The next few days passed in a careful rhythm.
Draven stayed close to Aiven whenever he could, always a step behind, eyes sharp, body alert. The fan presence hadn't exploded again yet, but it lingered like a threat waiting to surface. He didn't relax—not when Aiven walked to work, not when he closed the café late, not when unfamiliar faces lingered too long outside.
Zenith didn't come back to the café.
That was deliberate, Draven knew. And somehow, that restraint made everything feel heavier.
They messaged instead. Short messages. Careful ones. Nothing that could be misunderstood if someone else saw the screen.
Zenith: Did you get home safe?
Draven: Yeah. You?
Zenith: Dorm's loud. I'm hiding in my room.
Draven: Figures.
Sometimes that was all it was. And somehow, it was enough.
One evening, Draven waited across the street while Aiven locked up the café. The sky was already dark, the streetlights flickering on one by one. Aiven walked toward him, shoulders slumping as soon as he was close enough.
"I'm tired," Aiven muttered.
Draven softened immediately. "I know."
They walked in silence for a bit before Aiven spoke again. "You haven't told me anything new about Zenith."
Draven glanced at him. "Because there isn't anything new."
Aiven hummed. "That doesn't mean nothing's happening."
Draven stopped walking. "Don't."
Aiven turned to face him. "Don't what?"
"Don't try to analyze this," Draven said quietly. "I'm handling it."
Aiven studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But if it gets hard—"
"I'll tell you," Draven cut in. Then, softer, "I promise."
That night, Draven lay awake longer than he wanted to admit. His phone buzzed just past midnight.
Zenith: Are you awake?
Draven hesitated, then replied.
Draven: Yeah.
Zenith: I've been thinking about what you said. About being careful.
Draven stared at the ceiling.
Draven: And?
There was a pause. Long enough for doubt to creep in.
Zenith: I don't want to be another thing you have to protect yourself from.
Draven's chest tightened. He typed slowly.
Draven: You're not. That's the problem.
Zenith: Then what am I?
Draven closed his eyes.
Draven: Someone I don't know how to handle yet.
The reply didn't come right away.
When it did, it was simple.
Zenith: I'll wait.
That word again. Wait.
It followed Draven into the next day, into the next night, into the quiet moments when he caught himself wondering what it would feel like to stop holding back.
At the dorm, Raze noticed the change before anyone else.
Zenith was quieter. More focused. Less playful with the others. He didn't linger in common spaces, didn't tease Astryx, didn't rise to Kaze's chaos the way he used to.
"You good?" Raze asked one night, tossing a bottle of water at him.
Zenith caught it easily. "Yeah."
Raze didn't look convinced. "You sure?"
Zenith hesitated. Just for a second. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Raze studied him, then nodded slowly. "Don't overthink yourself into a corner."
Zenith smiled faintly. "Too late."
Back in his apartment, Draven stood by the window, watching the city breathe below him. He thought about Zenith's patience. About the way he didn't push, didn't demand, didn't try to take more than Draven could give.
That scared him more than pressure ever could.
His phone buzzed again.
Zenith: No matter how slow this goes… I'm not leaving.
Draven stared at the message for a long time before replying.
Draven: Then don't rush me.
Zenith: I won't.
Draven exhaled, tension easing just slightly.
Outside, the city kept moving. Fans kept watching. Secrets kept piling up.
But for now—for just this moment—Draven allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was something he didn't have to run from.
And that thought stayed with him long after the lights went out.