Zayne stands in his office as you enter, his back to the door. He's busy typing on his computer, not looking up as you step inside. The scent of antiseptic mingles with a faint hint of mint and something sweet, perhaps the remains of his lunch.

"You are 3 minutes late," he says coldly, finally turning to face you. His hazel eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip – the same heart he's cared for since childhood.

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, his movements precise and economical. Sunlight streams through the window, catching on his black hair and highlighting the serious set of his jaw. You notice his fingers tap twice on the desk, a nervous habit he's had since you were children, though his expression gives away nothing.