cinnamonxbug

[cinnamonxbug]

Love, Unexpected

Zayne x Reader

An unexpected pregnancy shakes your world to its core, but Zayne is unshakable. Through tears, fear, and quiet moments of laughter, his steady hands and boundless love pull you back from the edge. As he guides you through uncertainty with warmth, patience, and unwavering devotion, you find yourself not just grappling with your future, but falling even deeper for the man who feels like home and the life you’re beginning to imagine together.

Word Count: 56k

18+ Warning: explicit content/contemplation on keeping or terminating pregnancy--no minors!--fiance!Zayne, angst, hurt/comfort, domestic as hell, fluff, smut, lots of crying, soft dom Zayne, use of pet names, oral sex, penetration, squirting

My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 Link🩵Ko-Fi

You stirred before your eyes even opened—your body knowing before your mind could catch up that something was different. That something was missing. The air was still. The mattress beneath you, too smooth. Too cold on your left side. And your cheek…It wasn’t nestled into the steady rise and fall of Zayne’s chest, or tucked beneath the firm curve of his shoulder like it usually was. No. It was pressed into the soft dip of his pillow, still warm from the imprint he’d left behind.

Your lips parted around a slow, sleepy exhale. Warm breath curled past your nose in a lazy puff as you instinctively nuzzled deeper into the hollow where he’d been, seeking the ghost of his presence. The cotton still held him, still smelled like him. Clean linen, the faint sweetness of jasmine clinging to his skin from the lotion you both shared, and—faintest of all—that sterile, almost metallic scent he always brought home from the hospital. The one no amount of soap could ever fully erase. It didn’t smell clinical. It didn’t smell like antiseptic. It smelled like Zayne.

The second it touched your senses, something in your body relaxed. Your heart slowed. Your thoughts softened like snow falling into silence. His scent hit your nervous system like a sedative, curling around your spine and pulling you gently back toward him��even though he wasn’t there.

Beneath the covers, your fingers twitched. Then flexed. Then curled tight into the folds of the duvet as your eyes finally fluttered open, still blurred at the edges with sleep. It was dark—comfortably so. The only illumination came from the soft red digits on the clock beside his side of the bed: 4:32 a.m.

You sighed. For a second, you thought maybe he’d just gone to sit in the living room. He had insomnia sometimes—always had. You’d long since learned the sound of his quiet exits, the way he moved across the floor with deliberate care to not wake you. Sometimes he’d read on the couch. Sometimes he’d just sit there in silence, lost in his own mind until the first trace of sunrise.

But then you heard it. Water. The steady hiss of a shower running, muffled through the closed door—not from the master bathroom connected to your bedroom, but from the one downstairs. And that could only mean one thing. Zayne had been called in for an emergency shift. You knew the pattern by heart. If he came home late, early, or anytime in between, he never used the suite shower if you were sleeping. Not once in the two and a half years you’d been together—not when you were just dating, not once after moving in, and certainly not since he’d put a ring on your finger. It was one of those quiet habits he never talked about but never broke.

He’d always whisper for you to go back to sleep if you stirred in the early mornings, but you never listened. You were always up within minutes anyway. Feet bare on cold hardwood, shuffling out in one of his long T-shirts to see him off or welcome him home. Sometimes you found him pulling his coat on at the front door, sleepy yet wired with adrenaline. Other times you’d find him tiptoeing through the bedroom in the dark, heading straight for the bathroom to find his eyedrops and relieve his eyes. His steps were always careful. Quiet. You’d watch him lean over the sink with that faint crease between his brows, blinking slowly as sterile drops soothed away the dryness of concentrated strain.

But right then? You were still wrapped in his side of the bed, sleep clinging to you like fog, your body unwilling to rise just yet even though your instincts begged you to. You could still hear the water. Could feel him moving around downstairs even if you weren’t watching it happen. And now that you knew he was there…You didn’t want to sleep. You just wanted him. To wish him a good day and a safe drive. To tell him you couldn’t wait for him to come home and you could spend what was supposed to be a day off for him, with him.

You rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt, the shift in blankets peeling away all the warmth you’d built up over the last several hours. The cold hit your bare skin like a splash of ice water, sharp and rude against the curve of your back and thighs. You immediately curled in on yourself, arms wrapped loosely across your chest, shoulders hunched as you stepped gingerly across the floor. The hardwood chilled your soles. You hissed under your breath.

You’d fallen asleep in nothing but your underwear again. Too fucked out and drowsy to let Zayne slide a shirt over your head last night—too drunk on his mouth, his hands, his weight pinning you to the mattress. He always tried to cover you when you passed out that way, but you always had the same sleepy excuse when he teased you for it later—that you preferred to have your big snowman warm you up.

Still curled tight against the chill, you padded across the room and slid open the closet doors with a low, familiar whisper of wood on metal. The soft scent of his laundry detergent hit you immediately—something clean and understated, woven into cotton and pressed against your memory. Your fingers passed your own side of the closet without a second thought. You pulled one of Zayne’s shirts from the hanger—one of his soft, well-worn ones, light gray and long sleeved—and slipped it on over your head. The fabric draped down to your lower thighs, swallowing your frame in warmth and scent and him. You straightened out the loose fabric, blinking sleepily as the oversized collar settled against your collarbone.

A slow yawn tugged at your jaw as you shuffled toward the bathroom, heavy-footed and half-dreaming. The light inside was off—good. You cracked the door open and flipped the switch. The burst of fluorescent light hit you like a scream. You winced hard, one eye squeezing shut, hand shielding your face like the brightness might melt your skull open. It was too much. Everything felt dry and bleary and swollen. But you wanted to see him, so you powered through, blinking against the sting as you reached for your toothbrush and paste.

But you gagged the second it scraped the back of your tongue, unprepared. You coughed into the sink, eyes watering, hand bracing the porcelain. Your stomach gave a low, sharp cramp that made you curl forward, wincing as you spat. You stayed hunched over for a second, collecting yourself before continuing more carefully, more slowly, spitting and rinsing again. The cool water eased the flush in your cheeks as you splashed it over your face. The sting behind your eyes faded, but a headache in the background didn’t. You dried your face slowly, pressing the towel to your skin like the pressure could settle your pulse.

Then you turned off the light, stepped back into the quiet darkness of the bedroom, and made your way out the door. The floor was colder outside the warmth of the master. You padded toward the stairs, one hand brushing the railing as your bare feet moved softly, sleepily, through the familiar passageway. The water had stopped. Zayne was done taking his shower. You could smell his soap in the air now—fresh and faintly herbal—still humid from the steam wafting from beneath the bathroom door, light glowing faintly under the frame.

You made sure your steps were audible, enough to be heard over the settling quiet of early morning, but not sharp. You didn’t want to startle him when his mind was already half in the OR. You paused outside the door, shirt hem brushing the tops of your thighs, and yawned softly, “Zayniiie?”

You pushed the door open slowly, careful not to creak the hinges, and the first thing you saw was him —reflected clean and still a little sleepy in the hazy mirror above the sink. His green eyes found yours immediately through the unfogged part of glass, like he’d been waiting for you to come find him. Not surprised. Not startled. Just watching. His expression was unreadable at first glance, that usual surgeon’s focus on his brow, but there was something unmistakably softer in his eyes.

Zayne stood in his white robe, the thick terrycloth slung loose around his hips, as if even tying the knot fully had felt like too much effort this early. His chest was bare, toned and pale, still beaded with water from the shower. Droplets slid lazily down the middle of his torso, gathering briefly in the shallow groove between his abs before vanishing into the folds of the robe. His hair was wet, flattened slightly at the crown in that chaotic, post-shower way you loved—black strands clinging to his forehead, accentuating the soft shadow above the little bump on the bridge of his sharp nose. He was shaving—razor held in one hand, towel draped lazily over the other side of the sink. His jaw was still layered in white foam. He hadn’t even made the first stroke yet.

You crossed the tile on bare feet, your thighs prickling from the contrast between cold hallway air and steamy warmth curling around the bathroom. You didn’t speak. Just moved straight for him, drawn by something deeper than habit, heavier than routine. You came up behind him slowly, drawn like heat to skin, and slid your arms around his waist from behind. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let you melt into him.

You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and let your eyes drift closed, body folding gently into the curve of his back. He was still damp, his skin radiating warmth from the shower, the muscles under your arms flexing subtly with every breath he took. You inhaled. Deep. Long. His scent—clean water, warm cotton, faint soap, filled your lungs like oxygen. Like medicine. Like a cure you didn’t realize you’d needed until it was already inside you. It filled your nose as you breathed him in, slow and deep and wanting, your lashes fluttering against the muscle beneath your cheek as your body melted further into the cradle of his broad back.

His hand lowered the razor to the edge of the sink, fingertips barely brushing porcelain. And then he reached for your hands, still clasped around his waist. His fingers found yours and squeezed. Not tight. Just a touch. Just enough.

“It’s five in the morning,” he said softly, “you should be in bed, now that you finally put on a shirt. Are you barefoot—“

“—Shhh,” you gently shushed him, letting your thumb caress the soft, hot, damp skin of his abdomen exposed between his loose robe.

Zayne sighed but he relented as always. You’d think by now he’d learn to live with you sneaking out of bed to see him off for those sudden, emergency calls to cover help at Akso Hospital. He’d think you’d learn to stay in bed and stay warm and catch precious sleep when you knew he’d be back by the afternoon. But neither of you ever learned. You always chose each other.

“…Patient in his early sixties,” he began softly, tipping his head back as he dragged the razor up his neck, “he came in just last week with a heart murmur, fever, and chills.”

You listened to him turn on the sink, wash his blade, turn it off, resting your eyes against the softness of his robe as you felt his shoulder blades gently move through it. You had no idea what he was talking about. You never did. But you loved to listen to him talk. It lulled you. Calmed you.

“They found bacterial endocarditis on his mitral valve,” Zayne continued, dragging the razor slowly over the next section of his throat, “antibiotics were helping, but his last echo showed a flail leaflet and signs of early heart failure.”

“Mm…” You hummed quietly, breathing in his warmth, his scent.

“The infection chewed right through the valve tissue,” he rinsed the blade, tilting his head to get the side of his throat, “he urgently needs a replacement, but Doctor Aaron got tied up in a post-trauma thoracic bleed, so they asked me to step in.”

“Mhmm…” You hummed again, leaning some weight against the comfort of his tall frame.

“He’s stable for now, but we can’t let it go another day,” Zayne began with his chin and jaw, “he’s one embolus away from a stroke, or worse.”

You kept listening to the sound of his voice, the slow drag of his razor across skin that barely grew any visible hair, water hitting the porcelain sink.

“They’ve already began prepping the OR,” he dragged across his cheek, “I’ll be scrubbed in by six thirty.”

Zayne finished his shave and rinsed the razor off, putting it away. He leaned down and splashed his face clean with you still gently clinging onto him, sleepy in the way you followed his movements. He dried himself over a towel and motioned to turn until you let him, your arms still hung around his hips when he faced you and looked down at your sleepy face. His large hands rose to cup your jaw, holding it up for you as you blinked up at him, tired.

“I should be home by two, maybe one depending on the reconstruction needs,” he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs as you sleepily nodded, “okay?”

“Okay…” You murmured.

He leaned down and kissed your forehead, his breath minty as he whispered, “let me tuck you back in. The sooner you fall asleep and stay asleep, the sooner it’ll be for you to see me when I get home.”

You smiled at the thought, “if you say so…”

Zayne held your hand in his, guiding you out of the bathroom with him. He walked you back up the stairs, back to the dark bedroom where your tired eyes felt instant relief. You crawled into the large bed, settling comfortably into his side of it, face half buried into his pillow as you inhaled his scent again while he tucked you in gently with a smile.

“I know, baby. I already miss you too,” he whispered, knowing from the way you cuddled his pillow, from the way you breathed in what you had left of him until he’d be back in your arms in several lonely hours.

You grabbed his scarred hand before he could turn in direction of the closet, “don’t forget to eat, at least…You need food.”

“I know,” he chuckled at his own words being used against him, “I’m taking the left overs. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I don’t forget to eat.”

“Did you really like my chicken, last night?” You asked quietly, watching him open the sliding door of the large closet.

“I did,” he reassured you again since yesterday’s dinner you cooked, “you got the recipe just right, I told you. It tasted just like my mom’s. Maybe for Christmas this year, you should make it again so we can really impress her with—“

“—Noooo,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head.

“Yes,” he said with a soft smile, plucking a crisp white button-up from its hanger before reaching for a pair of tailored black slacks, “she knows how much I love your cooking from how much I brag to her and my dad. I want her to try it and love it as much as I do.”

A small, involuntary whine escaped you at the mention of impressing Zayne’s parents. They adored you already, treated you as one of their own—but the thought of preparing a full meal without his guiding presence? Intimidating, to say the least. Especially when it came to making his mom’s signature Sān Bēi Jī. God help you. It was far too early to spiral into that anxiety.

“And then,” he went on, unfazed by your growing nerves, as he selected one of his many black ties with unhurried precision, “I’ll challenge her and my dad to impress us with a dessert we pick. That seems like a good trade-off.”

