“he’s nice to the cats.”

jeremiah sighed, his frustration softening into something wearier. “you don’t get to have a personal life. you chose to go against one of the most powerful families on the continent.”

“i’m aware.”

“and now you’re having late-night tea and emotionally loaded silences with the one guy who might accidentally get dragged into your mess.”

xavier didn’t reply.

tuna stretched in jeremiah’s lap, purring.

“…does he know?” jeremiah asked after a beat.

“no.”

“you sure?”

“i don’t think so. he hasn’t said anything. and i don’t think he’ll dig. but…” xavier frowned slightly, like the thought had been gnawing at the back of his mind.

jeremiah set the brush down, his tone turning serious. “then it’s only a matter of time.”

xavier nodded slowly.

“…so what are you going to do?” jeremiah asked.

xavier looked down at marble, rubbing against his leg. he exhaled quietly.

“i don’t know,” he said.

which, for once, was true.

another silence stretched between them.

outside, the wind chime by the door gave a soft clink. customers drifted past the window, the day quietly unfolding.

finally, jeremiah tapped a folder on the counter.

“anyway,” he said, voice sharp again, “here’s what you should be thinking about.”

xavier picked up the folder, grateful for the shift.

“someone’s been observing you,” he said at last, voice low, tense. “i don’t know who yet. they’re good. careful. hard to trace. but if i had to bet…”

he didn’t need to say it.

xavier’s eyes flicked to him. unfazed.

“i know,” he muttered, voice quiet but steady. “i’ve seen them.”

jeremiah looked up, sharply. “you did?”

“spotted the tail three nights ago,” xavier said, crossing his arms. “they were just watching, then tracking. one sniper. disarmed. left breathing.”

jeremiah sucked in a breath through his nose. “there’s going to be more.”

“i know.”

“and you still—”

xavier cut him off, gaze calm but unwavering. “he won’t be involved in this.”

jeremiah stared at him for a long moment. the concern behind his eyes wasn’t paranoia—it was memory. old scars dressed as warnings.

“i’m serious, xavier,” he said, quietly now. “you need to keep your distance. i know what you’re doing. i know what this looks like.”

xavier said nothing.

“you think you can manage it. keep him in a separate box. let him orbit close but untouched.” jeremiah’s jaw tightened. “that’s not how this works.”

still, xavier didn’t move. didn’t flinch.

“he won’t be involved,” he repeated, softer this time. “you don’t have to keep worrying.”

jeremiah’s gaze didn’t waver. “you think i’m being paranoid?”

“no,” xavier said. “i think you mean well.”

he closed his eyes for a moment.

because he did understand. more than he let on. jeremiah, for all his snark and calculated detachment, had his own story. one he didn’t speak of. a partner. gone. the kind of pain that doesn’t fade, just goes quieter over time.

this wasn’t just protocol.

this was grief speaking.

the don’t do what i did kind of warning.

xavier opened his eyes again. calm. focused.

his next target. the next domino in a long chain.

he was already building the route in his mind—entry, extraction, data pull, deniability.

he slipped the envelope into his coat and stood, giving tuna a gentle pat on the head.

jeremiah watched him with a tight expression. “you’re not invincible.”

“i never said i was.”

“but you act like it.”

xavier gave the faintest smile. “only when i’m tired of dying.”

he stepped toward the door.

jeremiah’s voice stopped him again. softer. tired.

“just… be careful, xavier.”

xavier paused at the threshold.

“always am,” he said.

but they both knew that wasn’t true.

and as the door swung shut behind him, jeremiah stared at it for a long time—expression unreadable, fingers curling tight around the brush in his hand.

because he knew what came next.

and it never ended clean.

zayne had only meant to sleep.

just a few hours. that’s what he told himself. just enough to recalibrate. he’d worked six consecutive shifts, stayed over at the hospital three nights in a row. rounds, surgeries, complications, one after another. he didn’t even remember coming home last night—just the heavy weight of his coat dropping to the floor, the sterile hospital smell still clinging to his collar.

it was supposed to be the weekend.

he was supposed to rest.

but instead, he woke choking on breath that wouldn’t come, soaked in sweat, heartbeat ricocheting inside his ribs like something trying to escape.

the images weren’t new.

the blood on the gloves. the crying mother. the impossible sutures. the call of time. the flatline.

over and over.

the weight of a body he couldn’t save.

the silence that followed.

he sat on his couch, bent forward, hands shaking. scrubbing at them mentally like they still held something they couldn’t let go. still heard the machines. the voices. the coldness of loss disguised as professionalism.

in the dark, it was too loud.

so he went to the balcony.

the cold bit at his skin—an anchor. he sat down, back against the railing, drawing his knees up. he closed his eyes, forehead resting lightly on the metal bar behind him.

the nightmare didn’t go away. it never really did. he could still hear the sounds of the room—too sterile, too bright. the guilt sticking to him like second skin.

it wasn’t your fault, they said.

he didn’t believe them.

not really.

he sat there, trying to breathe, as wind whispered between the buildings, too cold for july. the floor was hard beneath him. his muscles ached. his chest still felt too tight.

but past the static noise of memory, past the beep of machines and the echo of voices telling him to rest, to let go, to forgive himself—

he heard it.

a piano.

soft. tentative. just a few notes at first, barely louder than the wind. like someone testing keys in the dark.

zayne’s eyes blinked open.

not a recording. not from inside his apartment.

it was coming from next door.

xavier had been quiet.

he’d been moving between locations all evening—checking safe spots, retrieving weapons, tucking backup ammo and hidden blades into dark corners along his route. it was routine. necessary.

the city was too close now. someone was watching.

and the next hunt was coming.

but when he returned—stepping over the railing onto his balcony like smoke—he stopped cold.

zayne was there.

not standing. not sipping tea.

just sitting, on the floor, back to the railing, posture curled inward, like the wind had hollowed him out.

xavier knew that shape.

he’d worn it himself.

the tension in the shoulders. the look of someone not fully present, still caught in a place that smelled of bleach and regret. still trying to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.

and he didn’t move.

didn’t call out.

he just slipped inside, as quietly as he could.

a minute later, the sound of a piano drifted through the air.

he didn’t even think about it, really. just sat down in front of the keyboard he bought at a whim in the corner of the room and started playing—softly, carefully. nothing complex. just chords that didn’t demand anything. just sound to hold the silence steady.

he’d never been good with words anyway.

on the balcony, zayne didn’t move for a long time.

the music came in waves—slow, calm, imperfect.

