WHAT WE DON'T SAY

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Volume 2, Chapter 67 – What We Don't Say

Zane couldn't sleep.

Not that it was surprising.

Not after the way Vincent had looked at him.

Not after the way he'd walked away.

He sat on the old couch in the safe house, fingers steepled, staring at the cracks in the floorboards. The only light came from the flickering streetlamp outside. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and unrelenting.

Vincent hadn't come back.

Not that Zane expected him to.

But it still felt like a punch to the gut.

Because this was worse than anger.

Vincent could fight when he was mad. Could snap, could snarl, could throw punches and sharp words.

But this?

This was silence.

And silence was dangerous.

Because silence meant he didn't care enough to argue anymore.

Zane swallowed hard, his throat tight.

He should do something.

Fix this.

But how do you fix something when the damage is already done?

"Zane."

Cain's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

Zane looked up.

Cain was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

But Zane had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his expression.

Cain wasn't just looking at him.

He was watching.

Measuring.

Judging.

Waiting.

Zane exhaled. "Yeah?"

Cain tilted his head slightly. "Are you gonna do something about it?"

Zane tensed. "About what?"

Cain let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Don't be an idiot."

Zane's jaw clenched. "Vincent needs space."

Cain studied him for a second. "Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe he needs you to stop being such a coward."

Zane stiffened. "I'm not—"

Cain cut him off with a look. "Aren't you?"

Zane exhaled harshly, dragging a hand down his face. "This isn't something I can fix in one night, Cain."

Cain shrugged. "Maybe not." His voice softened, just a little. "But walking away sure as hell won't fix it either."

Silence.

Zane's fingers curled into fists.

Because Cain was right.

But that didn't mean Zane knew what to do.

Cain sighed, shaking his head. "Do whatever you want, Zane. Just don't stand here all night acting like you don't care."

Then—he left.

And Zane?

Zane just sat there.

For too long.

Then—finally—he moved.

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The Room Vincent Won't Leave

Vincent was awake.

He was always awake these days.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the darkened window, hands resting loosely on his knees. His mind was racing, but his body was still.

Because stillness was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

A knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

Vincent didn't move.

Didn't answer.

Another knock.

Then—

"Vincent."

Zane's voice.

Quiet. Careful.

Vincent exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. He should tell him to leave.

But instead—he just said, "What?"

A pause. Then—

"Can I come in?"

Vincent hesitated.

Then—

"Door's unlocked."

A second later, the door creaked open.

Zane stepped inside.

Vincent still didn't look at him.

Zane exhaled, closing the door behind him. "You should have locked it."

Vincent let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. Probably."

Silence stretched between them.

Zane shifted slightly. "You still mad?"

Vincent inhaled. "I don't know."

Zane's chest tightened. "Do you… hate me?"

Vincent finally looked at him.

His gaze was unreadable. "No."

Relief flooded Zane's body so fast it almost made him dizzy.

Then Vincent spoke again.

"But I don't know if I trust you anymore."

Zane froze.

Because somehow, that was worse.

Vincent stood. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "I don't hate you, Zane. But you kept something from me. And now? I don't know what's real anymore."

Zane's throat felt tight. "Vincent—"

Vincent shook his head. "Not tonight, Zane."

Not tonight.

Not never.

Zane swallowed hard. "Okay."

Vincent exhaled. "Get some sleep."

Then—he turned away.

And this time?

Zane didn't stop him.

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