He laid the neat ensemble across the bed—shirt, slacks, tie—beside the blanketed swell of your feet, adding a folded pair of briefs and matching black socks retrieved from the bedframe drawer. The quiet rustle of fabric slipping from his shoulders told you he was shrugging off his robe. You peeked from beneath the blanket, drawn by curiosity—both at the suggestion, and at the silhouette of his naked body now emerging in the dark room.

“Oh yeah?” You asked, voice low as your eyes lingered on the pale contours of him, the smooth line of his back tapering into chisled hips. You watched as he stepped into his briefs and adjusted his package with practiced ease.

“Mhmm,” he murmured, settling beside your knees with a warm, familiar presence, tugging on one sock and then the other, “they’ll have to make whatever we choose from scratch. No bakery shortcuts. No pre-ordered goods.”

The word bakery immediately conjured the pear tarts you’d been craving all week—the ones from Akso Hospital’s café, delicate and flaky with that golden sheen, the ones you’d begged Zayne to pick up for you twice already, since last week. And still, your mouth watered at the memory, the tangy-sweet filling melting on your tongue, the buttery crust crumbling just right.

“Babe,” you blurted, pushing yourself up with a groan that vibrated through your stiff limbs—morning soreness clinging to your body like a second skin. But not even exhaustion could dull the sudden, vivid craving. You caught Zayne mid-motion, a flicker of surprise passing over his face as he paused with his arms halfway through his dress shirt, “can you get me more of those little pear tarts from the hospital’s café today??”

“Again?” He chuckled, smoothing the fabric over his torso as he rose from the bed, fingers already beginning to fasten the buttons, “you’ve been on quite the pear kick lately. It’s strange.”

“I know,” you sighed, the image of those tarts so vivid it was almost torturous. You could already taste them on your tongue, the memory so strong it felt physical. You swallowed hard, trying not to drool like some shameless feral creature as you watched him pick up his pants.

“I thought you liked the pear ones the least,” he said, sliding one leg in, then the other, standing tall as he pulled up the zipper with deft fingers.

“I did,” you admitted, your voice soft with the fog of memory. You watched him move—tucking his shirt with that elegance he always carried, facing the mirror with the same precision he brought to everything, “but I don’t know, maybe I had a bad batch or something, back then. All I know is that they just sound so good right now…”

“At five in the morning?” He arched a single brow, slipping the length of the black tie around his neck. His fingers moved slowly, rhythmically, beginning the knot, “I’ll get two, this time. That way, you can have another one tomorrow if you’re still craving them.”

Zayne straightened his tie with one final, practiced tug as he came closer, the soft hush of his footsteps barely disturbing the pre-dawn quiet. He sat beside you with his usual gravity—unhurried, intentional, every movement speaking of care. His hands found your shoulders with a gentleness that melted straight through you, his touch warm and grounding. Without a word, he guided you down, easing you back into the cradle of the bed, the mattress embracing you again. You gazed up at him, a silent protest in your eyes even as your body relented. But Zayne tucked you in with the reverence of someone handling something sacred. He smoothed the blanket over your frame and gave a soft, grounding pat just over your heart.

“But right now, it’s time for you to go back to sleep, honey,” he leaned close, his lips brushing the edge of your ear, his voice a velvet whisper, “it’s important for you to get rest. Studies show women need more sleep than men do, so while I’m away, I’d like to know you’re taking care of yourself. We can have pear tarts together when I get home, okay?”

“Okay, Doctor Zayne,” you breathed out a soft laugh, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as his lips pressed to your forehead, firm and lingering like a benediction, “have a good day at work…I love you.”

“And I love you,” he replied, voice low and warm, a tether pulling gently at your chest even as he stood and moved away. The mattress shifted, then stilled, and you felt the air change slightly as he walked off, leaving the scent of his shower and the ghost of his touch behind, “I’ll see you soon, love.”

“Okay…Drive safe,” you murmured, barely audible, watching his tall silhouette until it slipped past the doorway and was gone.

You listened—eyes closed, breath shallow—for the soft, rhythmic echo of his footsteps moving farther from you. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. A pause at the shoe closet. The faint creak of the door, the rustle of fabric, the shift of soles. Then the front door clicked shut behind him. And just like that—silence. The kind that settled not just around you, but in you.

You missed him again. The emptiness in the room was sudden and sharp, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Today was supposed to be his day off. His day off with you. And yes, tomorrow still stretched ahead, untouched and full of promise—but even knowing that didn’t soften the ache gnawing at your chest.

You were greedy for Zayne Li. Unapologetically so. Needy in the way only love could make someone. You wanted his time, his warmth, his sleepy midmorning kisses and lazy laughter echoing in the kitchen while you made breakfast together. You wanted the version of him that only existed in stolen domestic hours—unguarded, soft, completely yours.

But you knew this life now. You’d accepted it with trembling joy the night he knelt before you, diamond ring in hand and devotion in his emerald eyes. Just a month ago—but it felt like that promise had always lived in your bones. Loving Zayne meant loving all of him. Including the part that answered to others. The part that was always needed, always called away to Akso Hospital as a cardiac surgeon—the best of the best, impossibly young, impossibly brilliant.

You’d take it. You’d take all of it if it meant being with him. Being his. You’d take the sacrifices, gladly. You’d take the empty bed on late nights, the early mornings he’d miss without warning, the dinner plans that dissolved with one urgent text. You’d take it all if it meant being his—sharing your life with him, curling into his scarred arms when he got home, hearing his soft voice in the dark when he thought you were already asleep. You’d built a life around those moments, threading meaning into the in-betweens.

Still…There were days you wished he’d slow down. Just a little. Not for lack of love—but because of it. Because you wanted more time with him. More laughter over coffee, more lazy hours tangled in sheets. More of him in your every day. Maybe that made you selfish. Maybe he was a workaholic. But neither of those truths dulled what you felt. You knew him. You loved him. Every piece, every absence, every return. You just…Wished you had more of your sweet, precious fiancé to yourself.

You’d fallen asleep with your face smothered against his pillow, lulled by the familiar scent of him he left behind. When you stirred again, it was to the muffled hum of the gardener outside tending the front lawn. Somewhere below the tall bedroom windows, tools buzzed and leaves rustled, the world already moving.

You blinked open your eyes, greeted by slivers of sunlight piercing through the narrow gaps in the blinds—thin golden lines stretching across the walls, across the empty space beside you where he should’ve been. Your body felt heavy, still caught in the cling of sleep, and you sighed into the quiet. Damn it, Zayne had been right. Again. You really did need more sleep. He always had a way of knowing exactly what you needed before you did, but that didn’t mean you ever listened.

With a slow groan, you rolled out of bed, your limbs stiff and your head still foggy from too few consecutive hours of rest. Or maybe it was the noise outside. Either way, your body wasn’t exactly thrilled. The floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded toward the bathroom, too drowsy to flick on the lights. The natural sunlight spilling in was soft but strong—enough to illuminate the sleepy woman dragging herself through the morning.

You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror: hair a tousled mess, face puffy with sleep. You looked like someone halfway between dreams and responsibility. With a sigh, you slipped your underwear down and plopped onto the toilet, letting your eyes unfocus for a moment as you sat there, suspended in that hazy liminal state between sleep and wakefulness. Then you saw it. A pinkish-red stain in the center of your undies, small but unmistakable. You blinked at it, expression flat, the sight pulling a slow, irritated exhale from your lungs. Of course. Of course!

You hardly ever got your period, thanks to the birth control Zayne had prescribed for you long before the two of you had even started having sex. It had been his way of caring for you, planning ahead, protecting you in the quiet, responsible way only he could. But even with that, every now and then—just a few times a year—your body would surprise you. And now, it made perfect sense. The insatiable craving for sweets. The obsession with pear tarts. The sluggishness in your bones. The aching desire for Zayne’s scent this morning, stronger and more intense than usual—like you were starving for it. Every little sign had been leading here. You were about to get your period.

And of course…By the time you’d rummaged under the sink, you were already down to your last few pads. The half-empty box sat lopsided, taunting you with its scarcity. How perfect. You let out a sigh that bordered on a growl, ripping one from its annoyingly crinkly wrap with more aggression than necessary. The adhesive stuck just slightly off-center to your fresh pair of panties, and the thick cotton pressed between your legs with that all-too-familiar weight—uncomfortable, a little suffocating, and deeply unwelcome.

You groaned at the sensation, dreading the incoming bloating, the dull cramps that always crept in behind your navel like a slow ache, the mood swings, the fear of smelling off. The whole mess of it. At least you didn’t have to work today—or tomorrow. No wanderers to neutralize, no threats to engage, no armor squeezing your waist while your uterus tried to kill you. Small blessings.

You left the bathroom and made your way downstairs, the house echoing in its stillness. Zayne’s absence lingered like a shadow in the corners—everything too quiet, too untouched. You cracked open the blinds one by one, letting slivers of sunlight spill across the furniture in soft, golden lines. A little light, a little warmth. But your stomach was already growling. Or churning. Or…Both?

You felt off—queasy, heavy, uncertain. Was it hunger? Were the cramps beginning? Was this just the slow onset of nausea that sometimes hit you at random during your cycle? You couldn’t tell. But now that you were paying attention, you realized it had been building all week. The discomfort. The cravings. The fatigue. All of it had been there—just subtle enough to ignore, until the few drops of blood made it undeniable. You’d blamed the magnesium supplements at first. They had a way of stirring up your gut, and the timing lined up. It had come and gone in waves, nothing consistent enough to worry about. But today it was louder. More insistent. More annoying.

You reached for your phone with one hand as you padded into the kitchen, floor cool beneath your soles, and shot off a quick text to the one person who always came through.

You: Babe I got my period :( Can you get me some more pads on the way home? I’m down to the last few.

You hit send with a sigh. The kitchen felt too clean. Too quiet. Too empty without Zayne. You opened the photo-covered fridge, standing there for a moment as cool air spilled out and kissed your legs, scanning shelf after shelf for something—anything—that sounded appetizing. But nothing called to you. Not really. The fridge was packed. Abundant. Organized. Of course it was—Zayne had stocked it like the quietly doting partner he always was. There were rows of fresh fruit, washed and ready in glass containers. Crisp vegetables bagged, lean proteins, neatly labeled leftovers. Everything carefully chosen, nutrient-dense, and good for you.

And yet…Your stomach rolled at the thought of most of it. Because of course, your lovely doctor slash fiancé—ironic as it was—had the sweet tooth of a child. A hidden stash of soft pound cake slices and imported taffy, the occasional tub of ice cream wedged behind a bag of spinach in the freezer like he thought you wouldn’t notice. You were just about to abandon the fridge altogether and make a beeline for the snack pantry when—You could practically hear him. That gentle, curious voice in your mind, warm and familiar, asking the same question he always asked during his drive home, like clockwork—What had you eaten today? Not to lecture. Just to know. Just to care.

You sighed, shoulders sinking a little as you closed the fridge door with a quiet thunk. Breakfast first—a healthy one. You moved on autopilot, grabbing three eggs from their carton, a handful of spinach, a couple of ripe tomatoes, shredded cheese from the deli section. You laid everything across the counter with quiet precision, pulling out the skillet, the spatula, the bowl, everything you’d need. The morning light pooled over your workspace as you washed the vegetables, your fingers cold under the stream of water. You cut and diced in steady motions, the rhythm of it grounding you.

You cracked the eggs into the bowl and whisked them briskly, the color soft and golden. Everything mixed together like muscle memory. A familiar comfort. You sprayed the skillet and clicked the burner on, waiting for the heat to rise before slowly pouring the mixture across the surface, letting it fan out and settle to the edges with a soft hiss. The smell hit you almost instantly.

Normally, eggs didn’t bother you much. But today, in your fragile hormonal state, it felt…Sharp. Sulfuric. Too much. You reached up to flick on the fan and then leaned across the sink to crack open the small window above it, letting a breath of outside air drift in to cut the scent. You braced your elbows on the counter for a moment, letting your head hang, eyes closed. The unease in your stomach was creeping back. Hunger? Hormones? Disgust? You weren’t sure. All you knew was that today, everything felt just a little too sensitive, and Zayne wasn’t there to distract you from it.

You took a deep breath to try and steady yourself, but unfortunately, that was all it took. One breath—one single breath of that eggy, sulfur-heavy steam—and your stomach lurched like it had been struck. A sharp, sudden spasm clenched through your gut, brutal and unrelenting, folding you forward as you gagged without warning. It felt like someone had reached into you and twisted your insides with both hands.

You bolted. The trashcan was the nearest thing. You stumbled to it, practically throwing yourself over the edge, your arms braced hard, knuckles white as the burn of bile surged up your throat. You didn’t even have time to think. Your body was already moving, retching, expelling what little it could. Acid flooded your mouth. You coughed, gagged again, thick strings of saliva slipping past your lips. It wasn’t food—it wasn’t anything—just bile. Hot and bitter and brutal. You drooled, coughed, spit again. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, mixing with sweat and nausea and shame.

And the smell—God, the smell of that damn omelette—it was still thick in the air, clinging to your skin and clothes like smoke. You cursed it in your head as you staggered back to the stove, pinching your nose shut, blinking through the blur of tears. You reached blindly for the knob, flicking the burner off, the pan hissing with residual heat.