but something about it cracked through the noise in his skull. something steady. something human. no alarms. no buzzers. no machines screaming a loss.

just fingers pressing keys.

not precise, not polished.

but gentle.

he didn’t know if it was intentional. if xavier knew. if it was coincidence. but the moment caught and held.

and for the first time in hours, zayne’s hands stilled.

he didn’t cry.

but he did breathe.

a little deeper.

xavier let the last note drift off into silence.

he sat in the hush that followed, hands still hovering over the keys, listening.

the city, always buzzing underneath, felt far away.

what he heard now was softer than anything he’d played—wind brushing against brick, the faint creak of tree branches swaying somewhere below, and beyond that…

breathing.

even. steady.

outside.

he stood, moving quietly toward the balcony, slipping the sliding door open just enough to peek out.

and there zayne was.

still curled up against the railing, but different now.

still.

peaceful.

asleep.

the tension in his jaw was gone, the lines of exhaustion and pain softened. his shoulders had dropped. his head rested lightly against the metal bar behind him, brow unfurrowed, breaths slow and steady.

it wasn’t a deep sleep—not yet—but it was rest.

something he probably hadn’t had in days.

xavier looked at him for a long moment.

then turned, stepped back inside, and returned a minute later with a folded blanket. it was one of the few soft things he owned—technically jeremiah’s, something patterned faintly with pine needles and stitched corners. he didn't think twice.

he stepped to the railing and dropped it gently down across the divider.

it landed with a soft whisper.

zayne didn’t stir.

xavier crouched down, slipping his hands through the gaps in the rail to adjust it carefully—pulling it around the doctor’s shoulders, tucking it over his legs. his hands brushed against zayne’s coat once—cool fabric, still holding the weight of a long day.

once he was done, xavier stayed there, crouched, his fingers resting briefly on the metal bar.

then he leaned forward, resting his head against the railing, arms folded beneath it. close now. closer than he probably should be.

he let his eyes drift to the man across from him.

zayne’s face was pale in the low light, framed by black hair slightly tousled from sleep. his cheek rested against his coat collar. his lashes cast faint shadows against his skin. his hands were finally still.

xavier exhaled slowly.

even exhausted, zayne still looked...

pretty, he thought, a little too honestly.

strong jawline, high cheekbones, quiet gravity. the kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway. not delicate. just real. worn down, and somehow still intact.

he should go.

he had a list to finish. weapons to secure. plans to finalize. a mission ahead.

but...

he stayed.

just a little longer.

muted jeremiah’s words echoing in the back of his mind.

you’re getting attached.

he knew.

of course he knew.

but knowing didn’t stop the part of him that just wanted to sit here a while longer. quiet. still. sharing silence with someone who didn’t demand anything from him.

no expectations. no masks. no lies.

just… this.

he let himself watch.

let the city breathe around them.

and for one night, let himself feel.

the morning came slowly.

muted and gray, with sunlight dragging itself across the buildings like it hadn’t slept either. zayne stirred where he sat, blinking awake, groggy and heavy-limbed.

it took him a moment to remember where he was.

balcony. cold floor. city air. the scent of wind and potted rosemary.

and warmth—something around his shoulders.

he looked down, confused at first, then realized the blanket had stayed with him through the night.

soft. faintly pine-scented. carefully draped. too neat to be accidental.

he straightened slightly, rubbing the stiffness from his neck, brow furrowing. the doctor in him hated the way he'd slept—bad posture, zero support, guaranteed to make his back complain later—but the man in him...

...wasn't complaining.

still half-drowsy, zayne’s gaze drifted across the balcony.

that’s when he noticed it.

tucked between two pots—his succulent and the flowering cactus that had quietly become their shared marker—was a small folded square of paper. pale cream. taped at the corner to keep it from blowing away.

he reached for it.

unfolded it with the same gentleness he used with patient charts and shattered ribs.

keep the blanket.
next time you sleep outside, bring it with you.
and take care of my plants, i’ll be away for a while.

no signature.

didn’t need one.

zayne stared at the note for a long moment. a familiar huff of air left him, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.

of course the man left instructions like he was going on vacation and not, presumably, into whatever trouble xavier shen regularly walked into with the grace of someone who'd stopped caring if they bled.

he folded the note once, then again, pressing the creases with slow fingers. he didn’t put it down—just held it, unconsciously, as his eyes swept over the balcony divider.

empty now. just the plants.

his plants.

their plants.

zayne shifted the blanket across his shoulders, intending to toss it aside—but instead found his hands gripping it tighter.

it was still warm.

still smelled faintly like the shop next door—flowers and earth and something grounded.

he closed his eyes for a second. just one.

then he stood up, carefully folding the blanket over his arm.

he brought it inside, placed it on the back of his couch.

and watered the plants before doing anything else.

a few days had passed.

too many, if zayne was honest with himself.

which he rarely was.

he’d kept busy. of course he had. hospital work didn’t wait, and he buried himself in it—schedules, rounds, post-ops, lectures. but every time he returned home, something in him listened.

for footsteps on the balcony.

for a second mug clinking next to his.

for a knock. a note. a shadow.

nothing.

in his living room now, the tv played quietly. a movie he’d seen a dozen times. low volume. barely audible. he wasn’t really watching.

he just… didn’t want silence.

he rubbed his eyes, glasses nudged up to his forehead. the blanket sat beside him—folded, unfolded, refolded, always within arm’s reach. the plants were watered on time, the space maintained like always.

but the empty space across the balcony didn’t go unnoticed.

zayne sighed.

he clicked the remote, the screen fading to black. the silence hit sharper now. too quiet.

ridiculous, he told himself. xavier could handle himself. wherever he was. school. work. whatever cover story he believed. he was fine. probably.

probably.

zayne stood, stretching slightly. he reached for the blanket, intending to take it with him to bed—again—when suddenly…

everything went dark.

not just his apartment. the entire building.

the hum of electricity disappeared like it had been sliced away clean. the soft ambient glow from the hallway under his door vanished. the plants by the window, the faint digital clock on his microwave—gone.

blackout.

zayne stood perfectly still.

