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“Zen… Stay with me.” You haven’t asked for much all week. The ordeal with the hacker and Rika’s apartment has been stressful bordering on terrifying, but you’ve managed to keep it together for the sake of everyone else. Now, though, it’s late and you’re exhausted, but you don’t think you’ll be able to sleep alone.
You’re grateful for Zen. He’s offered comfort freely up until this point; even when he himself was struggling, he’s still managed to smile in front of you. Looking at him now, you’re reminded of holding his hand on the rooftop a few nights ago. It feels like a lifetime ago, after everything else that’s happened, but the warmth of it still radiates through you.
You amend the previous statement in your head. You haven’t asked for much all week, but you haven’t really had to.
The paradox of Zen’s aura is something you wrestle with. He has all of the energy of a golden retriever—he tells you everything he’s thinking, bouncing from subject to subject on the phone, he works out at least twice a day, he stays up until late at night and wakes up early in the morning. He’s bright and dynamic and animated. Despite all of this, though, his aura is one of intense calm. You feel safe and soothed around him in a way that defies logical explanation.
It’s possible that his lack of filter gives you peace of mind—you don’t think that he’d even consider lying to you, so you trust him implicitly. It’s also possible that his bright energy gives you less room for your own worried thoughts.
Really, the reason for the feeling isn’t one you have to understand. It’s enough just to bask in it. That is, of course, when he isn’t quiet and uncomfortable, sitting rigid at the end of his bed as if moving any closer might cause the earth to fold in on itself.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” you elaborate, “I’d feel safer if you stayed here.”
“I… Um… Now that’s not…” Zen stutters. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” He looks away, overcome and embarrassed by the idea like a schoolgirl with a first crush. It makes you feel a little better to have broken through the ice, but not much.
“Zen.” You let your voice go a little stern to catch his attention. “If it makes you uncomfortable, that’s one thing, but I’m telling you I want you to stay.” You pat the bed next to you. The sheets are soft and warm from the dryer. He washed his bed and remade it just for you to sleep in. You’re wearing one of his shirts as pajamas. After all of the danger of the day before, you’re soothed by the scent of his detergent and cologne around you, but it isn’t a replacement for the man himself.
“Alright.” His face is uncharacteristically serious as he ventures closer to you on the bed. He moves from the far end to your side, still careful, sitting with his back to you but letting his hand fall to rest on the blanket over your legs. “How about I stay until you fall asleep?”
“Sure.” If that’s the compromise he needs to make, you’re alright with it.
He gives you a gentle pat and stands. “Let me go change.”
“Promise you’ll come back?”
He flashes a smile and a wink over his shoulder. “Of course.”
You settle into the bed and plug your phone in and set it on Zen’s nightstand. There’s a well-annotated script and a book there, as well as Zen’s phone already plugged into a charger adjacent to yours. You’ve noticed that he doesn’t so much as glance at his phone when you’re with him—it’s been plugged in and on the nightstand long before bedtime.
When Zen returns, you’re tucked under the soft covers, already feeling yourself fading into a sleepy haze. He pauses in the doorway with a fond look in his eyes. He’s wearing pink silk pajama bottoms and a white shirt. You don’t take him for the type to sleep fully clothed and hold back a giggle at the thought of him doing so just for your sake.
“Come here,” you say, reaching out an arm toward him from beneath the covers.
Zen turns off the light, leaving the room illuminated only by a small lamp on the side table. He crawls into bed on all fours, then stops just beside you, sitting up on his knees. He takes your outreached hand, presses his thumb into the center of your palm.
“Are you sure?” He leans forward and kisses the inside of your wrist. He’s more cautious with casual affection than you expected him to be; his lips barely make contact with your skin. “I’ll sleep in here if you’re sure.”
“Only if you want to.”
You squeeze him back. You’ve come to learn that his hands are always cold, but you’ve decided that you don’t mind sharing your warmth.
“Okay.” He speaks against the back of your hand, then punctuates with another kiss there. “I’ll stay.”
You smile at him, feeling an overwhelming fondness at his gentle care for you, and at the way bold, confident Zen has turned shy and careful behind closed doors. He’s confident and easygoing in the chatroom, but contemplative and soft in your presence now. You like him both ways, but seeing this version of him feels like a hard-won privilege.
Pulling back the covers for him, you watch Zen settle into bed, feeling yourself unable to suppress a smile. His hair is loose from its usual ponytail, fanning over his broad shoulders and hiding his pink-tinge cheeks. He’s strikingly beautiful, still inspiring a sort of reverent awe in you despite all the time you’ve spent with him already. You think that it might take a lifetime to appreciate all the subtle nuances—the cute crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the soft curve of his pink lips, the freckles on his nose that you can only see at a close distance.