But the nausea hadn’t passed. You didn’t wait. You bolted again—this time to the bathroom, knees hitting the rug hard as you collapsed in front of the toilet. You barely had the strength to lift the lid. Another wave of dry heaving hit, your body shuddering, throat spasming—but nothing came up. Just air and acid and another stream of helpless, choked sobs.

You stayed there for a long moment, curled and trembling, one hand fisted in your own hair, the other braced against cold porcelain. Your stomach muscles cramped again, still aching from the force of it, but your body had nothing left to give. Just the aftershocks. Just the fatigue. And the tears. Real ones now. From the discomfort, from the disgust, from the burning sting in your throat that refused to go away. The cold bathroom floor pressed through the thin rug, unforgiving beneath your knees, and all you could do was shake, miserable and clammy, waiting to feel like you again.

Eventually, you forced yourself up, limbs sluggish and weak, your body feeling like it didn’t quite belong to you. You shuffled to the sink, too drained to look at your reflection—afraid of what you’d see. Instead, you leaned over the bowl, rinsed your mouth, spit, then did it again, and again. The taste clung, stubborn and foul. You grabbed the mouthwash, swished until your throat burned in a different way, until you lost count of how many times you’d done it.

Finally, you splashed water on your face. The warmth of it only irritated you more—because it wasn’t comfort. It was just sensation. Just more proof of how much your body had turned against you. You pressed your wet palms to your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to hold yourself together, but all you felt was exhaustion and the ache of being so, so done.

As you wiped your face dry with the towel, you felt like absolute shit. Your body was wrecked. Your throat was raw. Your skin still carried a sheen of nausea and embarrassment. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a second too long, towel clutched in your hand, the question pressing into your chest like a bruise—What the hell was wrong with you?

Everything about the morning felt off, sour, unwelcome. One of those days that seemed determined to unravel you. And maybe it wouldn’t have hit so hard—maybe—if Zayne were home. You could see it so vividly in your mind: the moment you’d started gagging, he would’ve dropped everything to help. He’d be kneeling beside you already, holding your hair back with one steady hand, rubbing gentle circles into your back with the other. You could almost feel his palm there now—firm, calming, present. He’d have fetched you water, cool glass in hand, brow furrowed with gentle concern as he asked about your symptoms, assessing you with those sharp but tender doctor’s eyes.

You could hear him in your mind, voice low and clinical but laced with affection: explaining which medication he was going to grab from the small pharmacy he kept tucked away in the kitchen cabinet—telling you what each one would do, why it would help, how often you’d take it. You’d listen to him, not because you had to, but because you wanted to. Because Zayne made even the cold clarity of science feel like love.

He’d guide you to the couch, already fluffing the pillows. He’d sit beside you, gently lifting your legs to rest in his lap, hand instinctively moving to massage your foot, just to comfort you. The TV would be playing something low and mindless, background noise to his care. He’d ask if the pillow felt good like that, or if you’d rather come to bed with him and watch a movie all cuddled up. God, you needed that gentle giant.

You dragged yourself out of the bathroom, every step slow and heavy, stomach still twisted in on itself. You turned the corner into the kitchen and froze for a breath. The air was thick with it—the stale, eggy scent of your failed omelette, like a ghost hovering just out of reach.

You sighed, steeling yourself. Holding your breath, you mustered what little courage you had left and made a beeline straight for the stove. No hesitating. No pity. You grabbed the pan with a dish towel and dumped the half-burnt, half-raw mess directly into the trash with a satisfying plop. The skillet and bowl followed, dumped into the sink with clinks and clatters you didn’t bother softening. Done. Over. Forgotten.

Already turning your back on the scene, you padded toward the living room, the silence of the house only amplifying your exhaustion. You dropped yourself onto the couch with a graceless flop, limbs heavy and useless, like you were sinking straight into the cushions. You grabbed the nearest blanket, pulled it over your chilled legs, and blindly reached for the remote. The TV flickered to life—soft noise, color, something to fill the hollow space.

You felt a little better now—just enough that the nausea had dulled to a quiet churn, something manageable. But in its place, something else began to rise. Something oddly…Urgent. Despite the discomfort still twisting in your gut, your thoughts circled back—relentless, obsessive—to the pear tarts. Again. The ones from Akso Hospital’s café. Not even a full hunger pang this time. You weren’t actually hungry. Your stomach was still uneasy, still sensitive. But your mouth watered at just the thought of them, and the need clawed at you from somewhere deep. Deeper than the usual sugar cravings that came with your cycle. No, this wasn’t hormonal routine. This was something else. Something animal. It felt irrational. Embarrassing, even, but your body didn’t care.

Your stomach pitched a silent tantrum that no amount of logic could soothe. You couldn’t concentrate on the television. The living room was too quiet, the light too soft, your thoughts too loud. If there was anything on Earth that might have helped make you feel better—pull you back into some version of comfort—it was those godforsaken pear tarts.

You flung the blanket off and stood, restless, something between determination and madness buzzing under your skin. Before you even knew it, you were moving up the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other tugging your shirt off as you went. Were you seriously about to drive all the way to Akso Hospital…For fruit tarts? Apparently, yes. Good Lord.

You pulled on a bra with clumsy hands, slipped into a pair of jean shorts, telling yourself it would be quick. Easy. In and out. You could even pick up something sweet for Zayne, too—leave it in his office as a little surprise. A soft smile tried to rise at the thought of him finding it, but your stomach was louder. More demanding.

And then, as you came back down the stairs, something stopped you. You hovered at your purse on the counter. Your fingers didn’t move. Your whole body stilled, like a thread had been tugged from deep inside you. And for the first time, you paused to really think. All this effort—for pear tarts? The intensity of it. The irrationality of it. You could barely stand the idea of waiting a few hours for Zayne to bring them home.

It wasn’t like you. You didn’t even care for the pear ones, not until last week. And now suddenly, it was all you could think about. An insatiable craving, a fixation, like your body was sounding an alarm you didn’t understand. And now that you were really, truly thinking about it…Even your period didn’t explain it. Not really. It didn’t explain the smell of eggs making you violently nauseous. It didn’t explain throwing up bile on an empty stomach. It didn’t explain the moodiness, the fatigue, the way your senses had gone haywire.

Your breath caught, your hand still hovering above your purse, suspended in the moment between denial and possibility. Were you…No. You couldn’t be. There was no way. Birth control was practically foolproof—almost one hundred percent effective. Yes, technically, there was always a chance, but the odds were so low they barely counted. Barely. Pregnancy was possible, sure, but it wasn’t probable. Not for you. Not now. You were spotting. Bleeding. That was enough proof…Right? But then—Zayne’s voice filtered into your mind again, calm and clinical, like a distant echo from a conversation long past, reminding you that spotting could occur in early pregnancy, especially during the first trimester.

Your stomach twisted. You slowly stepped back from your purse, fingers curling into your palm, pulse beginning to flutter just beneath your skin. A strange, quiet pressure spread through your chest—anxiety, thick and rising. Your bare feet turned you instinctively toward the kitchen, toward the tall pantry that housed Zayne’s ever-meticulous stash of medications, wound care, thermometers, and…Pregnancy tests.

You told yourself it was just another scare. That’s all this was. You’d been through this before. Zayne kept several tests at home for exactly this reason—because your cycle rarely came. Because you hardly ever bled, and when you didn’t, it could never be assumed for certain. He’d gently insisted on it, reassuring you it was just for peace of mind. You hadn’t taken a pregnancy test in a while. A month? Maybe two? You lost track, honestly. If it weren’t for him reminding you with soft nudges and thoughtful concern, you’d forget altogether. It never felt urgent. Never felt real.

Your fingers were already digging into the pantry, moving past gauze and blister packs, until they landed on the familiar white boxes—stacked, orderly, ready. You slid one out, clutching the unopened package in your hand like it might bite you. You told yourself it was routine. Just to rule it out. Just to shut your mind up and get on with your day, because you were on your period. Because you were always careful. Because this was just hormones. Just exhaustion. Just bad timing. Because—God, no. You two couldn’t have a baby right now.

Your wedding wasn’t until next year. You and Zayne had made plans for children—after the honeymoon, after a few more years of saving and traveling and living a little longer just the two of you, just romance and fostering warmth. A baby would change everything. It wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t the plan. Your life with him would be on pause. Your entire rhythm—his shifts, your work, the future you’d carefully envisioned together—everything would shift. You weren’t ready. Neither of you were. And still…You turned toward the bathroom, box in hand, heart hammering quietly inside your chest.

You sat down on the toilet, the boxed tests clutched in one hand like it was any other day—like it was any other time you’d done this. You tore open one of the two tests in the box with a practiced flick, familiar with the shape, the sound, the sterile scent of plastic and foil. Just like always.

You didn’t just pee a little. You never did. You made sure—fully, decisively—because one test had always been enough. One clear result. Not pregnant. That was the pattern. That was the routine. Always the same. You capped the stick and set it carefully down on the small rug beside the toilet, the result window faced away from you. You flushed, stood, and made your way to the sink to wash your hands, the sound of the water masking the quiet hum that had started in the back of your mind. But the voice still found you. That soft, persistent whisper. What if?

It was always there, small and easy to ignore—until now. You never had an answer for it, because you had never needed one. You couldn’t imagine it. Not yet. Not with everything still unfinished between you and Zayne. The trips you hadn’t taken. The kind of soft, golden life you both still wanted to live before stepping into the next chapter. And Zayne—he wasn’t ready either. Not yet. His hours at Akso Hospital were relentless. His hands were still needed in emergency rooms, on operating tables. He hadn’t started saying no to the surgeries he was called in for at 2 a.m., and you’d never ask him to. You couldn’t take that from him. You couldn’t do that to him.

You couldn’t be pregnant. You just couldn’t. But when you turned back toward the toilet, toward the test, something in your stomach shifted. Something ancient and instinctive and cold. You didn’t even bend down, because you saw it from a distance, from the sink. Two lines. Not one. Two.

||

Time didn’t just slow—it fractured. Your breath hitched mid-inhale and locked in your chest, heavy and unmoving, like a stone too large to swallow. The edges of your vision dulled—not from tears, not yet—but from the sudden, brutal thrum of your heart pounding too fast, too hard, like your body was outrunning your ability to process what you were seeing. Your fingertips buzzed, cold and tingling. Your knees loosened beneath you, untrustworthy.

No. God, no.

You stood frozen, every muscle taut with disbelief, eyes fixed, unblinking. The floor felt distant beneath your feet, like the world had tilted on its axis without your permission. Your throat tightened, dry and sore. Goosebumps raced across your skin in a wave, and your stomach twisted so violently it felt like your body might turn itself inside out. Nausea curled high in your chest. That second line, as faint as it was, was still there.

You moved toward it on autopilot, like distance could change it—like proximity might make it vanish. Just a trick. A shadow. A smudge on plastic. You crouched low, slow, unsteady, reaching with fingers that no longer felt like yours. They wrapped around the plastic stick, cool and small in your palm—but its weight was impossible. It pressed into you with a heaviness nothing physical could explain. You held it like it might burn you. You blinked. Once. Twice. Still there. Still two lines.

Your thoughts scrambled, rapid-fire and senseless. It must have been a hormonal spike. False reading. Evaporation line. Chemical pregnancy. Faulty batch. The test was expired. It had to be expired. You grabbed for any explanation, any out—but none of it held. None of it changed the fact that you already knew. You knew what you were looking at. You knew what this meant.

You’d been with Zayne long enough to understand the biology behind it. You’d lived with his lectures in casual conversation, his expert knowledge spoken softly into your skin while lying in bed. HCG levels. False positives. Implantation windows. He’d explained it all, not in clinical terms, but with the warmth of someone who wanted you to understand your body. And now every word—every quiet, offhand comment—rushed back in sharp, suffocating detail. And they crushed you.

You couldn’t breathe. You dropped the test onto the sink like it had scorched your skin and bolted from the bathroom, your footsteps thudding hard against the floor as you ran—ran—back to the kitchen, chasing something solid, something controllable. Your heart thundered in your chest, uneven and wild, a caged thing beating against your ribs as your thoughts spiraled out of reach.

You grabbed a cup from the cabinet, the rim clinking too loudly against the fridge as you shoved it beneath the dispenser. Water poured in slow, agonizing seconds, and each one dragged your mind deeper into chaos. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t calm down. You needed more urine. You needed to test again. You needed to be wrong.

You chugged the first glass in greedy gulps, too fast, water dribbling down your chin and neck, soaking the front of your shirt. You didn’t care. You filled another. Drank it faster. Your throat ached with the pressure. Your stomach bloated with it. You cursed yourself for being so thorough the first time—for emptying your bladder in one go like you had nothing to worry about. You slammed the glass down on the counter, nearly missing the edge.

“It’s just a mistake,” you whispered through trembling lips, your voice high and shaking. You barely recognized it, “I’m not pregnant, okay? I’m not pregnant…”

The words hung in the air like something sacred, something desperate—an incantation against reality. You exhaled hard, trying to push the fear out with it, but it stuck in your throat. Heavy. Inevitable. You forced yourself into motion again, hunting through the pantry with frantic hands until you found two more test packages—fresh boxes, unopened, untouched. You snatched them both.

Your pulled out your phone, almost as an afterthought, as if some part of you still believed Zayne might magically text back and anchor you in place. But when you checked—nothing. Of course. It wasn’t even noon yet. He was still in surgery. Still under fluorescent lights, gloved hands bloodstained, mask damp with sweat and sealed tight over his face. That surgical cap would be flattened against his hair, and those red pressure lines would be marking his beautiful skin—like always.