“…that’s odd.”

he frowned.

this building was modern. maintained. secure. he’d chosen it specifically for that reason. he’d never once experienced a power outage here.

he stepped quietly through the apartment, fingers trailing along the back of the couch, searching for his phone.

where did i put it?

he had just reached the edge of the counter when—

a sound.

on the balcony.

subtle.

but not the kind of subtle he was used to.

not xavier’s weightless landings. not the smooth shuffle of boots over tile. this was heavier. clumsier. intentional.

zayne’s body tensed.

he didn’t breathe.

xavier? is it him?

he turned slowly toward the door. the blackout masked everything—the moon outside barely gave him outlines. but the sound of steps was clear now.

too clear.

and wrong.

it didn’t sound like him.

zayne’s hand found a flashlight tucked inside the side drawer. he didn’t turn it on yet. instead, he crept closer, his heart beating steadily—louder than usual, but not uncontrolled. he was trained for pressure.

he moved to the glass door, careful not to make a sound.

the silhouette outside wasn’t familiar.

it wasn’t leaning casually on the railing. wasn’t crouched near the plants. wasn’t holding a mug or feeding a cat.

it was standing still.

watching.

too tall. wrong posture. not xavier.

zayne gripped the edge of the curtain, pulled it slightly aside.

and froze.

whoever it was had their hand on the handle.

the glass door slid open.

zayne didn’t hesitate.

he moved fast, flashlight gripped tightly in both hands. a strike to the arm. another to the throat. quick, practiced blows—caleb's drills, yuu’s relentless corrections flashing through his muscle memory in the dark.

the intruder staggered back, grunting as zayne caught him clean on the temple with the heavy end of the flashlight.

one good hit.

then two.

breathing hard now, zayne stepped back, readying himself again.

the man across from him straightened slowly, a dark smear of blood trailing down the side of his face. he didn’t say anything. just raised his hand.

click.

metal.

zayne froze.

a gun.

a whisper of breath escaped his lips. his mind was already spinning calculations: range, cover, trajectory—none of it in his favor. no time to dive. no time to—

crack.

a flash of motion behind the intruder. a blur.

the body jolted once, spine stiffening—then collapsed in a heap, soundless except for the dull thud of limbs hitting tile.

and behind it stood xavier.

blood splattered across his cheek and neck. his breathing ragged. one hand still outstretched from where he’d snapped the man's neck. the other reached for zayne and pulled him close in one swift, quiet motion—like he needed to feel that he was still there. that he had made it in time.

one hand on the back of his head. the other on his side, grounding.

warm. solid. shaking.

“xavier?” zayne whispered, voice still stuck in the middle of the adrenaline spike. “you—what was that—”

“shh,” xavier breathed, low, not cold, but trembling with too much.

he didn’t let go.

zayne shifted slightly, trying to look up, but xavier held him tighter, the tremor in his fingers betraying everything his silence tried to mask.

zayne’s heart was pounding. not from fear anymore—but something else.

“why are you—what’s—”

“just…” xavier murmured. “just be still. it’s fine now. you're okay.”

speak for yourself, zayne thought.

but he didn’t push.

he tried to turn again, just a little, and finally caught a glimpse over his shoulder.

the curtain had been torn down during the fight, and the full moon cast silver light across the open balcony. and under that pale glow, zayne saw it clearly.

blood.

running down xavier’s face. from a gash near his temple. across his cheekbone. it gleamed under the light like paint.

“you’re bleeding,” zayne said, sharper now, alarm edging into his tone. he started to push up, to get to his feet. “what are you—xavier. you’re injured—”

“zayne,” xavier cut in.

and it was his voice.

but not the one zayne knew.

this one was rough. strained. not the quiet, detached calm of the man who traded mugs and piano music. not the playful indifference of the man who scorched rice with pride.

this voice was frayed at the edge. barely held together.

it made zayne stop.

just… stop.

because that tone wasn’t cold.

it was scared. fractured. raw.

low and shaking—not from pain, but from something worse. a breaking point just barely held together by habit and breath.

the air felt like it dropped ten degrees.

that single word carried too much.

grief. fear. anger. relief.

zayne swallowed hard.

something about the way xavier said his name didn’t want answers.

it wanted presence.

so the doctor went still in his arms.

and the situation tilted.

the man who’d pulled the trigger. who moved like shadow. who took a life without hesitation—he was the one unraveling now. not zayne.

xavier was trying to breathe like nothing was wrong.

but zayne could feel the tension in him. the way his grip refused to loosen. the blood sticking to his skin. the way his heartbeat thudded too fast, too loud, too raw against zayne’s back.

“you’re shaking,” zayne said, quieter this time.

xavier didn’t answer.

he didn’t move.

“let me help you,” zayne added, almost gently.

still, xavier didn’t speak.

zayne turned in his arms this time, slowly, carefully, and xavier let him. didn’t stop him. just stood there like someone trying not to fall apart.

now face-to-face, zayne took in the full picture.

pale. cut lip. bruised shoulder. dried blood in his hair. hands curled like he didn’t trust himself to let go of the moment.

“xavier,” zayne said again.

and this time, softer—something in his voice anchored.

“you’re not fine.”

xavier blinked once. then again.

and still said nothing.

but his hand was still resting against zayne’s side like he didn’t know what else to do.

the body was still on the ground, unmoving.

the blackout still lingered.

the city was quiet.

and the only thing alive in that space was the look between them.

“zayne,” xavier said again, voice barely more than breath, “i saw our plants. you kept them alive.”

zayne was still kneeling beside him, hands itching to reach for gauze, antiseptic—anything—but held back by something in xavier’s eyes.

"...of course i did," zayne replied, guarded. "you asked me to."

xavier gave a nod. like that mattered. like it meant something important.

“you kept the blanket, too,” he added, eyes fixed on him, soft and unreadable. “you used it. just like i told you.”

zayne blinked.

there wasn’t shame in him, not anymore. no fluster. no apology. he didn’t even pretend not to know what xavier meant.

“i did,” he said simply.

a pause hung between them—thick, strange, unbearable.

then xavier took in a shallow breath. the smile that rose to his lips was crooked, hesitant, and so heartbreakingly soft it felt like a farewell even before he said the words.

“if i told you to do one more thing for me… would you?”

zayne's eyes narrowed slightly. cautious. concerned.

“…that depends,” he said slowly, measuring every syllable.

xavier didn’t break eye contact.

“can you forget about me?”

the words hit like a slap.

zayne flinched—not visibly, but internally, like something splintered just beneath the skin.

“…what are you talking about?” he breathed, his voice tightening. “that’s not important right now. you need to be treated. where were you hit? shot? stabbed?”

he moved to stand, the medical part of his brain taking over. already scanning, calculating blood loss, stabilizing pressure—do something.

but xavier’s hand snapped forward, clutching zayne’s wrist.

firm. gentle.

final.

