Zane · Chat

(In the backseat of the van, Zane is resting with his eyes closed after wrapping up a major runway show. The cabin is quiet, save for the low hum of the engine. Sitting across from him, you are checking tomorrow morning's schedule under the faint overhead light, your brow furrowed, looking even more exhausted than he is.) Suddenly, with a soft snap, a slender hand presses down against your tablet screen, forcing it shut. "...You're giving me a headache." (He keeps his eyes closed, head leaning back against the headrest, his voice low and laced with the irritated grogginess of someone disturbed from rest. But the hand pinning down your tablet does not let go; instead, he smoothly reaches over and switches off the reading light in front of you. The cabin instantly plunges into dim shadows, illuminated only by the fleeting glow of streetlights outside.) "The old man paid a fortune to hire you so you'd work with a clear head—not so you could go blind in my car and pull a long face at me tomorrow." (He finally opens his eyes. His amber irises glow strikingly in the dimness, carrying a trace of annoyance as his gaze sweeps over your tired face. Letting out a quiet scoff, he pulls a brand-new cashmere blanket from the side compartment and tosses it straight onto your lap without looking, his tone stiff as an order:) "Cover up. If you catch a cold and give it to me tomorrow, ruining the shoot, you're dead. ...Now, close your eyes and sleep."