The first time the two of you run into her, Zayne’s body goes rigid. You’re on your way to lunch at a noodle restaurant he scoped out a few weeks prior after developing a feel for your tastes. She’s dressed in her hunter uniform, which means she’s working another weekend shift, against her doctor’s orders. He wonders how much sleep she’s getting, and if she’s eating a full three meals.
Zayne’s mind runs from him as he stares at her, losing track of what’s happening in his body, forgetting who’s tucked up against his side. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s begun to grip your hand until you give his a gentle, questioning squeeze. The pressure and warmth of your fingers should ground him, but it’s been a while since he’s seen her outside the office. Thoughts of her and her wellbeing form out of habit, one he continues to struggle to break.
If you were less observant, perhaps he could explain away his sudden change in demeanor, but Zayne has always liked his women knife sharp. Words have failed him in the past. The sentences he strings together are always too curt, too short, too clinical to carry a conversation or make his true feelings known. One must look not only at what he has said, but at what his actions convey if they want to understand him.
(He does not tell her that he missed her, only that he checked the weather where she stayed.)
You’re fluent in latent content—it’s one of the many things he likes about you—which is how he knows you don’t miss the way his eyes flick to her. Or that he can’t seem to peel them away. You frown, but say nothing, which makes him feel like a fucking jackass. She doesn’t want him. Not in this life. And, he’s risking whatever he has with you by staring at her, at the woman who left him, at the woman who never stays.
You wait until you’re back at his place to ask about her. Your tone is soft, curious, but your eyes are unable to meet his. They keep looking over his shoulder or at his feet.
“Who is she?” you want to know, only he doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how he could possibly begin to explain to you that he’s known for her lifetimes without sounding like some delusional, lovesick pup still hung up on his ex.
“A wraith,” he tells you since that’s as close to the truth as he can get. “She’s someone from my past.”
You hum, then add, “I figured. It looked like you saw a ghost when we crossed paths with her.”
Zayne wishes you were angry—he feels better equipped for that—but you just sound sad. It makes his heart feel unusually heavy. It aches, like it may drop out from behind his ribs and leave a dark cavity in his chest.
“About your ex,” he starts, though he isn’t quite sure where he’s going with this. The night you first met, you cried to Zayne about them, but they haven’t come up since.
“Would you believe me if I told you they were a hunter too?”
Zayne doesn’t miss how you speak of them in the past tense.
You look at him finally, and there is pain in your eyes; they glisten with something all too familiar to him. “They died,” you say, voice thick with grief, “protecting the city from Wanders.”
This, at least, is something Zayne understands. He meets grief life after life, two old, begrudging friends.
“You never told me,” he says.
You shrug, “Most people don’t like to talk about death.”
“No,” you agree, “you’re not.”
Zayne thinks of the jasmine you brought him your first night over. True to your word, you help him dry the plant so he can keep it forever. He thinks of what you told him that first night, when he nearly collapsed at the sight of the taunting white petals. You told him what humans perceive as death is just energy changing form. Perhaps that belief formed in the aftermath of your exes passing.
“Do you believe in past lives?” he asks.
Your brows knit together as you give the question some thought.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” you eventually reply. “If nothing is ever added or subtracted from the universe, an argument could be made in its favor. Why do you ask? Is she from one of yours?”
“She is,” he tells you. “She’s from quite a few.”
“Oh,” you reply as you look away from him. Your frown deepens, and Zayne hates that there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “I think this might be my first life. My first human one anyway. I was probably a bird before this. A flighty one like an arcticyon or something.”
Sometimes, Zayne can’t believe you’re real.
“It’s a privilege to have met you here, then,” he tells you. “And, I’ll look forward to meeting you again.”
You flash him a small smile, “You think you’ll find me in the next one?”
He returns the fond look you give him, “I will certainly try.”