He was so far away. And you were here. Alone. Panicked. Holding two more test packages like they were lifelines. You turned toward the bathroom again, hands trembling, stomach full, head full of storm. Your anxiety simmered just beneath your skin, boiling low and slow, relentless, as you sat down on the toilet again. Your eyes locked onto the first test—the one you’d already taken. The one still resting on the sink with its damning two red lines, so clear now it almost mocked you.

What if this was real? What if you were actually pregnant? Your breath caught, shallow and tight. Your stomach ached, full from all the water, bloated from the pressure, and knotted with dread. You could hardly sit still. Your mind spun in frantic loops, trying to latch onto anything solid—but there was nothing. What the fuck were you supposed to tell Zayne? You’d talked about this before—more than once. The possibility of an accident. Of being unready. Of what it would mean. You remembered how calm those conversations had felt. How theoretical. How far away.

Back then, the solutions had seemed simple. If you weren’t ready, he’d support your decision. You wouldn’t be alone. He’d made that clear. And he was a doctor. Access was easy. The procedures were clinical, safe, fast. No shame. No judgment. Just…An option to eliminate. But those conversations had been sterile, weightless. You’d never really imagined needing to use them. You hadn’t accounted for the way this moment would actually feel. The panic. The sick dread. The unbearable quiet. It wasn’t theoretical anymore.

You exhaled another shaky breath, your lungs tight with restraint, and reached for the second test—the one that came packaged with the first. The plastic crackled loudly in your hands as you tore it open, your movements rigid, robotic. You uncapped it slowly, feeling the weight of it in your fingers now like it was something sacred, or dangerous.

You set the two unopened boxes aside. You weren’t ready to think about them yet. You weren’t even ready for this. Still, you adjusted, positioning the stick with trembling fingers. You peed—just a little this time. Careful. Controlled. You were smarter now. Holding back. Saving the rest. Because there might be more to come. You didn’t know yet. You didn’t know anything.

Every second dragged like it was suspended in molasses, impossibly slow, stretching your nerves to a breaking point as you capped the test and laid it flat on the rug. You stared down at the white oval window, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The pink dye crept across the test strip like a slow leak—agonizingly slow. Your eyes didn’t blink. Couldn’t. You watched it flood the first line—control, expected. Normal. And then your gaze locked on the empty space beside it. The one you begged—prayed—would stay blank.

“Please,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, voice cracked and low, barely air, barely sound. Your lips trembled as tears rushed to your eyes, pressure building behind your lashes like water behind glass, “please, please, please…”

The prayer was raw. Gut-deep. A plea not just to the universe, but to your own body. But then, your chest seized. A tight, sudden contraction of breath and dread and disbelief that forced a soft, strangled whimper from your throat. Because there it was…The second line.

||

At first you doubted it, mind flinching away. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was a shadow, a line starting to form but not really there. But no—within seconds, it bloomed fully, pale but unmistakable. A second fucking line.

“Shit!” You gasped, voice too loud in the bathroom’s silence as panic surged full-force into your bloodstream.

The test slipped from your hand, clattering to the floor, forgotten as you scrambled for an unopened package of two more. You grabbed it, clumsy and shaking, adrenaline flooding your body in a rush of heat and ice. You dropped the box by your feet, fingers fumbling, breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as your chest rose and fell in uneven waves. Sweating. Hyperventilating. Spiraling. You tried to rip the second cardboard open but it wouldn’t give, your hands trembling too hard to apply steady pressure. You folded it, bent it, tore it at the wrong angle. Nothing was working.

“Damn it!” You cried out, voice cracking now, desperation fully overtaking you.

And finally, it tore—messy, crooked, all wrong. Two more tests spilled onto the floor. You practically fell off the toilet. Your balance tipped, legs tangled in your shorts and underwear as you scrambled downward, nearly hitting the rug in your rush. Your clothing bunched at your ankles, almost tripping you, but you didn’t care. You barely registered the sting in your palm as you caught yourself against the rug.

You snatched the unopened box and two loose tests up from the floor with shaking hands, fingers slipping on the glossy cardboard, tearing into it like something feral. The cardboard peeled unevenly beneath your nails. Two more tests. You shredded them open with raw aggression, wrappers and instructions flying to the floor.

Four total now. Four white sticks. Four caps tossed carelessly onto the rug and tile, plastic clicking against ceramic like brittle little bones. You didn’t even bother to pick them up. You spread your thighs wide, hunching over, forearms resting on your trembling knees. Your palms were damp—sweat or sink water, you couldn’t tell—and shaking so hard you could barely grip the tests. You bunched all four together in one hand and peed, doing your best to aim through panic and pressure and the unbearable tightness in your stomach.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful. It was survival. It was desperation. Some urine splashed onto your thigh, warm and unwelcome. One test got more than the others. But it didn’t matter. You had done it. Breath ragged, fingers trembling, you held them beside each other, hands shaking violently. One by one, the color began to seep in. Soft pink. Faint at first. Spreading. Soaking.

||

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You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. You just watched. Three. Four. Five. Six. Six tests. All of them. Every single one. Two lines. Two lines on every fucking one. You were pregnant. You were fucking pregnant. You—you—were having a baby. You and Zayne. Unprepared. Unplanned. Impossible. And yet—undeniable. You were pregnant.

The thought hit you like waves, crashing over and over in your head, bludgeoning your reason, sweeping away logic and planning and every calm conversation you’d ever had about this moment. You tried to tell yourself it still might be wrong, but it wasn’t. Not six times.

Implantation bleeding. Nausea Fatigue. Cravings. Pears. Pears! Zayne’s favorite fruit. Not even yours. And suddenly, the thought lodged itself in your throat like a sob. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your body wanting them. It was his baby. His child—his—already pressing its quiet imprint onto you, already speaking through the deepest layers of you in wordless language. Reaching out for the things he loved. As if it knew him. As if it already loved him. There was a baby inside you. His baby.

Your stomach twisted again, but this time it wasn’t from nausea. It was from awe. From terror. From the raw bloom of disbelief tearing open inside your chest like a flower bursting through frost. It was happening. Not in theory. Not in some far-off future. You were pregnant. You. Were. Pregnant. The weight of it crushed your lungs.

One by one, the test sticks slipped from your grip, falling in dull, hollow clacks to the rug below. Your fingers had stopped responding—trembling too hard to obey you, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. Five plastic sticks, and one on the sink. White. Innocuous. Now lying scattered around your feet like pieces of shrapnel. Each one bleeding pink lines. Lines that screamed a truth your mind still couldn’t wrap itself around.

Your mind still hadn’t caught up. Your body knew. Every cell in you had already registered what the tests confirmed. But your mind—your poor, disbelieving mind—lagged miles behind, stumbling in circles, trying to reject what it had already seen. Your vision blurred, lashes heavy with tears as fat drops clung, then fell, splashing silently around the tests like mournful punctuation. Each one landed near the lines. On the lines. You blinked again, and again, more tears spilling. You couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t slow your breath. Your pulse pounded in your ears so loudly it drowned out everything else—one long, deafening drumbeat of panic.

You didn’t know how long you sat there like that. Frozen. Shaking. Crying. Time lost all meaning. All you knew was that you couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t look away. You were staring at something your mind refused to let in. Your breath came in shallow stutters, chest rising and falling in short, broken gasps, every nerve ending overfiring. But what were you even feeling? You didn’t know. You couldn’t name it. Couldn’t reach it. The emotions came all at once, crashing into one another like a wave with no end. You couldn’t unravel them. Couldn’t separate one thread from the next. They tangled into each other—horror, wonder, fear, disbelief—until they were just noise. Until they were too big, too new, too unknown to hold.

You wiped slowly, mechanically, as if your limbs were operating on a delay. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—someone dazed, raw, and irreversibly changed. Shaking, you stood, barely balanced as you pulled your clothes up around your waist. The button of your shorts felt unfamiliar. Too tight. Too real. You flushed the toilet, the sound a low, distant roar behind the thick haze in your head.

Step by step, you moved through the minefield of white sticks scattered across the bathroom floor, careful not to touch them. Careful not to let your eyes drift down again. They weren’t just tests now—they were truths. And you weren’t ready to feel them underfoot.

At the sink, you still didn’t dare look up. You couldn’t face yourself. Not yet. Instead, you turned on the water, running it ice cold, letting it sting your hands and snap you back to the surface of your body. You scrubbed your palms slowly, deliberately, squeezing and flexing your fingers until the tingling subsided, until the dizzy, nauseating lightheadedness began to ebb. The water turned your palms pale. You washed until the ritual grounded you—until the act became something you could control.

Only then did you turn off the faucet. Only then did you finally look up. And the moment your eyes met your own reflection, it hit you. A feeling you weren’t prepared for. Didn’t expect. Couldn’t stop. Joy. Not terror. Not shame. Not guilt. But joy. It was sharp. Violent. Beautiful. Wrong. It split through your chest like sunlight through shattered glass, piercing and immediate and real.

The ache of it made your knees buckle slightly. Your breath hitched. Your throat closed. And you hated it—you hated it—because you weren’t ready. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the time. But there it was, blooming anyway, wild and uninvited: a radiant, agonizing joy. More intense than the night Zayne knelt before you with a ring. More overwhelming than anything you’d ever known. Because for the first time, you saw yourself not as someone who could be a mother—But as someone who was.

And that knowing settled into your bones with cruel, exquisite weight. You buried your face into the same towel you had just used to dry your hands, the fabric muffling the first sob that tore from your throat. Then another. Then another. And suddenly, the dam broke—completely, all at once. You shook as the emotions poured out of you in waves: joy and terror, awe and fear, grief and wonder.

You wept for the contradiction. For the joy that felt like betrayal. For the fear that felt like love. For the surrender you couldn’t stop anymore. You sobbed until your chest ached, until your knees trembled, until your towel was soaked through and your heart felt carved open. Because denial was gone now. And all that remained was truth. Inevitable. Beautiful. Terrifying. You were going to be a mother.

There were no maybes. No what-ifs. No technicalities to cling to. No margin for denial. Zayne’s little seedling was growing inside your body right in that very moment—Nestled somewhere beneath your skin, beneath your ribs, rooted in your womb before you ever knew to notice. Before your conscious mind even caught the signal. It had already begun. Quietly. Beautifully. Irreversibly. And you couldn’t unknow it.

You were crying still, but laughing too—sharp, disbelieving laughter slipping out in little hiccups as your breath stuttered through open sobs. You were hysterical. Unhinged. A total wreck. A crazy person—thank God that Zayne, your ever-composed, ever-rational fiancé, wasn’t there to see it. You could practically picture his face: jaw tense, worried, still trying to be comforting as you broke down like a tornado of emotions.

You left the towel behind—damp, useless—and moved on instinct toward the mess. The debris of your chaos. The evidence. You crouched and carefully began to clean up the wreckage of your frantic spiral. Caps first—those little plastic pieces you’d dropped across the rug. You retrieved each one, sliding them gently back onto the ends of the tests. Then you picked up each stick—one by one—and wiped them down with shaking hands, your movements slow, almost reverent. As if they were fragile. As if they deserved care.

You examined them again. You couldn’t not. Each test still bore its quiet, undeniable truth: two pink lines. Some darker than others. Some faint—but none of them lying. You stared at them long and hard, as if expecting one of them to change. To flicker. To disappear. But no. Still pregnant. Still growing life inside you.

You placed the cleaned tests on the edge of the sink in a neat line by the very first one you took, all of them like sacred relics, and turned to clean the toilet next. You wiped the lid, the rim, the floor and rug around it where you’d nearly collapsed. Then you washed your hands again, water splashing rhythmically into the basin, grounding you. And the whole time, your eyes kept flicking back to those six quiet tests. You couldn’t look away.

Once they were dry, you gathered them in both hands, gently, like they might shatter. You just stood there for a long moment, clutching them all together, staring down like they held some divine message written just for you—one you had to read again and again for it to make sense. For it to become real. And maybe it would never hit you all at once. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe it had to keep hitting you in waves, because life—Zayne’s life, your life, a new life—was now growing inside you. And you didn’t know how to hold that in your heart yet.

You gathered the tests in your hands, fingers trembling around the plastic sticks, and stepped out of the bathroom like you were wading into a different world. Each step was slow, deliberate, your body heavy with shock, your mind a whirlwind of noise and disbelief. The hallway stretched ahead, too quiet, too unchanged, and still you walked, barefoot and weightless, as if moving through water.

You were dizzy. Your vision blurred faintly at the edges, your head swimming, your stomach too full of thoughts to make room for air. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and your eyes burned as tears hovered, waiting to fall again. Still, you kept going, driven by something you couldn’t name. Something both heavier and lighter than fear.

The living room greeted you with silence. The same silence it always had, but now it felt foreign, like a room preserved in time. The curtains fluttered gently from the AC, and outside tall windows, birds chirped like it was just another day. The clock above the television ticked on, second by second, unchanged and uncaring. Life was moving forward with its usual rhythm, completely unaware that yours had just split into a before and after.