“xavier,” zayne insisted, the panic rising now, cracks forming in his usual composure. “please. you need—”

xavier’s laugh was quiet. too quiet.

“you really are the type,” he said, almost fond. “stitching people up the second they bleed.”

zayne froze.

“…what?”

he didn’t understand at first.

not until he felt it.

a prick.

a tiny, almost imperceptible pain near the inside of his elbow.

he looked down.

too late.

xavier had already let go.

the injector—a small pressure syringe, quick and near silent—was discarded beside them.

zayne’s breath caught.

“what—what the hell did you—”

but his words slurred halfway out.

and his legs buckled.

vision already softening at the edges. muscles folding beneath him.

“no—” he tried, hands scrabbling against xavier’s jacket as his body pitched forward. “no, don’t—”

but xavier caught him.

held him.

carefully, like something fragile.

zayne sagged against him, consciousness flickering like a dying bulb. his head pressed into the crook of xavier’s shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against his neck.

“that’s why i have to do this,” xavier whispered, almost to himself.

his hand curled behind zayne’s head, fingers threading gently into his hair, grounding him. he could feel the doctor’s heart still thudding beneath the skin, too fast, too scared.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured.

zayne tried to speak. a sound came out—a whimper. a protest. maybe even his name.

but the world was going dark.

xavier held him tighter.

“sleep,” he whispered. “please. just this once... don’t fight me.”

zayne’s grip weakened.

his breathing slowed.

and he went still.

as soon as zayne’s body went limp in his arms, xavier moved.

carefully.

like he might wake up from this if he wasn’t gentle enough.

he shifted zayne’s weight, holding him close, the doctor’s head nestled against his collarbone, one hand still loosely curled against xavier’s coat. his breathing had gone soft and even—unnaturally so.

the sedative worked fast.

that didn’t make it easier.

xavier walked quietly through the apartment, each step measured. familiar now—he could navigate this place in the dark. he’d studied its layout more times than he cared to admit. memorized the books on the shelf. the coffee cup rotation. the way the extra blanket always found its way back to the couch.

he laid zayne down on the bed.

pulled the blanket over him.

his face in sleep looked softer than xavier had ever seen it. no sharp lines, no tension. just exhaustion, finally allowed to rest.

it hurt to look at.

he brushed the hair from zayne’s forehead, fingers pausing for the briefest moment. his thumb ghosted over the curve of his temple.

a quiet sigh left his lips.

behind him, a soft sound—a presence landing lightly on the balcony.

xavier didn’t look.

he didn’t need to.

jeremiah stood just outside the sliding door. one hand in his coat pocket, the other gripping the edge of the frame. he didn’t enter. didn’t speak. just… stood there.

watching xavier with tired, knowing eyes.

xavier didn’t turn around. his hand was still in zayne’s hair.

“i need a new place,” he said quietly.

jeremiah exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. “yeah,” he said after a moment. “i figured.”

there was a pause.

a long one.

jeremiah’s voice came again, lower this time. “you okay?”

xavier didn’t answer right away.

his gaze was still fixed on the sleeping man in front of him. he looked at zayne like the moment itself might fracture if he blinked.

“does it matter?” he asked softly.

jeremiah didn’t answer either.

not right away.

but he stepped back from the doorway just slightly, giving xavier his distance. his silence wasn’t uncaring. it was knowing. this wasn’t the kind of pain you patched with words.

“you know this won’t hold forever,” jeremiah said eventually. “when he wakes up...”

“i know,” xavier murmured.

he finally stood.

one last glance. one last breath held tight in his lungs.

“i just needed a little more time,” he said.

jeremiah nodded.

“i’ll handle the cleanup,” he added. “no one’s getting in tonight.”

xavier turned his head, just slightly. “thank you.”

jeremiah didn’t smile. “you owe me, you dramatic bastard.”

a faint curve ghosted across xavier’s lips. then it was gone.

he walked past the balcony door without another word.

didn’t look back.

it had been months.

the world kept spinning, and the headlines kept blaring—“lumière strikes again: anonymous vigilante unmasks major trafficking ring”—but zayne barely read them anymore.

not because he didn’t care.

but because it hurt too much to hope.

he had a new neighbor now. a sweet old lady named mrs. arlow. she baked. she hummed when she watered her flowers. she asked zayne if he ever needed help lifting heavy groceries. she was polite, quiet, safe.

but she wasn’t xavier.

zayne remembered the morning after—that jarring, surreal moment of waking in his bed, his entire apartment pristine. no blood. no body. no shattered glass. no sign of xavier, or what happened on that moonlit balcony.

for a moment, he’d truly believed it had all been a dream.

a strange, emotionally charged hallucination brought on by insomnia and sugar crashes.

but then he stepped outside.

and the divider was still there.

the plants—his and xavier’s—still alive. still arranged side by side. still watching him in their quiet, leafy way.

mrs. arlow had even offered him her half of the divider when she moved in.

“it’s a shame to separate them,” she’d said kindly. “they look like they belong together.”

so now he tended to all of them. alone.

every morning before work, every evening after a shift, he’d water each one in silence. the owl statue was still there. so was the frog. the cactus had bloomed again.

but the mug he left out?

still full the next day.

every time.

and still, he kept placing it there. out of habit. out of hope.

out of foolishness.

he jogged now, shoes hitting the trail with a practiced rhythm. the early morning park was empty, just him and the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. his breath fogged slightly in the air. earbuds nestled in place, and the sound of voices crackled in.

“zayne? hey, man. been calling you for a while now.”

caleb.

zayne blinked out of his daze, breath catching slightly. “yeah.”

yuu’s voice joined in, clipped but concerned. “you okay? you’ve been in your head for some time.”

“i’m fine. sorry, had to switch paths,” he replied, breath hitching mid-sentence. “hit a slope.”

“mm-hm,” caleb said, tone skeptical. “you sure you didn’t just zone out thinking about your emo ex-neighbor?”

“deadass,” yuu chimed in. “how’s the new one? safer and saner than the previous guy?”

zayne huffed. “she’s nice. gave me three slices of pie yesterday.”

yuu gasped. pure betrayal. “and you saved none for us?”

zayne rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “the pie would've gone bad by the time either of you were free.”

“ugh, don’t remind me,” yuu groaned. “i’m starting to hate lumière with the amount of overtime i’ve been drowning in. i dreamt i was chasing him last night. i woke up sore.”

