Zane had already left by the time Willow woke.
The apartment was quiet in the particular way it became only after he had moved through it with intention, the kind of quiet that carried traces rather than absence. The scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air, richer than usual, layered with something warm and sweet beneath it.
She found the cup waiting for her in the kitchen, still covered, heat preserved, placed precisely where she would look first. Beside it sat a small box from the bakery downstairs, its logo familiar, its contents unmistakably indulgent. Inside, the pastries were arranged with care, not chosen at random but selected with knowledge, the kind he knew she preferred without needing to ask.
There was no note.
There never was.
Zane did not announce his consideration. He embedded it.