You stood there, suspended between motion and stillness, unable to fully enter the moment. Everything felt distant, wrong in a way you couldn’t explain. Like the light was too soft, the colors too muted, the air too still. It felt like none of this was real. Like maybe this was a dream. A strange, slow nightmare you’d wake from at any moment, curled safe in Zayne’s arms in a world that still made sense. He’d be behind you in bed, warm and solid, his presence announcing itself in the subtle tightening of his arm around your waist. You could almost feel the soft pressure of his body curling against yours, the firm length of him hard and wanting as he pulled you closer, need and love mingling in his touch. He wouldn’t have been called into work. He’d be right there, half-asleep, murmuring affection and desire into your hair, tugging your panties down, completely unaware that any of this had happened. And in that world, you wouldn’t be pregnant.

But you were pregnant. The truth no longer screamed—it settled, slow and heavy, as you sank into the couch, six pregnancy tests spilling across your lap like confessions you couldn’t take back. You stared down at them, the tiny pink lines blurring slightly through your lashes, not from tears this time—but from awe. Dread. Disbelief. You couldn’t say what it was anymore. It all bled together.

Somehow, against all logic, you and Zayne had defied the odds. The almost perfect protection of birth control hadn’t been perfect enough. Maybe it was the pills—missed by hours here and there, too often on busy days when time blurred. Maybe it was the sheer frequency with which he had you naked and wanting—on your back, on your hands and knees, on top of him bracing for dear life. The way your bodies came together not out of habit, but insatiable hunger. Ritual. Again, and again, and again.

Or maybe—maybe—it was the way he’d move, arms braced tight around your waist, holding you firm while he thrust upward, deep and sharp, almost unforgiving. Sometimes his angle was so precise, so relentless, you could swear he was grazing your cervix, every stroke carved from hunger, every motion made to fill you until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. And when he’d fill you, it was never calm. Quiet. Passive. He’d fall apart inside you with such intensity—shaking, breathless, thick spurts of heat filling you with every twitch—that he’d go still, panting, refusing to pull out. He’d hold you there, hips flush against yours, his cock still deep and pulsing, reluctant to leave the place your body held him. You’d both stay like that for long moments, listening to each other’s breathing, your walls still fluttering around the last remnants of his release.

Or maybe it was after—when he’d finally pull out and gently roll you off with a satisfied sigh, and you’d lie there boneless, legs bent at the knees and drawn to your chest. Not on purpose. Just from habit. Just from how he left you so it wouldn’t spill onto the bed. You’d be catching your breath, too drunk on pleasure to move. And you liked the way it felt—keeping his warmth inside just a little longer while he’d pad off to the bathroom, naked and flushed, fetching a warm towel or a wipe like he always did as you’d wait, tucked into yourself and full of his seed.

Whatever it was, however it happened, it had led you to that moment—sitting in the stillness of your shared home, staring at proof. And even though no one else was in the room, you were no longer alone. There was something inside you now. Someone. Zayne’s child. Your body wasn’t just yours anymore. Not entirely. And that thought struck you stunned all over again.

It was surreal—so much so that your own skin didn’t feel like yours anymore. You were untethered, misplaced in your own living room, like a ghost haunting a version of your life that hadn’t caught up to the truth yet. You couldn’t sit still. Your legs shifted. Your spine curled and straightened. You kept checking your phone—again and again—swiping to see your notifications, hoping, praying, willing the hours to bend in your favor. Maybe his surgery had ended early. Maybe he was scrubbing out now. Maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to wait long.

But the waiting was unbearable. What the fuck were you supposed to tell Zayne, anyway? How were you even supposed to say the words, that you were pregnant with his child? How were you supposed to look into the eyes of the man who lived for order, precision, and purpose, and say something as raw and unpredictable as that? But you wanted him there with you. Right then and there. You wanted his hands, his arms, his voice in your ear grounding you, smoothing over the chaos inside your chest. You wanted to wrap yourself around him like a lifeline and whisper the truth into his throat and figure it out together.

And yet…You couldn’t. The words felt foreign. Stuck. Terrifying. Your chest was tight, and anxiety kept building—thick and fast and relentless, like pressure inside a sealed chamber. You were drowning in the silence, your thoughts too loud, your pulse too sharp. With a cry of frustration, you smacked your palm against your forehead—hard. The sting bloomed instantly as your head dropped back against the cushion, eyes squeezed shut, face lifted to the ceiling like maybe, just maybe, some cosmic force would see your pain and call it enough. But the ceiling offered no mercy. The room gave no answer. And God…Well. You’d long since stopped expecting kindness from Him.

If anything, this felt like punishment. Punishment for loving a man whose evol was cursed to be your demise. Punishment for daring to fight that fate could be rewritten with nothing but love. Punishment for every time you kissed Zayne like destiny couldn’t touch you—For every time he held you like you were his salvation, when maybe you were both just walking disasters waiting for inevitable doom. Because what else could it be? What else but divine cruelty—To grant you, with ill timing, a life inside you with the man who defied fate itself for you in the name of love?

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, as if wiping them once would somehow stop the next flood. But they kept coming, quietly, insistently, soaking your lashes, trailing down your cheeks, and pooling in your lap where the six pregnancy tests still lay—damp now, glistening under soft light, like they were crying too.

They stared back up at you in silence. And then, the emotions hit again—fresh, crushing, unrelenting. A wave you couldn’t outrun. A current that pulled you under. You folded forward slowly, your breath catching in your throat as you let out a quiet sob. Your hands trembled as you gathered the tests again, cradling them with shaking fingers like they were fragile relics.

And then—without thinking—your arms wrapped around your stomach. You didn’t mean to. It wasn’t planned. It was just instinct. You held yourself there, gently, like you were holding something precious. Like your body knew before your mind could catch up. The soft warmth of your belly beneath your hands felt unchanged—but the meaning had changed entirely. You were holding Zayne’s baby. And the thought of it—when it hit you, when your brain finally connected the dots to what your hands were already doing—shattered you in a way nothing else had. You weren’t holding yourself for comfort. You were holding his child. The ache of that knowledge cracked through your chest like splintered glass.

Would you lose them before they ever drew breath? Would your body fail them before it even had the chance to protect them? Would you carry them to term, stretch and grow with them, only to find out too late something was wrong? Would they arrive too early, too fragile? Would they be healthy? Would they be strong?

Your mind raced through every possibility, every bend in the road you hadn’t planned to take, until it landed—hard and unrelenting—on the one thought you’d been trying not to touch. The thought you’d buried beneath all the others, and yet, there it was, rising to the surface like a cold stone breaking through the calm. Your heart tightened as the idea took shape. A sharp clench in your chest. A crawling chill spread along your spine, blooming like frost through the heat of your confusion. This wasn’t the first time it had crossed your mind—you’d discussed it before, after all—but this time, it was different. This time, you were actually pregnant. Not someday. Not theoretically. Now. And that shifted everything.

The conversations you’d had with Zayne in the past—those late-night, thoughtful discussions where the two of you dissected the what-ifs with the steady hand of people who had time to spare—felt distant now. Back then, it was easy to talk about possibilities in the abstract. Easy to agree that an early pregnancy, one that neither of you had prepared for, didn’t have to be carried. You had both wanted a family eventually. But not yet. Not now.

You didn’t…Have to have this baby. That was still true. You could fix the problem—cleanly, quietly. You could step back from this ledge and return to the steady rhythm of life you’d built together. No diapers. No morning sickness. No strollers, no sleepless nights. You could call it what it was: a biological hiccup, an accident, an error in timing. You could have things go back to normal without the inconvenience of an unplanned pregnancy. You could terminate it. And no one would blame you. Not even Zayne.

He was a doctor, after all. He had walked you through the science, the ethics, the risks. He had helped you navigate the territory before there was ever a need. It had all been so calm. So rational. And yet now, as you sat on the couch with your arms wrapped around your stomach, holding yourself like a shield, the guilt that gnawed at your insides began to grow teeth. You could feel it digging in. Quiet, but vicious. It sat in the base of your belly like a stone, heavy and dense, feeding on every breath you took. You tried to imagine the decision. You tried to picture it—poisoning the tiny, growing thing inside you that was half him, half you. Ending it before it ever had a chance to bloom. You tried to imagine walking into a room and walking out…Empty. Not just physically, but emptied.

It probably didn’t even have a heartbeat yet, you told yourself, clinging to the cold comfort of facts. It wouldn’t feel pain. That’s what the science said. But another voice in you—softer, breaking—whispered that it was still alive. Still yours. Still his. Still There. It wasn’t even viable yet, one part of you argued. Just cells. Tissue. Biology. But another part of you screamed back that it was a life.

You hugged your belly tighter, curling forward until your body folded completely over itself, as if you could shield what was growing inside from the storm raging in your chest. Your arms wrapped around your middle with desperate force, hands pressing in as though to hold together something fragile and shaking—yourself. Your lips pressed into a tight, trembling line. Your eyes clamped shut. And still, your body spasmed beneath the weight of it all, every muscle locking, every sob caught in your throat and swallowed down before it could break free.

You didn’t even know what you were feeling anymore. The emotions had blurred beyond recognition, an endless loop of terror and joy and guilt and awe until nothing felt real but the shaking of your hands and the ache in your chest. The “solution” you’d once discussed—the clean, clinical fix to a what-if—no longer felt clean. No longer felt like an answer. The impossibility of having a baby right now no longer felt impossible. It felt terrifyingly real.

But could you do this? Could you stop everything and say yes to a child who had arrived ahead of schedule, before you had all the pieces in place? Could Zayne? God, Zayne. What would he think? What would he say? What would he do when you looked him in the eyes and told him this wasn’t just a future dream anymore—but a present, pulsing reality? Would he still agree with everything you’d once spoken about together, when it had all been hypothetical?

Because you had talked about it. You both wanted children. You wanted that future with him—sticky fingers and tiny socks and late-night cries and lullabies and the soft weight of a baby sleeping in your arms. You wanted to see his face in a child’s smile. You wanted to raise someone with his eyes, his steadiness, his gentleness.

But not now. You’d agreed it wasn’t time. Not yet. Not when you were still carving space for the life you were building together. Not when he was still working long hours at the hospital for a career that asked everything of him. Not before the wedding. Not before the finances were ready. Not before you had a mental space big enough for the chaos that would come with a crib and sleepless nights and a life you couldn’t hand back once it arrived.

Would he even be able to say yes now, just like that? Would he reach for you and say it would be okay, that you’d figure it out together? Or would you see it? The hesitation. The pressure. The weight. He’d never say it out loud—but what if he thought it was too soon? What if he carried that silent resentment every time he had to say no to a surgery? Every time he left the hospital earlier than planned? Every time he chose you and the baby and home over a patient he could’ve saved? Would he know how to let go of his work when a child needed him more? Could he soften the surgeon in him long enough to be the father you’d always dreamed he’d be? Could you ask him to do that early? Could you even begin to tell him?

Just as your thoughts began to spiral again—just as your mind dipped back toward all the unbearable possibilities—an abrupt, shrill vibration broke through the silence like a crack in glass. The sound startled you. Your head jerked up, breath catching. Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up like an omen. Zayne’s name. His picture. A call. Your heart clenched the second you saw it, even before you looked at the time.

1:17 p.m.

Of course. He must’ve just finished surgery. He was probably already in the car, headed home, eager to get back to you—to the quiet day you’d promised to share. To the version of you who still hadn’t seen two pink lines. But that version of you didn’t exist anymore.

Your stomach twisted violently, the nausea returning with sharp, cold precision. Goosebumps rippled up your arms, and the breath you dragged into your lungs wasn’t enough—it couldn’t fill the space that had hollowed out inside you. Blood rushed from your head, and you broke out in a sudden sheen of sweat, as if your body had registered the panic long before your mind caught up.

The phone rang again. Another long buzz. A vibration that felt like it shook through your ribs, through your spine, down to the soles of your feet. You stared at the screen without blinking, frozen, pulse hammering, eyes wide. You didn’t reach for it. You couldn’t. Because if you answered—if you so much as let him hear your voice—he’d know something was off. Zayne would hear it immediately. He always did. He would hear the panic, the guilt, the grief laced in your silence. He’d know something was wrong—very wrong—and he would never let you off the line without pulling the truth from your lips.

But how could you tell him over the phone? How could you speak the impossible truth through static, with traffic noise in the background and miles between you? The words didn’t exist inside your mouth yet. They were trapped there, thick and heavy, buried beneath a thousand other unsaid things. They wouldn’t come out right—not like this. Not in a rushed call he hadn’t braced for. Not when you weren’t even sure how you felt yet.

Another buzz vibrated through the room—louder this time, more urgent—and with it came a renewed wave of panic so strong it nearly crushed you. A deep, choking dread tightened around your chest, and your heart clenched with such force it felt as though it were slowly shattering under its own pressure. You wanted to answer. God, you wanted to answer. Every cell in your body ached for him, for the sound of his voice, for the way it always grounded you when nothing else could. He was the one person in the entire world who could calm you in an instant, and your entire soul cried out for him—to reach through the phone, to pull you into his chest, to whisper something reassuring against your hair. Just to hear him say it would be okay. Even if you didn’t believe it.