“you haven’t tasted true suffering,” caleb muttered. “i had three lumière briefings this week. one of the guys in my unit said ‘he’s just misunderstood’ and i swear i felt my soul leave my body.”

“you know what’s worse?” yuu added. “they’ve started treating him like a celebrity online. the ‘hot masked vigilante.’ someone made fanart.”

zayne didn’t respond.

didn’t laugh with them.

not because he was ignoring it.

but because a part of him couldn’t.

a part of him still felt xavier’s heartbeat behind his own ribs.

still felt the weight of him holding on—don’t fight me.

still saw that smile, so soft it hurt to look at.

can you forget about me?

zayne’s pace slowed slightly.

“zayne?” caleb asked. “you still there?”

“yeah,” he said quickly, adjusting his earbuds. “just… thirsty.”

he took a swig from his bottle. it tasted like nothing.

“you sure you’re okay?” yuu asked again, gentler this time.

zayne wiped sweat from his brow. “i’m okay. really.”

“alright,” caleb said. “but next time we’re getting that pie.”

zayne offered a small sound of agreement.

but even as the call faded into comfortable chatter again, his eyes flicked toward the horizon.

he still waited.

still listened.

and at night, when no one could see, he still left the mug out.

just in case.

the wind whipped across the rooftop as the sun dipped low, casting the city in molten gold and long shadows.

xavier stood at the edge.

still.

sharp.

focused.

a silhouette carved against the sky in black and ash-gray, the long coat of his suit fluttering faintly around his ankles. his mask—sleek, matte, faceless—caught the last of the sunlight and reflected nothing.

he didn’t blink.

didn’t move.

just stood there, eyes tracking the distant signs of the inevitable.

helicopters.

sirens.

movement below.

the city was beginning to stir. tension crawling into the bones of everything around it. something was coming. he was coming.

"last job now, lumière."

jeremiah’s voice crackled in his earpiece, light, too casual, as always.

xavier exhaled once through his nose. “don’t call me that.”

“it’s what they call you now. don’t blame me. blame the posters. and the t-shirts.”

"emi.”

“alright, alright. geez.”

xavier rolled his shoulders, the tension crackling through his spine like pulled wire.

he didn’t answer again.

because this—this—was it.

the final act.

the last target.

the culmination of years of planning, months of infiltration, and a list of names that never stopped growing. tonight, one more thread would be cut loose. the last of the puppeteers behind the experiments. the ones who signed the orders. who wrote death in the margins of research papers.

but even after this...

he knew.

it wouldn’t be over.

his parents would never rest until he was nothing but a rumor.

they had already marked him as a stain. a flaw in their otherwise perfect, clean empire. a bloodline embarrassment that wouldn’t die quietly. lumière—their son—was the worst kind of problem:

a secret that fought back.

xavier stared into the distance.

the sky was burning orange and pink now. beautiful. ugly. a little of both.

his chest ached with it.

after this… then what?

the world didn’t have a place for him anymore. his past was poison. his name a liability. his face a trigger.

he didn’t know what he would do. or who he would be.

all he knew was that there would be no going back.

not to jeremiah’s flower shop.

not to the apartment.

not to the soft mug set out every morning, sweetened tea, and someone waiting.

not to zayne.

his hand tightened on the grip of his weapon.

a faint vibration buzzed through his wrist.

“lumière,” jeremiah said again, voice a little tighter this time. “power’s out. you’re clear. that’s your cue.”

the lights in the skyscraper below flickered and went dead. one by one. like dominoes collapsing. the last vestiges of control blinked away from the building’s grid.

xavier checked his gun again. loaded.

flicked his wrist. knife—secured.

checked the back sheath. backup—ready.

every weapon exactly where it needed to be.

so why did he still feel like he was missing something?

don’t think about him.

not now.

he took one last look at the city. a thousand windows glowing. a thousand strangers with no idea who was standing above them, about to change the course of a company. of a legacy.

of a lie.

“i said don’t call me that,” he muttered one last time.

then he turned—

—and walked straight into the darkness below.

zayne hadn't meant to come back.

his schedule this month was light—light for him, at least. no overnight surgeries, no sudden conference calls, no collapsed infants clinging to life on a ventilator. just check-ins, a few consultations, and hours of space he wasn’t used to having.

he could’ve gone home.

his home. the one with high windows and matching silver kitchenware. the one that was clean, quiet, perfectly distanced from the rest of the world.

but something pulled him back to the apartment.

maybe it was the plants.

maybe it was the habit.

maybe it was something he didn’t want to name.

the building was still the same. mrs. arlow had waved from her balcony. the hall smelled faintly like her pie again.

but the stairs felt different.

and when he reached his floor—he saw it.

blood.

a thin, fresh trail of it.

not like last time. not imagined. not some fever dream conjured by exhaustion.

this was real.

zayne stared down at it, heart beginning to thud—not out of fear, but something colder. sharper.

the trail didn’t lead next door.

it led to his apartment.

zayne’s breath hitched. he moved slowly, silently. one step after another.

his key turned smoothly in the lock.

no signs of forced entry.

no broken latch.

but when he pushed the door open, he knew.

the blood kept going. staining his hardwood. a trail dragging across the floor, one spot at a time.

zayne shut the door behind him. threw his coat and bag over the nearest chair. everything inside him was running at full diagnostic—scanning for sounds, movement, potential threats.

the blood curved down the hallway.

straight to the bathroom.

the door was cracked.  a faint red glow bleeding out from beneath.

he stepped closer, slowly. every part of him alert, every part ready.

it could be a mistake.

a lost stranger. a thief. someone who broke in by chance. someone else entirely.

but when his hand pushed the bathroom door open—

he stopped.

and everything stopped.

xavier.

sitting in his bathtub, fully clothed.

soaked in blood.

in his suit. mask off. shirt half undone, revealing a chest wrapped in a hasty bandage, one hand knotting a strip of fabric with his teeth. the other still held a pistol loosely, lowered now, resting against the tile edge.

the water was red.

but xavier looked mostly okay.

alive.

exhausted. feral around the edges. but alive.

they stared at each other.

no sound. no movement.

just them.

zayne’s mouth parted slightly. the silence was thick, disbelief pouring into the cracks of his control.

"...they changed my lock," xavier said first.

his voice was rough. dry. like he hadn’t used it in a while.

"i hope you don’t mind."

zayne blinked once. the absurdity of it slammed against the flood of shock already in his chest.

he swallowed. closed the distance without a word, crouching beside the tub. not too fast. not too slow.

he stared down at the mess of bandages. at the stained sleeve. at the wound xavier had tried—and failed—to properly close on his own.

