Isaiah didn't wake to an alarm.
For a moment, that alone made it feel wrong.
The room was still dark, heavy with a quiet he wasn't used to. No sirens outside. No voices through walls. No rattling pipes or neighbors moving too loudly in the early hours. The bed beneath him was too soft, cradling him in a way that made it hard to tell where his body ended and the mattress began.
Then memory settled in.
The house.
The room.
The paper waiting on the bed.
Isaiah opened his eyes slowly.
He was still there.
Before he could sit up, the door opened.
Zayne stepped inside without hesitation, already dressed, composed in a way that made it clear his day had started long before Isaiah's had. He didn't apologize for waking him. He didn't announce himself. He simply existed in the room like it was expected.
"You're awake," Zayne said calmly, as if he'd known Isaiah would be.
Isaiah pushed himself upright, the sheets whispering against his skin. "Yeah."
Zayne gestured toward the bathroom. "Brush your teeth. Shower. Clothes are laid out."
No demand. No raised voice. Just instruction.
Isaiah hesitated only a second before nodding and standing. His feet sank into the carpet, thick and plush, unfamiliar beneath his soles. He moved into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and stared at his reflection for a long moment.
He looked the same.
But the room didn't.
The shower was already warm when he turned it on. He let the water run over him longer than necessary, steam filling the space, loosening something tight in his chest. It felt indulgent. It felt wrong. But his body welcomed it anyway.
When he stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, he noticed the clothes laid out on the bed.
Not just clothes.
An outfit.
Everything was his exact size. Tailored. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Expensive without even trying to look like it. The shoes alone probably cost more than his rent.
Isaiah swallowed.
He dressed slowly, aware of every weird unfamiliar texture against his skin. The clothes fit him like they'd been made for him which only made the feeling even worse. When he finally looked at himself in the mirror again, the difference was subtle but unmistakable.
He looked… kept.
Zayne was waiting when he stepped back into the room.
He glanced at Isaiah once, brief and assessing, then turned toward the hall. "Breakfast."
The dining room looked the same as the night before—orderly, quiet, deliberate. Food waited on the table, warm and real and more than Isaiah was used to seeing at once. Zayne sat and began eating without ceremony.
Isaiah followed suit.
They ate in silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly but weighted. Isaiah was aware of every bite, every swallow, the way his body responded almost immediately to proper food. Zayne noticed too. He always noticed.
After breakfast, Zayne stood. "We're leaving."
The drive was quiet.
The car was immaculate, the city muted behind tinted windows. Isaiah watched familiar streets pass by, but they looked different from this angle, from this height. He felt removed from them, insulated.
When they pulled up to the school, Zayne didn't get out right away.
Instead, he handed Isaiah a folded sheet of paper.
"Your schedule."
Isaiah opened it—and froze.
Same classes.
Same times.
Same buildings.
He looked up. "This… this is yours."
Zayne shrugged lightly. "Adjustments were made."
"That's not—" Isaiah stopped himself, choosing his words carefully. "That's not normal."
Zayne met his gaze, expression unreadable. "Neither is your situation."
Then he opened the door.
They moved through the day together, though not always side by side. Sometimes Zayne was there unmistakable, controlling space without effort. Sometimes he wasn't, and that absence felt just as noticeable.
People noticed.
Whispers followed Isaiah down hallways. Glances lingered. Someone commented quietly on his clothes. On his shoes. On how close he'd been with Zayne. On the fact that they shared every class now.
By the time the final hours went by at two, Isaiah's head was pounding.
They got back into the car without speaking.
A few minutes into the drive, Isaiah reached into his bag and pulled out the contract.
Zayne didn't look over. Didn't rush him.
Isaiah signed.
The pen felt heavier than it should have.
Zayne's mouth curved slightly—not a smile. Something quieter. "Welcome to your new life."
They stopped at Isaiah's old apartment on the way back.
Zayne didn't come inside.
Isaiah stood in the doorway, taking in the cramped space, the peeling paint, the silence that suddenly felt hollow instead of safe. He packed lightly. Clothes. A few books. Things that mattered enough to keep, but not enough to weigh him down.
When he came back out, Zayne was waiting, patient.
They returned to the house just after three.
Isaiah put his things away in the room that still didn't feel real. At four, Zayne was there again.
"Change," he said. "We're starting now."
The training room was clean and bright. Equipment lined the walls, untouched. Zayne didn't push him hard. He watched. Corrected posture. Adjusted grip. Gave instructions that focused on form, not speed.
Isaiah's arms shook sooner than he wanted them to.
"You're slender," Zayne said, matter-of-fact. "That will change."
Isaiah didn't argue.
An hour later, his body ached in a way that felt unfamiliar but promising. When Zayne finally nodded, satisfied, Isaiah realized he was exhausted—and fed. Structured. Accounted for.
That night, as he lay in bed again, the room quiet and heavy around him, Isaiah understood something he hadn't before.
This wasn't temporary.
And somewhere in the house, Zayne sat with a pen in his hand, already planning what Isaiah would become.