But still, your hand remained frozen. Because you couldn’t pick up—not like that. He’d ask you what was wrong before you even said hello. And there was no version of this—none—that could be uttered over the phone. Not this. Not when your entire life had just changed. So you stayed perfectly still. And with every buzz that came and went, every missed second that ticked by, it felt like your heart was grinding itself down into dust. All you could do was sit there, chest tight and aching, until at last the screen went dark and the buzzing stopped.

Silence returned. Your hands, now trembling and cold, gently set the pregnancy tests onto the couch beside you—your movements slow, like you were handling something sacred or radioactive. Then, almost numbly, you reached for your phone, only to realize he had already texted you earlier. Your stomach turned as you opened the message.

Zayne: Just finished. Charting and then ICU and then getting your pear tarts. We can go to the store and get pads together when I’m home so I can see you sooner.

Your breath caught. For a long, silent moment, all you could do was stare at the words. Pads. Pear tarts. As if it were still just a normal day. You had forgotten. You’d completely forgotten that earlier this morning—back when you still thought your body was following its usual rhythm—you’d texted him asking for pads. Asking him for comfort, not knowing the truth was already blooming quietly inside of you. You weren’t on your period. It hadn’t been blood from a cycle. It had been implantation. A new life had already begun. And suddenly, the absurdity of it hit you with cruel irony. You wouldn’t need pads anymore. Not for months. Not while pregnant.

A broken, almost hysterical laugh slipped from your mouth. Dry, breathless, barely human. It felt like something was cracking open inside of you again—grief or disbelief, you couldn’t tell. Then, as if on cue, the phone buzzed again. Another message.

Zayne: I’m assuming you’re busy. Heading home now.

And there it was. The end of the countdown. Akso Hospital was roughly twenty to thirty minutes away, just one straight freeway stretch between him and the truth. The inevitable was no longer some abstract dread circling the horizon. It was in motion now. Zayne was on his way.

You sat there, still and trembling, the weight of everything pressing in—but beneath the panic, beneath the raw edges of fear, a small thread of something else managed to find its way through. Relief. Because now you didn’t have to wonder when. You didn’t have to brace for the unknown. He was coming. And somehow—though your chest still ached, though your eyes still stung—that was enough to finally make the tears stop.

There was nothing left to do now but wait—to sit in the liminal stillness between the life you had before and whatever version of it was about to follow. Each second felt heavy, stretched thin, like time itself was mocking you with its unbearable slowness. The world kept moving, but you felt entirely severed from it. Disconnected. Unmoored.

Even your own body didn’t feel like yours anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to shift from your place on the couch. It was like the weight of your grief had fossilized you there, as if even lifting your limbs would cost more than you had left to give. Your eyes burned—raw, swollen, and hot from crying for so long they no longer held tears, only the ache of where tears used to be. Your throat was sandpaper. But the thought of getting up, of walking to the kitchen for water, of doing anything ordinary—felt impossible.

All you could do was breathe. And even that, some seconds, felt like a fight. So you reached numbly for the remote. You turned the TV on, keeping the volume low, letting the flickering screen fill the air with something—anything—besides the deafening hum of your thoughts. It didn’t matter what was playing. You couldn’t hear it anyway. You just needed the noise. The color. A distraction from the way your heart was beating too loud, too fast, too hard.

The minutes passed like molasses. Your mind swam in it, thick with dread, with anticipation that curled and uncurled like smoke in your lungs. Every glance at the clock twisted the knot in your stomach tighter. It was hell. A slow, suffocating kind of hell. The kind where nothing happened, and yet everything felt like it was falling apart.

The closer it got to the time he’d be home, the more the numbness began to unravel. Your anxiety returned like a rising tide—slow at first, then crashing. Your heart picked up speed again, slamming against your ribs like it wanted out of your chest. Your hands were trembling. Your breathing quickened. It felt like a roller coaster you couldn’t get off, one that kept climbing higher, threatening to drop you into something you weren’t ready to face.

Then you heard it. The low, familiar rumble of his car pulling into the driveway. Your breath caught. You sat up a little straighter, frozen like prey sensing the moment right before the hunter steps through the trees. Your eyes flicked toward the tall window blinds, toward the thin cracks of daylight bleeding in. And then—you heard the driver’s side door open and shut. You saw the flash of his silhouette.

The second he stepped out of the car, your pulse surged so hard you swore you could hear it inside your skull—thick, pounding, insistent. Your eyes were burning again, watering so much that the softest blink sent fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. Your fingers trembled as they clutched the pregnancy tests in your lap, tighter now, almost without realizing—like holding onto them would somehow keep the truth from slipping out.

You were breathing in deep, shaky gulps, trying to imitate the steady cadence Zayne always coached you through when anxiety gripped you. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. You could almost hear his voice in your ear—calm, low, certain. But the rhythm didn’t help this time. Your chest still felt like it was splitting open from the inside.

Every emotion surged in you at once again, crashing over one another in an unbearable tide. And somewhere beneath it all, blooming like a cruel, forbidden flower, was that same joy. Unfair. Inappropriate. Painful. That tiny flicker of joy felt like the worst betrayal of all. It shouldn’t have been there. You didn’t want it to be there. Because if you gave it space, if you let yourself feel it, everything would come undone. That joy would demand a choice. It would demand hope. And hope, in a moment like this, was the sharpest blade of all.

But just as that war inside your chest reached its crescendo, it all fell silent. The lock clicked. The front door creaked open. And like that, you were snapped back into your body. Fully present. Finally real. The fog lifted. You weren’t floating anymore—you were grounded, rooted in that moment with the weight of six pregnancy tests in your hands and tears clinging to your lashes. You blinked slowly, trying to clear your vision as the door swung open.

Zayne stepped inside. His tall frame filled the space instantly, familiar and warm, dressed down in his regular post-surgery clothing and that soft exhaustion that always clung to him after hours on his feet. His black hair was slightly tousled, his white dress shirt wrinkled beneath the silk tie. In one hand, he held a plastic bag from the Akso Hospital café—the pear tarts you’d begged him for. He was smiling, but only for a heartbeat.

The moment his emerald eyes landed on you—on your face, your expression, your posture, your trembling hands—his smile dropped. Gone. His entire body went still, concern crashing over him with such force that it reshaped him in an instant. You saw it all unfold in a second. The way his chest tightened. The way the light in his eyes turned sharp with focus. The way his brows furrowed, and the bag crinkled in his hand from the sudden grip.

“…What’s wrong?” He asked, voice taut with alarm, already stepping closer, “what happ—?”

He cut himself off. The moment his gaze dropped—just slightly—to your lap, it all unfolded in agonizing slow motion. Zayne registered the slight but unmistakable shape of something in your hands—something delicate. Something pale and plastic. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. You simply sat there, silent and small, trembling in the warm spill of afternoon light that filtered in through the blinds.

He took a step forward. Then another. The door clicked shut behind him. Each step he took into the living room was careful, wary—like approaching something wounded. His concern radiated from him in waves, evident in the way his jaw tensed, the way his brows drew together as his eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of what you were holding, if it was what he thought. His gaze sharpened as he moved closer, heart already shifting into emergency mode, desperate to read the situation—you—before it got worse.

Then he realized, and the world stopped moving. His body stilled. Completely. You watched it happen in real time—how his posture locked into place, how his expression stopped shifting altogether, as if his face had forgotten how to respond. Something flickered behind his eyes. A blankness. A sudden quiet. His mind had hit a wall. It was trying to catch up to what his body had already sensed, what his gut had already feared the moment he stepped inside and saw you crying.

The air between you went weightless. Soundless. And still, you didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. You just looked at him—eyes glossed and puffy, lashes wet, lips trembling—and waited for the reaction you couldn’t prepare for. The reaction you’d run through in your head a hundred times and still had no answer for. But you couldn’t hold it in anymore. A fresh swell of emotion crashed up your throat and tore loose, sharp and cracked as it broke through your lips.

Your shoulders trembled with the sob you barely managed to suppress, voice thin and raw and aching, unable to meet his eyes when you whispered—shattered and honest, “I-I’m pregnant, Zayne…”

Zayne was on you in seconds. The moment your trembling voice broke with those three words, something shifted behind his eyes—something ancient, protective, and immediate. He moved with quiet force, like he was trying to catch a fall he couldn’t physically see. The bag in his hand—those silly pear tarts—went sliding across the coffee table as he set it down without a second thought, barely noticing the way it skidded to a halt near the edge.

Then the couch dipped, and he was beside you. His weight pressed into the cushion next to you so quickly, so solidly, it knocked the air from your lungs. But you didn’t even get the chance to react before his arms were around you. Long, steady arms wrapping tight around your curled-up body, enveloping you in warmth, in pressure, in the fierce, grounding safety of him. His chest rose and fell in against yours, and he held you like a harbor—like he could take the quake out of you just by pulling you close enough.

A sob ripped out of you the moment you collapsed into his shoulder, face burying in the familiar scent of hospital disinfectant, faint soap, and something uniquely Zayne. All of your tension—the trembling, the frozen stillness, the desperate effort to hold it together—came undone the second you were in his embrace. You wept like a dam had broken, sobs wracking through your body in helpless waves. A hand pressed to the back of your head, cradling you with strength and gentleness all at once, while the other began rubbing firm, slow circles along your spine.

“It’s okay,” he whispered close to your ear, again and again like a mantra, grounding you through the chaos, “it’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. We’re okay. Everything’s fine—”

“—No, it’s not!” The words burst out of you before you could stop them.

You jerked back, pulling yourself just enough out of his arms to look him in the eye, even as tears blurred your vision again. But his hands didn’t leave you. They came immediately to your shoulders, anchoring you as your body shook beneath the weight of your sobs.

“I don’t know what to do!” You cried, voice cracking open like a wound, “I don’t know, Zayne, I don’t know what to do—!”

“—Just breathe,” Zayne interrupted you softly, his voice unwavering as his hands gently rose to cup your face.

His palms were warm, steady—one cradling your jaw, the other brushing your damp cheek, keeping your gaze up to his. He anchored you there, held you still in the safe circle of his hands, forcing your spiraling mind to find its way back to the moment. To him.

“Right now,” he said, firm but low, his eyes never leaving yours, “you just breathe. That’s it. Just focus on that for me. In…”

His tone didn’t allow for argument. It didn’t demand anything impossible. Just breath. Just one. So you nodded shakily, eyes fluttering closed as you pulled in a deep, broken inhale.

“Out,” he instructed gently.

You exhaled through cracked lips, your breath catching halfway, body still trembling, heart still racing.

“Again,” he nodded, his thumb brushing beneath your eye, “in.”

You obeyed, drawing air into your lungs, slow and raw.

“Out.”

You let it go, this time with a little more control.

“One more time,” he said softly, brushing a knuckle beneath your other eye, wiping what tears were still slipping loose, “in.”

You inhaled deeper, steadier now, as if you could shut the tears back where they belonged, even if just for a moment.

“Out.”

As you exhaled, his fingers slid gently through your hair, pushing it back from your face with infinite care, combing it slowly behind your ears. You felt the ghost of his touch trail down the curve of your neck, his thumb brushing your throat as two fingertips found the soft hollow where your pulse pounded. A pause. He was feeling it. Measuring it. Quietly assessing you like he always did—with that same fierce attentiveness he used to treat a patient under pressure, only gentler. More personal.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his voice full of quiet praise as his thumb stroked the edge of your jaw. Ever the doctor, ever your fiancé, “good girl.”

You sniffled again, shoulders rising with the slow, shallow breath you pulled into your chest, grounding yourself—finally—within the warm stillness you shared now with him. The room felt quieter than before, almost sacred in its hush. It was just the two of you, locked together in the still point of something irreversible.

Your gaze flicked down, and only then did you remember you were still holding them—all six pregnancy tests bunched between your fingers, as if you were still clinging to the proof that this wasn’t just a bad dream, that you weren’t hallucinating. Zayne’s eyes followed your movement. His brow dipped, not in alarm, but in concentration—a soft, quiet concern reserved just for you. Then his hands reached out. Those large, scarred, capable hands that held beating hearts in operating rooms folded themselves gently around yours.

He covered your shaking fingers without a single jolt of hesitation. Not even a flicker of discomfort. Just warmth. Firm but not forceful. Gentle, reverent. He held your trembling grasp within his calm, strong one, squeezing the bundle of tests softly between your palms—as if he was cradling both your fear and your future at once. So warm. So steady. So Zayne. And God, the way his touch could still feel like medicine—like he was the balm that knew how to soothe every wound in you before you even named it. As if his presence alone was enough to keep the world from collapsing in on itself. You looked up at him, heart still battered, eyes still stinging, and met that emerald gaze you had fallen in love with long before either of you spoke it aloud.

He was so calm, not trace of fear in his face. Just unwavering steadiness, tinted only with that deep, quiet concern he always reserved for you. That tender attentiveness behind his lashes, where logic and love lived side by side. Then, with a softness that somehow made your chest ache, he slipped his voice into the quiet between you—low, warm, a gentle murmur stitched with dry humor and unshakable certainty.

“…The likelihood of a false positive is less than one percent when human chorionic gonadotropin is at a detectable level in your urine,” he said, reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear with the same care he’d give a butterfly’s wing, “but I suppose six tests are sufficient…Just to be absolutely sure that you’re indeed pregnant, hm?”