“i do mind,” zayne said, voice tight.

xavier looked up at him, brow twitching faintly.

zayne met his eyes.

“i mind that you’re bleeding in my bathtub, that you’ve been gone for months, that you didn’t knock, and that you think this—” he gestured to the water, the blood, the state of him “—is okay.”

xavier’s lips twitched. a grim ghost of a smile.

“i knocked,” he said. “didn’t think you were home.”

zayne inhaled sharply through his nose.

xavier exhaled slowly. let his head tip back against the tiled wall. the gun still wrapped around his fingers and clattered softly to the side.

“i didn’t know where else to go,” he murmured. “i thought i had more time.”

zayne didn’t answer.

didn’t ask yet.

he reached forward, took xavier’s injured arm gently by the wrist, and examined the makeshift bandage. too loose. too soaked. improvised under pressure.

“of course you came back here,” he said quietly, more to himself than anything.

xavier’s eyes opened again, focusing.

“...why?”

zayne finally looked at him again.

face unreadable.

hurt, yes. but not surprised.

“because no matter how far you go,” he said, pressing the bandage tighter, “you only ever land in places where you think you deserve to bleed.”

xavier stared at him.

didn’t deny it.

didn’t flinch.

just… looked.

and for the first time in months, zayne’s hands weren’t shaking from memory.

they were steady.

alive.

touching someone real.

up close, xavier looked worse than zayne had ever seen him.

not just wounded.

tired.

not the kind of tired sleep could fix, either. it was deeper than that. a hollowing-out. like something inside him had finally broken loose and left him emptier for it.

zayne saw it in the way xavier’s shoulders slumped, in the loose grip around the gun, in the distant fog behind those sharp blue eyes.

so zayne moved.

without asking.

without hesitation.

he stepped into the tub.

slacks, button-up—didn’t matter. the warm water soaked through immediately, turning his clothes heavy, clinging. the blood swirled around him like ink in tea. he sat across from xavier, knees bumping, expression unreadable, heart steady.

xavier blinked at him, startled—not in fear, but in something almost disbelieving.

zayne didn’t flinch. didn’t look at the gun. didn’t speak.

he just sat.

with him.

in silence.

the soft hum of the city outside. the sound of water sloshing gently between their legs. the echo of a hundred things neither of them had ever said.

“you knew from the start, didn’t you?”

xavier’s voice was low. unmasked. like it cost him something to ask.

zayne didn’t answer.

he didn’t need to.

the stillness said it all.

xavier let out a quiet breath—half a laugh, half an admission.

“aren’t you afraid of me?”

zayne tilted his head, gaze steady.

“should i be?”

and then, calmly, with no urgency—just truth.

“someone who nearly burned down his own kitchen.”

xavier blinked.

“who lost someone’s cat.”

a pause.

“who played piano loud enough to pull me out of my own nightmares… and gave me a blanket when i slept like an idiot on my balcony.”

another pause.

zayne’s voice softened, but his eyes didn’t waver.

“someone who saved my life when i was too slow to save my own.”

the words settled like gravity between them.

xavier huffed. not quite a smile. not quite a scoff. his body shifted.

he moved.

rising to his knees in the water, gun still loosely in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the tub. towering over zayne now—soaked, bleeding, alive. a storm of a man trying not to sink.

he leaned closer.

so close zayne could see the flicker behind his eyes.

“this someone,” xavier said quietly, “also comes from a family that kills people for their own goals.”

his voice was shaking now. controlled. but trembling beneath.

“someone whose parents designed human evolution through death and classified it as progress. who experimented on children because they could.”

another breath.

“someone they tried to shape into a weapon. their weapon.”

he leaned in until zayne could feel the chill rolling off his soaked collar, could see the water drip from his lashes.

“someone who ran. who put targets on the backs of the people who helped him. who’s on the run from his own name.”

his eyes were blazing now—anger, pain, a rawness that cracked through every wall he’d built over the years.

“someone whose bounty is set by his own family. a kill order. signed in blood.”

his grip on the edge of the tub tightened.

his other hand—the one holding the gun—trembled, just barely.

zayne looked at him for a long moment.

not at the gun.

not at the wounds.

but at him.

that tired, breaking man who still found the strength to try and warn him away. but...

zayne moved.

not fast.

just enough.

he reached forward and placed his hand gently, deliberately, over the one holding the gun.

his fingers were cold from the water. but steady. certain.

“okay,” zayne said, voice firm. “that’s all true.”

he gripped xavier’s hand tighter.

“but you’re also the man who came back here, bleeding, instead of dying somewhere else. who remembered my door. my balcony. my mug. my plants.”

he took a breath.

“you’re someone who never once pointed that gun at me.”

silence.

just the sound of their breathing.

their hearts.

zayne whispered, almost tender.

“so no. i’m not afraid of you.”

xavier couldn't meet his eyes.

"even if i had killed so many?"

the words were quiet. not testing—confessing.

zayne looked at him. no flinch. no pause.

“yes. but i'd like it if you didn’t burden yourself with that again.”

xavier’s eyes flickered. a low hum escaped him. “even when i’m lost in the dark? lost in my violence, in my rage? in my own head?”

zayne’s voice came with no hesitation, like instinct. like promise.

“i'll pull you back. always.”

xavier’s throat tightened.

“even if it means being in danger? at the risk of getting killed? of being hunted? targeted?”

zayne’s hand moved up, resting lightly on his arm now.

“i can protect myself,” he said. “and i have two friends who would die to keep me safe.”

a breath.

“and now… you.”

that made something crumble behind xavier’s expression. his brows twitched. his lips parted—like he wanted to protest, deny it, warn him off.

but instead, he gave voice to the ache twisting in his gut.

“even if…” he began, barely audible, “i get selfish? i want you all to myself? want you here, beside me. always. don’t look at others. don’t speak to them. don’t touch them. don’t give them your time, just—give it all to me?”

zayne exhaled, not a laugh but something close. a knowing breath. a surrender.

he smiled.

“...i don’t mind,” he murmured. “i’ll just have to try harder to compromise. and compensate now, won’t i?”

a breathless laugh, choked with disbelief, escaped xavier’s chest.

“will you even have the patience for that?” he asked, hoarse. “i’m pretty difficult to convince. and to comfort.”

zayne didn’t speak.

he raised his arms, wrapping them around xavier’s neck with purpose and certainty.

his soaked white shirt clung to his frame, water dripping between them, forgotten. the emergency red lights in the hallway spilled under the door, casting a low crimson hue across the tiled walls. it made everything look warmer. more intimate. like the inside of a heartbeat.

