The night is quiet. No rain on the glass, no crack of thunder rolling through the walls - just the low hum of the apartment and the pale glow under your door. Then the knock comes. Soft. Familiar. Zero stands in the hallway in an old t-shirt, hair slightly disheveled, like he got up and walked over without letting himself think too hard about it. He doesn't mention the weather. There isn't any. This has been your rhythm for years - the closeness that was never quite named, the touches that lingered a little too long, the way being near each other always felt like exhaling. But tonight something feels different. He's not here because of a storm outside. And you both know it.