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh—not a full sound, but a fragile thing that trembled at the edge of your mouth, escaping like a sigh laced with disbelief. It was ironic, almost absurd, how easy he made it all seem. And when you looked up at him again, you saw it—that faint, knowing smile just barely tugging at his lips, like a secret tether pulled gently at the corner of his mouth.

He…Spoke so easily. There had been no panic in his voice, no sharp breath of shock or distant retreat into silence. No unraveling. No flash of fear. Just Zayne—unflinching. His voice low, his gaze steady, every word kissed with logic and softened with love. No rollercoaster of emotion, no dramatic drop. He hadn’t fallen. He hadn’t even stumbled. He was still your constant. He was your anchor when the world was chaos. Your rock to lean into when your legs didn’t feel like they belonged to you anymore. Your calm. Your strength. Your reason when you couldn’t find your own.

“…How did you know?” He whispered.

You tried to answer, tried to find the words that had led you here, but your brain felt like molasses—slow, sticky, overwhelmed. So you shook your head slowly, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug, eyes dropping to the plastic sticks still bunched between your trembling fingers.

“…I—…” Your voice came out soft, frayed, “I wanted those pear tarts so bad that—…I damn near drove to Akso Hospital myself to get them sooner.”

You saw the corners of his mouth twitch. Zayne let out a silent laugh through his nose, low and warm. Not mocking. Just…Soft amusement. Understanding.

“…I don’t even care for pear tarts,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. The memory of how unremarkable they’d tasted to you the first time made your stomach twist, “but you do. It’s your favorite fruit…Not mine.”

His eyes stayed on you, steady and soft, those thick lashes catching the afternoon light as he listened. Every inch of him was present. There. With you. For you.

“So, naturally, you figured you were craving them,” he said, tone still touched with a feather-light smile as he shifted, his hand sliding slowly past the tests—past you—until it hovered over the shape of your abdomen, “not someone else…”

Someone else. His baby, growing inside of you. It was no longer an idea, no longer a terrifying maybe or a looming what-if. It was real. Undeniable. Alive. And the moment Zayne laid his hand over your tummy—slow, reverent, full of something too sacred for words—you felt something shift. Something you didn’t brace for. Didn’t expect.

It was joy again. Not the kind that struck like lightning, but the kind that rose up slowly from somewhere deep inside you, from a part of you that had been frozen all morning. It didn’t come tangled in fear this time, or drowning in guilt. It wasn’t painful. It didn’t make you cry harder. Instead, it was warm. Gentle. A quiet presence blooming softly in the pit of your stomach, where his child had already begun to take root. It was the first emotion that didn’t tear you apart.

When you looked back up at Zayne, your heart squeezed tight. His eyes—those piercing, verdant eyes—were lowered, fixed on the space beneath his palm as if the rise and fall of your breath beneath his fingers might reveal something he could measure. But it wasn’t calculation you saw on his face. It was wonder. Raw and quiet and naked. And then he looked at you.

It was just for a second—but in that second, you saw everything. His eyes glinted faintly in the filtered afternoon light. He looked back down at your belly, then up at your face again, helpless to stay composed. And that was when he smiled again—that small, trembling smile that ghosted across his lips. Not because he was amused. Not because he was strong. But because he had failed to keep the dam from cracking. He was breaking. Not from grief, not from panic—but from feeling too much.

The sight of it shattered something in you. With a choked breath, you let the pregnancy tests fall from your hands onto the couch like they no longer mattered. And before your mind could catch up, your body had already moved. You lunged into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding on like you might fall without him.

He caught you instantly. His arms swept around your body like muscle memory—tight, strong, sure. His breath was steady, the slope of his chest solid against yours, and his face buried itself into your shoulder without hesitation. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t shudder. Didn’t break into a cry. But you felt it—God, you felt it. The heat of his tears. They soaked slowly, one by one, through the cotton of your shirt. You felt each of them like burning little stars against your skin. Silent. Unassuming. But real. The only sign that this man—this impossibly composed, self-contained, surgeon of a man—was unraveling quietly in your arms.

You held him tighter. You held him like he was the one who needed comfort now. Like he was the one overwhelmed. And maybe he was. Maybe it was too much love for him to contain. Too much shock wrapped in reverence, too much awe threaded with fear, too much of you—too much of this—too soon. Too fast. But he was still there, still holding you like a vow, still pressing himself into your shoulder like he could disappear inside of you, into you, with you. That poor man. That sweet, sweet man whose heart was too tender for this world, whose soul carried so much weight, and still somehow made space to carry you. You loved him so much it hurt.

Zayne didn’t say a word—he just moved, shifting with a gentle but unmistakable urgency as his arms wrapped tighter around you, guiding you onto his lap like it was where you belonged. His strength enveloped you as he pulled you into him, your legs instinctively straddling his hips, your body folding over his chest like a blanket seeking warmth. You melted into the cradle of his frame without resistance, without question, without a single ounce of hesitation. He was so solid. So steady. His broad shoulders, the slope of his neck, the rhythm of his breath as he held you close—it was everything.

You breathed him in, felt the way your bodies aligned like they had been carved from the same piece of the universe. His long arms cocooned you, one splayed across your back, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you like you were fragile, breakable, sacred. And in return, your fingers threaded into his hair, slow and rhythmic, a tender offering of comfort that soothed him and soothed you all at once. You combed through the softness at the crown of his head, let your nails graze just behind his ear where you knew he liked it most. A quiet intimacy passed between you, no words necessary—just the hush of breath, the whisper of skin against skin, and the tremble in your chests as you clung to one another like lifelines.

It was mutual. It was primal. It was sacred. You weren’t just holding the love of your life. You were holding the father of your child. And he was holding you—not just as his fiancée, not just as his home, but as the cradle of something you had made together. A spark. A seed. A living embodiment of your love quietly blooming between your bodies.

That thought hit you so hard it tore a soundless sob straight from your chest. A cry you couldn’t voice. Couldn’t name. It just spilled out, hot and raw, pressed against your arm around him. And in that moment, surrounded by the arms of the man you loved, something else stirred inside you—not panic, not confusion, but love. So much love it felt like your ribs might have cracked beneath the weight of it. Love that spilled out in the tears from your eyes. Love that filled the air between you like breathless prayer. Love that bloomed inside you now, as real and alive as the embryo growing in your womb.

Because it was love, wasn’t it? That little heartbeat waiting to happen had been made with love. From love. Out of one too many nights tangled in sheets and breathless moans and whispered I-love-yous between passionate kisses. Even if it was an accident. Even if it came years too soon. Even if it disrupted everything you thought your future would be. None of that could erase the fact that it was Zayne’s baby growing inside of you. His. The man who rubbed your back when you were sick, who wrapped you in blankets when you were cold, who remembered your favorite tea, your food aversions, your dreams. The man who tucked you in with kisses when you were too tired to keep your eyes open. The man who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. And now, a part of him lived inside of you.

You felt it in your chest. But more than that, you felt it in your belly. Not abstract, not poetic, but tangible. Warm. Deep-rooted. Protective. Like your whole body had begun to rearrange itself around this life—like your instincts were already shifting. Already sheltering. Already nurturing. You wanted to shield it, water it, speak to it. Love it the way you loved him. Because how could you not? How could you hurt something that came from him? How could you destroy a single cell of something so tender, so sacred, so his? You wouldn’t harm a hair on Zayne’s head. You couldn’t. So how…How could you harm this? How could you harm his baby? Oh, God. But how on earth were you supposed to be a mother right now?

The thought clawed through your mind like a storm tearing through the calm. You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not yet. You were too young, too unprepared, too far from the vision you and Zayne had carefully, lovingly built for what parenthood would one day look like. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t the plan. Zayne wasn’t ready to pull back from work. If anything, he was hungrier than ever—taking on more, striving harder, pushing himself into the impossible corners of his own endurance for the sake of a future he believed in. A future he wanted to provide for. A future that involved children, yes—but children when things were right. When things were stable. Comfortable. Abundant. When he could actually take more time off without guilt clawing at him. When he could be there to read bedtime stories and build pillow forts, not sneak in kisses at midnight after a twelve-hour shift.

He wanted to be a father—but a father present. Not a ghost slipping in and out of your home in scrubs and exhaustion. And you couldn’t take that from him. You couldn’t be the reason his dreams got delayed. Couldn’t be the reason he sacrificed too soon. Couldn’t weigh him down with the unplanned. You couldn’t be selfish. Couldn’t risk his resentment. Couldn’t watch him love something he wasn’t ready for. Couldn’t afford to wonder.

But God…The only thing—the only thing—that could shatter you more than the fear of holding him back was the thought of what it would mean to take the other route. To poison what was growing inside of you. To feel it die inside of you like something sacred withering. The idea made your bones ache. Made your stomach seize. Made your soul curl inwards like it was already mourning. His child. Yours. Made of love so deep it ached. And the thought of killing it—of choosing to kill it—felt too awful to imagine.

And Zayne, well, he was a doctor. A healer. A man sworn to save lives. The thought of him being the one to prescribe the solution, to hand it to you in sterile packaging with steady hands whether he liked it or not, just because he’d always support your choices, just because he loved you enough to say yes even when his soul was screaming no—it made your stomach turn. No. God, no. You couldn’t do that. You couldn’t let him be the one to weaponize your grief. You couldn’t let the hands that held you so gently also be the hands that gave you the tools to end the life you made together. If it came to it, you’d rather he hated you. Rather he despised you for keeping it. Anything—anything—but handing him the role of accomplice to that choice.

You opened your mouth. You were ready to beg. To plead. To search for logic, to offer compromises, to ask him if he truly thought the timing would ever feel right. You reached for his face, cupped the line of his jaw like it was something breakable, your thumbs tracing the slight flush of emotion rising along his cheekbones. But before you could say a word, before you could find breath or reason or voice, you saw it.

The look in his eyes. Emerald green, luminous and glassy, holding back a dam that trembled at the edges. He was already there—already in it—feeling all of it with you. He wasn’t detached. He wasn’t clinical. He was in it. The pleading in his gaze wasn’t a demand or a decision—it was a silent hope. One that begged for understanding. For unity. For time to just be with you in this. You didn’t need his words. Not when his eyes said it all.

He brought both of his hands to your face, warm and grounding, and gently guided you forward. He pulled you in—not with urgency, but with reverence—and pressed your forehead to his, like it belonged there. Like he couldn’t breathe unless he was tethered to you. Like everything else in the world could fall away so long as he had this one point of contact with you.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, voice low and silken as he cupped the sides of your face like you were made of glass, “I’m here with you no matter what, honey. Don’t cry…”

But the tears didn’t stop. They kept falling, hot and steady, slipping down your cheeks like rain against a window that refused to fog. Your chest trembled as you struggled to breathe through the tightness in your ribs.

“I can’t stop crying,” you admitted, your voice cracking under the weight of the truth, thick with helplessness, “I’ve been a fucking mess all day…”

“I know,” he said gently, wiping your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, his touch slow and warm, grounding you back into your body with every sweep of his fingers.

He pulled you back just enough to study you—really see you—your face flushed, your nose red, your lips parted in exhausted gasps. Your shaky fingers found his wrists and clung to him, your lifeline.

“It’s your hormones,” he murmured, his brows drawn with sympathy as he let you hold onto him, “they’re amplifying everything right now.“

“Babe…” You breathed, your whole body sagging forward. Your eyelids fluttered closed, trying to hold in the burning sting, “I feel crazy…I don’t know what to do, how to feel, what to think…I—…”

“Don’t think about anything right now,” he soothed, shaking his head slowly, as if he could hush the storm inside your mind with just the rhythm of his voice, “you poor thing…Putting yourself through all of this stress all day without me here. I’m sorry, dear…”

You felt his hands steady you, his fingers splayed across your scalp, the curve of your jaw, supporting the full weight of your head as you leaned into his touch. You weren’t even holding yourself up anymore. It was all him. All Zayne.

“I’m home now,” he whispered like a vow, “and I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m here with you. No more tears.”

You nodded weakly, a broken breath shuddering out of you. He was still holding your face, still touching you like you were sacred. His thumbs moved in slow circles, soothing the hot ache of your cheeks. His green eyes stayed locked onto yours with such intensity, such undivided focus, that you felt it in your spine—the way he was pouring all of himself into you just to keep you from unraveling again.

It never failed to disarm you, the way he could pull you out of the darkest place with barely a word. Zayne didn’t need grand gestures. He was the gesture. His voice, his presence, his hands—every bit of him was healing, like he was stitched from the same material as medicine itself.

“Let me take care of you right now,” he said, his voice soft but steady as steel.

You blinked at him slowly, dazed, your lashes damp and heavy, eyes searching his face for something—guidance, permission, anything. He nodded gently, coaxing you back to him with that warm, steady gaze you’d always trusted.

“You look like you could use a nice hot shower and some food,” he added, tilting his head slightly as his hand tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, “have you even eaten anything yet, today?”

Oh. Right. Food. The simplest, most human need—and you’d completely forgotten it. Like your body didn’t matter anymore. Like it wasn’t even part of you. It wasn’t until Zayne mentioned it, until his calm voice brought the word into the room, that it occurred to you at all.

“…Oh,” you murmured, your voice distant, lips barely moving, “I, um…Tried to make an omelette earlier.”

He tilted his head, “you tried? What do you mean?”

“…I threw up from the smell,” you confessed, barely louder than a breath. It scraped raw in your throat, like the words themselves still hurt to speak, “is that—…Supposed to be morning sickness or something?”