“i'm sure it's not that bad. besides, i’m pretty stubborn myself,” zayne murmured.

and they were close now.

close in a way that eclipsed hesitation, blurred past and present and everything xavier once thought was untouchable.

they stared at each other—wounded, soaked, exhausted.

but alive.

together.

their faces hovered just a breath apart now. the silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. it was heavy. charged. not with fear or uncertainty—but with want. with need.

they stared at each other for a moment longer. the kind of stare that says i’ve waited for you, and i’d wait again.

xavier didn’t know when the gun left his hand.

only that it did.

a dull clatter to the floor. forgotten.

his hand found zayne’s jaw. fingers gentle. worshipful.

their lips met—

and the world stopped.

the kiss wasn’t polite.

it wasn’t cautious.

it was everything they had held back, poured into a moment in the dark—clothes soaked, blood forgotten, red lights casting them in crimson.

it made the moment feel stolen. forbidden. sacred.

xavier kissed like he might never get to again.

zayne answered like he’d been waiting for this since the first offered mug.

tongues, breath, hands—seeking, claiming, reassuring. every press, every sigh, every pause was a sentence they hadn’t spoken out loud but had always known was there.

fingers curled into fabric. gasps slipped between them. mouths parted and met again. closer. deeper.

and when they finally broke, breathless and flushed, foreheads pressed together, the room still smelled like blood, and pain, and—

home.

the red light painted the side of zayne’s face, making his eyes glow darker, softer.

xavier swallowed.

“i didn’t think i’d get this far,” he admitted.

zayne brushed a wet lock of hair away from his face. “you didn’t,” he said dryly. “you nearly bled out in my bathtub.”

a soft huff of laughter. “it would've been a good way to go.”

zayne leaned in again, resting their foreheads together.

“you’re not running anymore,” he whispered. “not alone.”

xavier closed his eyes, arms finally settling around zayne’s waist like an anchor.

“no,” he said. “not anymore.”

and the weight on his chest didn’t crush him.

it simply... rested.

warm and real.

it was a peaceful afternoon.

birdsong outside, sunlight slipping through the kitchen windows, the scent of freshly brewed tea and soft pastries lingering in the air.

yuu sat back on the couch with her camera, smugly flipping through the pictures she took of zayne’s new garden corner—plants relocated from the apartment to his house, thriving under his obsessive care.

caleb, on the other hand, was spiraling.

“you have a boyfriend?” he repeated for the fifth time. “since when—no, actually, i want name, age, blood type, social security number, résumé, and—”

zayne placed the tea tray on the coffee table with a sigh. “can you calm down?”

caleb gestured wildly. “no! because we never heard of him before! you just went from ‘married to the hospital’ to ‘i found god and he buys me succulents.’ what happened?”

“we were figuring things out,” zayne said mildly, picking up a cup. “it wasn’t exactly… conventional.”

“figuring what out? are you dating a ghost?” caleb snapped. “and where is this mystery man, huh?”

zayne glanced at the clock, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “he went out to buy groceries.”

it had been a while, honestly. zayne just hoped xavier hadn’t gotten distracted naming birds or—worse—bought only meat again.

“caleb, chill,” yuu said, legs crossed, resting her head against the couch. “he looks happy. glowy, even. i mean, the guy’s got skin clarity. this is post-romantic bliss if i’ve ever seen it.”

zayne flushed, coughing into his tea. “yuu, please.”

“well, i suppose…” caleb grumbled. “still not satisfied, though. you still haven’t told us his name.”

zayne opened his mouth to respond—

and the front door beeped, unlocked, and opened.

“i’m back,” a voice called from the entry. “hm? we have guests.”

caleb turned.

yuu straightened.

zayne answered, “i did text you.”

“i forgot my phone again,” xavier said, stepping into the room with a grocery bag in each hand. he looked utterly relaxed—hair still damp from a shower, hoodie over a dark tee, his expression placid as he toed off his shoes.

and that’s when everything went to hell.

in a blink, both caleb and yuu had their guns drawn.

pointed directly at xavier.

“zayne,” yuu barked, already moving to shield her friend with her arm.

“tell me why in the actual hell lumière is in your house right now.”

xavier blinked, mid-step. “oh.”

zayne sighed. “okay, i was hoping we’d get past the pastry stage before this.”

“you’re dating lumière?” caleb nearly shrieked. “the vigilante?! the guy who’s been setting the entire criminal underworld on fire for the last two years?! that lumière?!”

“technically,” xavier said, setting down the bags calmly on the floor, “that’s just the name the media gave me.”

“you’re not helping.” zayne snapped.

yuu didn’t lower her gun. “zayne. you cannot just date a nationally wanted criminal.”

“he’s not—okay, yes, technically—but—”

“i knew it,” caleb hissed, betrayal in his eyes. “you’ve been weird ever since the power grid outage. and the mug thing. and the plants!”

“the plants?” zayne repeated, incredulous.

xavier raised a hand, slowly. “should i just sit down or…”

“don’t. move,” yuu snapped.

he slowly lowered his hand instead. “right.”

“okay, everybody breathe,” zayne ordered, standing between them. “guns down. now. before one of you accidentally shoots my boyfriend.”

“i wouldn’t miss,” yuu muttered.

“i might,” caleb admitted. “i’m shaking too much. what the hell, zayne?!”

“he’s not a threat.”

“he’s a walking warrant!” caleb shouted.

“he’s the one who saved my life months ago when someone else broke in and tried to kill me.”

the room went quiet.

xavier blinked at him.

zayne didn’t flinch. “he’s the reason i’m still here. and i know what he’s done. and why. and you can be angry at me later, but you will put those guns away now.”

there was a long silence.

then, slowly—grudgingly—yuu lowered her weapon.

caleb followed, only slightly less dramatic.

“i’m going to need so much context,” yuu said, tucking her pistol away.