You don’t dwell much in conversation on how pretty you think he is, because you think he’s probably heard anything you could possibly say a million times before. This time you can’t help yourself.
“You’re gorgeous.” You take a strand of his hair in hand, pulling it through two fingers, watching it glisten in the low light.
Zen keeps his distance as he settles in, laying on his side facing you. He tucks a hand under his chin, grinning like he can’t help himself. “I usually sleep on that side.”
“Do you want to switch?”
He chuckles, his nose scrunching at the thought. “No.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep?”
“Probably not,” he says, “but I’ll try.”
Instead of speaking, you reach forward to offer a hand. Zen takes without hesitation.
“Are you anxious?” Zen punctuates the question with a kiss on your knuckles. “After everything that’s happened today?”
“A bit.” You know that he can tell that you’re anxious. There’s no use in denying it.
He kisses your hand again, then pulls your hand to his chest, cradling your arm in his. “I know it’s difficult, but forget everything you saw today. I’m here with you.” He squeezes your fingers. “Okay?”
You nod, scooting a little closer. After seeming to carefully deliberate over his next movement for a moment, Zen smoothes a hand through your hair, then lets his hand fall to your waist.
“How about I read to you until you fall asleep? Would that help? Here…” He props himself up on his elbow and reaches over you to the nightstand. “I have this book of short stories I bought to practice as monologues.”
You giggle, feeling better just at the thought. “Sure.”
“Alright, here.” He turns to lay on his back, then scoots so that you can lay your head on his chest while he props the book open in front of him. “How about Cinderella?”
“Sure.” You’re happy just to hear have him close. It’s clear that the act of reading is meant to calm his nerves as much as it’s meant to comfort you.
He clears his throat and begins. “Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Cinderella. Her mother passed away when she was a baby, and she lived with her father. One day, her father brought her a new stepmother and stepsisters…”
As he reads, the anxiety in your body gives way to the exhaustion it had been distracting you from. You let your eyes close and snuggle closer into Zen’s chest.
“Babe? Are you listening?”
You give only a noncommittal hum, expecting Zen to continue reading. Instead, you hear him close the book and set it aside. He wraps his other arm around your waist, cautious and gentle so as not to disturb you. Reaching over you, he turns off the lamp.
“…You know, most women empathize with Cinderella as they read her story, right?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper. It’s as if he’s talking to himself. “But I feel like I’m Cinderella. I mean, my parents are not bad people… but the part about her struggling a lot.” He takes a deep breath, your head rises and falls with the movement of his chest. “But I met my Prince Charming. You are so strong.”
In an effort not to startle him, you slow your breathing and stay still. There’s a shift in his behavior, as if he thinks you’re asleep. He’s not more bold than he would be awake, but maybe a touch more earnest.
He continues, “I really wanted to tell you that. That I’ve been bewitched since the moment I saw you. I want to be a better person to you, my Prince Charming.”
You stir, desire to return Zen’s proclamation overtaking desire to stay pretending to sleep. “Zen…”
“Oh.” He gives a halfhearted chuckle. “You’re still awake.”
It’s not the moment to laugh, so you suppress it, but of course you’re still awake. He’d only read three lines of the story before deciding that you’d fallen asleep.
“I’m happy to be your Prince Charming,” you say. You shift to look up at him, wishing you could see his expression more clearly in the dark.
A number of things implied by his confession are clear to you, and you want to savor them individually. Understanding Zen feels like loving him. Loving him feels completely inevitable.
Zen grumbles, “Now I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” You mean it. Every bit of vulnerability that you’ve seen from him has felt sacred and sweet. As much as you adore his confidence, you want to adore him holistically—even if it makes your heart ache to know the depths of his insecurities and doubts.
Cinderella, after all, is not a story about a Princess winning her title by talent or wit. You understand implicitly that Zen sees his success as luck, that he sees adoration for him as fleeting. The proverbial clock striking midnight might take away all of the things he’s worked so hard for, leaving him alone in his old rags.
You need him to know that this won’t ever happen.
“I don’t think I saved you,” you tell him, “but I’m happy to be your prince.”
He hums, shifting to pull you even closer. “Alright.”
“Zen.” You reach up and press a lingering kiss to his jaw. “The spell isn’t gonna break, you know?”
For a long moment, you can only hear his breathing. You wonder if he might have fallen asleep. Then, he squeezes you tight again. “I know.”