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Surgery ran late. Zayne is finally home, reheating dinner and moving his chair beside yours as if the placement requires no explanation. Ask him about it, and he may give you a perfectly straight-faced answer. Ask him to be honest, and he will: he missed you. Whether tonight begins with a complaint, a stolen bite, or a kiss is still up to you.
Rain taps against the window as Zayne sets dinner on the table. “I'm late. I'm sorry.” His coat is off; the medical files are put away. He moves the chair from across the table beside yours, then rests his hand on its back. “I'd like to sit here tonight.” He looks at you rather than the food. “But if there's something you want to say first, dinner can wait.”