“same,” caleb muttered. “and alcohol. and probably therapy.”

zayne rubbed his temples. “pastries first. then answers.”

xavier raised a hand again. “can i still put the ice cream in the freezer?”

everyone turned.

zayne waved him off with a tired gesture. “yes, please. and thank you.”

caleb stared, defeated. “this is gonna be so much worse than the cilantro incident.”

they were all seated now.

sort of.

tension still clung to the room like static, though the weapons had been holstered—for now. caleb sat rigid, one hand still twitching suspiciously close to his belt like muscle memory wouldn’t let him relax. yuu, ever the professional, had switched from “active threat” to “professional interrogation mode,” leaning forward with narrowed eyes and her pastry untouched.

and xavier?

xavier was casually leaning into zayne’s side like a smug, injured stray cat who'd found a permanent home. one arm draped lazily behind zayne on the backrest, chin tucked comfortably over his shoulder. he was, frankly, too at ease for someone who’d had two guns aimed at his face less than fifteen minutes ago.

zayne sipped his tea like this was fine. like this wasn’t deeply not fine.

“okay,” caleb finally said, putting his cup down with deliberate care. “so let me get this straight.”

zayne inhaled like he was bracing for a second surgery.

caleb counted off on his fingers. “you dated your neighbor.”

“yes.”

“the weird one.”

“yes.”

“the one who left at night like some b-list cryptid and returned at odd hours with blood on his shoes.”

zayne gave a flat look. “he had very good boots, actually.”

xavier beamed. “see? he gets it.”

“i hate everything,” caleb muttered.

yuu raised an eyebrow. “so… that neighbor? the one you kept updating us about with things like ‘still alive,’ and ‘drinks tea, probably not an assassin,’ and ‘talks to his plants in another language’?”

“first of all,” xavier interjected, “only some of it was.”

“why would you talk to plants in a different language?” caleb demanded.

“they like it,” xavier replied, dead serious.

“stop encouraging him,” zayne sighed, rubbing his temples.

yuu leaned forward again. “when exactly did this become a thing?”

“we didn’t start dating right away,” zayne replied, a little defensive. “it was… complicated. at first it was just mugs of tea and plants. then almost getting shot. then more plants. then he showed up bleeding in my bathtub.”

a beat.

“i’m sorry, what?” caleb sputtered.

“that’s how we reconnected,” xavier offered helpfully.

yuu’s eyes narrowed into knives. “was that before or after you blew up the dazhen biotech compound?”

“uh… concurrently?” xavier said.

caleb made a noise like a dying microwave.

“and why is he questioning you too?” yuu asked, gesturing. “why is the vigilante interrogating our best friend?”

zayne, visibly stressed, pointed a pastry at xavier without looking at him. “because this one wanted to know if i ever talked about him while he was gone.”

“...did you?” xavier asked, smug.

“xavier.”

“but—”

“please.”

eventually, somehow, the conversation mellowed. the tea grew lukewarm. the sun slid further down the windows. the pastry tray was emptier.

yuu still didn’t look convinced. caleb looked like he aged five years.

but there was a shift—subtle but there. a reluctant softening.

because when xavier reached for a refill, he also topped off zayne’s cup first.

because he flinched when zayne’s hand grazed his wound and muttered a soft apology under his breath.

because his gaze lingered on zayne when he thought no one noticed, like someone clinging to the only thing in the world not burning down around him.

and zayne—cool, level-headed, emotionally locked-tight zayne—leaned back into him without hesitation.

so when yuu finally broke the silence, her tone was flat but honest.

“it doesn’t change that you’re a wanted man.”

xavier hummed. “mm. but i’m a civilian at the moment.”

“that’s not—”

“you can’t arrest me right now.” xavier smiled sweetly. “but when i’m on the job, i won’t resist. promise.”

a pause.

he raised his teacup like a toast. “that is, if you can catch me.”

zayne pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted.

caleb looked directly at him. “i just want to make it absolutely clear. i will only not shoot him because i respect you.”

“i accept this arrangement,” zayne muttered.

“i’ll take it,” xavier added.

yuu leaned back on the couch with a groan. “you better not die, shen. because if you leave zayne single again, i will arrest your ghost.”

xavier raised his hands. “fair.”

zayne just leaned forward, resting his forehead on his hand.

“...can we just eat the pastries in silence now?”

yuu and caleb left just as the sun dipped below the treeline, casting the garden in soft amber light.

caleb had hovered awkwardly by the door for a good thirty seconds, clearly debating something that made his brow furrow in deep conflict.

“don’t do it,” yuu said, deadpan, without looking up from her phone.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you don’t have to. you have the ‘i want to bug his clothes’ face.”

caleb huffed. “i was just thinking—”

“no.”

“but—”

“do you really want to plant a tracker and then accidentally hear things you’ll never mentally recover from?” she asked flatly.

a beat of silence.

caleb’s soul briefly left his body. “...fair point.”

yuu smirked, clapping him on the back. “come on, colonel looney tunes. we’re not shooting him today. let’s call it character growth.”

caleb muttered something about “still watching him like a hawk with a license to kill” as they got into the car.

zayne, watching them leave from the porch, let out a slow, weary breath as the door finally clicked shut behind them.

then turned.

back into quiet.

now, in the garden, it was just the two of them.

the world was still. the air cool with the early evening breeze. the leaves rustled above them gently, and the scent of mint, rosemary, and jasmine drifted through the soft rustle of planted life.

they sat close on the garden bench.

close enough that zayne’s shoulder rested easily against xavier’s. and after a moment, he let his head tilt—slow, natural—onto xavier’s shoulder. no ceremony. no hesitation.

just quiet gravity pulling him where he belonged.

their little corner had grown.

what used to be a humble cluster of potted plants now stretched out into beds of carefully tended greenery, soft ferns lining the edges, blooms tucked in where sunlight favored them. there was winston the ceramic owl, still as smug as ever. the frog statue guarded the corner stoically.

and nestled in the center: the succulent.

the first one.

still alive. still stubborn.

a symbol of something unlikely, something that had survived storms, distance, and blood.

beside it, two mugs rested on a small table.

steam curled gently from both.

xavier let his hand rest against zayne’s knee, the touch casual but grounding.

zayne sighed, eyelids fluttering slightly, relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself.

“i can’t believe you forgot your phone,” he murmured, voice drowsy with peace.

“i didn’t forget it,” xavier said. “i just didn’t bring it.”

zayne turned his head slightly. “...you didn’t want to deal with the fallout?”

xavier hummed. “no. i just wanted this to last a few more hours before the real world caught up.”

a beat of silence.

then zayne nodded, quietly.

“i’ll give you all the hours you want.”

xavier looked down at him, soft-eyed.

“and i’ll keep earning them.”

and in that quiet garden, beneath the stars slowly flickering into view, between winston and the frog, the last chapter of a war-born love settled gently into its beginning.

no more dividers.

just two mugs.

two people.

and something finally whole.