Zayne’s hands—those large, skilled, impossibly gentle hands—slid down the sides of your neck with a practiced, wordless grace. Warm palms against the fine skin below your jaw. He was checking your pulse again, as if he could read you better through your blood than your words.

“Yes,” he nodded, the edges of his thumbs brushing your throat in that same soft rhythm that always made your chest ache with comfort, “your sense of smell is heightened right now from the rise of estrogen and the presence of HCG. It’s one of the first changes the body undergoes after implantation…”

The clinical explanation. Measured. Certain. Reassuring. You nodded slowly, trying to absorb the information, trying to follow the path of his words as if they might lead you out of your mental fog. But all it did was anchor the reminded deeper into your bones—that you were truly pregnant.

And then, without a word, Zayne’s hands left your neck. They traveled downward, deliberate and patient, as if he were memorizing the shape of your body anew. Over your shoulders. Down the curve of your arms. His touch skimmed your elbows before finally settling around your waist—his long fingers spreading wide over your sides, holding you like you were delicate, like you were sacred.

You stilled. Your breath caught in your chest. His thumbs pressed gently into your belly—not hard, not possessive. Just…Reverent. As though he were acknowledging something quietly holy. Like he wasn’t just touching your body but the tiny, invisible life growing inside of it. You saw the moment it hit him—the moment his gaze lowered, softened, and lingered on the small rise of your abdomen beneath your shirt. That was when he truly began to process it. You could see it in his eyes, in the way they flickered with awe and disbelief, in the silence that stretched between you.

You stiffened slightly in his hands. Not out of fear. Not rejection. But confusion. Disorientation. You didn’t know how to feel about it—about this thing growing inside of you, this sudden shift in identity. Were you allowed to want it? Was it safe to start feeling anything for it? But Zayne…Zayne looked like he already knew. Like he’d decided. Like his heart had already begun to welcome the life inside of you without needing permission. And somehow, that made your chest ache even more.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” Zayne murmured, his voice low and close. His hand smoothed over your back in a slow, steady rhythm, grounding you, like he was gently urging your mind back into your body. Back into now, “but first, let’s take a shower together. I’ll cook you whatever you want after that. Order you whatever you want. We’ll make it quick so you can rest and eat. You need energy and nutrients more than anything right now.“

You blinked up at him, still soft around the edges, your brain struggling to keep up with the tenderness in his voice.

“Did you at least drink water?” He asked.

You had. You remembered now—that enormous glass you chugged just to have enough for the second pregnancy test, after stupidly wasting all of your pee on the first. You remembered the cold ceramic of the sink, the frantic trembling of your hands. The rising panic.

“…I had a big glass this morning,” you mumbled, lips brushing his shoulder as you leaned in and rested against him, “I think a shower sounds good. I…kinda freaked out and peed all over myself when I took the last four tests.”

Zayne let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, a little puff of warmth into your hair. His arms tightened slightly, gathering you in, “I figured you might’ve had a panic attack, judging by the fact that you took six.”

There was no judgment in his tone—just quiet understanding, as steady as the beat of his heart against your chest. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there as one hand cradled the back of your head with aching tenderness.

“”My poor girl…” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, “let’s go get you cleaned up. Come.”

You gave a small nod, still fragile, still uncertain, but willing to let him guide you through this, moment by moment. He shifted beneath you, lifting you gently from his lap, holding you with that same unshakable care as he stood and helped you do the same. You looked back at the couch—the tests scattered like evidence of a life that hadn’t existed yesterday. Your gaze lingered on the white plastic, and Zayne noticed.

“I’ll find a place for them later,” he promised, already reaching for your hand, “don’t worry about anything right now, honey. Leave it to me.”

His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and sure. You nodded again, slowly, like your head was floating and your body was only barely tethered to the floor. The gentle tug of Zayne’s hand was the only thing keeping you moving, the only anchor you had left in this strange, still world that didn’t feel like your own. He led you quietly down the hall, one arm coming up and around your shoulders, shielding you from everything that wasn’t him. Each step was soft, padded by his presence, his warmth pressed against your side.

The bathroom door opened with a familiar creak. He stepped in first, his hand slipping away only for a moment to reach for the silver shower knob. The pipes groaned softly to life. Water splashed behind the glass, building into a soft, steady patter.

“I’ll take our clothes upstairs right now,” he said gently, stepping toward you as the bathroom filled with rising steam. His fingers found the hem of your shirt with practiced care, “put your arms up for me.”

Your limbs moved, but it didn’t feel like they were yours. It felt like they were being pulled by invisible strings. You raised your arms slowly, blankly, your mind distant and fogged, like your consciousness was sitting somewhere far behind your eyes. Everything felt muffled—like there was cotton between you and reality. You weren’t sure if it was shock or dissociation, or just exhaustion in its rawest, purest form. You couldn’t tell anymore.

You felt Zayne’s touch, though—warm, grounding. He peeled the shirt off of you gently, setting it aside before his arms slid around your back, his fingers careful as they found the clasp of your bra. His body leaned in over yours, tie brushing against your bare skin where your shirt had been, the soft fabric cool against your overheated flesh.

He brought your hands to his shoulders, holding them there like he was giving you something to hold on to—his strength, his steadiness, his breath. You swayed slightly as he crouched down, easing onto his knees before you. He moved without hesitation, without rush, fingers working the button of your shorts. You watched him like you were watching through a window, his eyes low and focused. Only when he began to pull down your panties in one gentle movement, did you remember you still had that pad on.

The crinkling sound. The awkward bulk. The soft adhesive tug as he peeled it from your underwear. There was nothing said. Just the silence of understanding, of acceptance, of reality beginning to unfurl one inch at a time. Zayne’s gaze lingered on it a little longer with that quiet clinical attention he gave to everything he examined—but never once without kindness. Never without care. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Didn’t look away. His hand came to support your calf as you stepped out of the pooled fabric at your feet, and even as your face began to flush with quiet embarrassment, he helped you with the same gentle hands he used to hold scalpels.

“…Does it look normal?” You asked softly, your voice barely lifting above the rhythmic hum of water echoing against the tile.

Zayne glanced up at you with calm, clinical ease, the pad in his hand as unbothered in his grip as if it were any other medical observation.

“Completely normal,” he said gently, offering not just an answer, but reassurance in the warmth of his tone, “just a few small spots, as expected with implantation bleeding. Nothing to worry about.”

You nodded slowly, watching as he rolled the pad into a neat spiral, his movements swift but not impersonal—wrapping it carefully in a few swaths of toilet paper before disposing of it with quiet finality. The line between your fiancé and your doctor blurred in those moments. It always did with Zayne—seamless, natural. You could never really tell where one part of him ended and the other began. You just stood there, watching him in that strange, suspended stillness, like you were observing life through frosted glass, waiting for everything to thaw.

As he stood, he tipped his chin back slightly, fingers slipping up to his collar, loosening the silk tie with a practiced flick of his wrist. The knot fell apart in one fluid motion, his eyes flickering back to yours briefly as he began unfastening the buttons of his white dress shirt, starting at his throat and working downward. He never looked away from you for long—just enough to focus, always circling back, always checking on you.

There was no rush in him, no pressure in the air—only presence. Zayne didn’t ask you a single question about the pregnancy. He didn’t prod. Didn’t push. He let you be. Let you breathe. Let the silence fill the room like warm bathwater, like something safe and private and healing. He offered you the rare gift of space—space to think, space to unravel, space to not know what to feel yet. His silence was never avoidance; it was patience. Devotion.

His slacks and briefs came next, slipping from his hips. He gathered both of your clothes into his arms—your shirt, your bra, your wrinkled shorts, your discarded underwear, his dress shirt and tie—and turned to glance back at you one last time before leaving.

“I’m going to go throw everything into the hamper,” he said gently, like it was the most mundane thing in the world, like your world hadn’t just cracked open hours ago, “you go ahead and get inside and stay warm, you’re naked. I’ll be right back.”

You nodded without thought, your head tilting in passive agreement as Zayne stepped out of the bathroom, but your mind never truly registered his words. Everything felt distant, blurred at the edges, like you were underwater with sound muffled and thoughts slowed to a crawl. You weren’t really thinking anymore—just existing, suspended in the weight of your own body. All you could do was feel your body in that moment, not your emotions.

Your mind drifted—slow, weightless—until it landed, of all places, on pear tarts. Your mouth watered. It hit fast, intense. Not like a craving you were used to. Not like a passing fancy or a flicker of want. This was deeper—raw, instinctive, that obsession you’d only had since last week. It felt like hunger, but in your bones. Your fingers twitched. Your legs moved without you deciding. And suddenly you were walking—barefoot, dazed, padding gently out of the bathroom like you’d been summoned by something you didn’t quite understand.

You made your way down the hall, through the house, back to the living room. Sunlight filtered in muted gold through the cracked blinds, brushing over the quiet furniture. And there it was on the coffee table: the plastic bag from Akso Hospital’s café, crinkled and half-tipped from where Zayne had set it in his rush to hold you. Inside, nestled in a box, between bits of wax paper and condensation, were the pear tarts. Still intact. Still waiting.

You reached for the bag as if hypnotized, a tether pulling you closer. But when you glanced around the room in search of the scattered pregnancy tests, the mess you had made earlier—the six stark, plastic truths you’d clutched to your stomach like lifelines—you noticed they were gone. Zayne had already swept through in your haze, brisk and methodical, taking them upstairs with your discarded clothes, cleaning the pieces of your emotional wreckage as if it were second nature. Of course he had. Of course he thought of everything.

Your bare feet padded softly across the kitchen tile, carrying you in a trance of craving that eclipsed thought. The moment you reached the counter, you tore into the bag with singular purpose, tugging at the taped cardboard edges of the pastry box like a woman starved. You unfolded the lid with a reverent kind of urgency, and there they were—glorious, decadent, gleaming under the kitchen light.

The smell hit you first. That rich, buttery sweetness laced with subtle fruit and cream, crowned in delicate slices of tender pear. You grabbed a fork without even registering the movement, your body completely overtaken by the moment. There was no hesitation, no pause, no ceremonial first bite. Just pure instinct.

And then, you dug in. The fork sliced through the soft tart effortlessly, lifting a generous bite to your mouth, and the second it hit your tongue—your knees nearly gave out. Your eyes fluttered closed, head tipping back slightly as the flavor bloomed across your senses. Sweet. Tart. Silky. Buttery. A perfect harmony of textures and taste. It was divine. Transcendent. For the first time in what felt like hours, your mind quieted. The world fell away. It was just you and this ridiculous, indulgent tart that tasted like everything your body had been screaming for.

You were dimly aware of Zayne in the distance—his footsteps moving around upstairs, then down the stairs, the sound of him calling your name lightly from the bathroom, and again from the living room. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. You barely registered the rhythm of his approach until it grew closer—feet padding softly down the hall and toward the kitchen.

You took another oversized bite—shameless and greedy, the kind that scraped your fork loudly along the crinkled paper edge of the tart as if you were trying to consume every molecule of sweetness it had to offer. Sugar glazed your lips. Your mouth was embarrassingly full. Still, you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when it tasted like heaven had melted into your tongue. You swallowed, barely, just in time to glance over your shoulder—half-turned, cheeks puffed out—and caught sight of him.

There he was, gloriously naked. Tall and pale beneath the bright kitchen light, his skin catching against the sterile gleam like carved marble—unmoving, utterly unbothered, a statue come to life only to stand there and watch you with that familiar, infuriatingly calm smile curling up at the edges of his lips. He looked like he could’ve been sculpted by a god too bored to finish, just left there—hair lightly mussed, body lean and defined, unashamed in the soft slackness of his resting manhood.

You, meanwhile, looked like a mess. Pear tart halfway in your mouth, cheeks full like a child who got caught digging into the cake before the candles were blown out. Your fork hovered mid-air, halfway to another greedy bite, frozen. And then—God help you—you laughed. A tiny, sheepish, helpless thing. The absurdity was too much. You were butt naked. Zayne was butt naked. Your body still hummed with the chaos of the day and there you were, absolutely devouring a pastry like it was some kind of primal ritual. It wasn’t sexy. Not in the least. But it was intimate. Deeply, achingly intimate. It felt like a moment that belonged only to you and Zayne—too ridiculous to explain, too warm to let go of.

He sighed, the sound quiet and theatrical all at once, as he stepped further into the kitchen and began his slow, deliberate stroll toward you. His gaze dropped to the pear tart you were mid-scooping again, taking in your overstuffed fork and the crumbs already clinging to the side of your mouth.

“I turn my back for five seconds,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “and my mischievous little rabbit gets into her bag of treats. Why am I not surprised?”

You barely swallowed the bite you had, defiantly shoveling another forkful in as you turned your body—back to him, guarding your tart like it was sacred. But he didn’t hurry. He never hurried. You could hear his footsteps approaching, each one with the patience of someone who knew he’d get there eventually.

“Chew your food properly,” he said. There was no teasing in it—just that deeply familiar Zayne-care, clinical and indulgent all at once, “I don’t need you choking, now.”

You knew, with a kind of warm gratitude, that Zayne was intentionally drawing out his steps—taking his time, letting you finish, silently encouraging you not to rush. It was such a subtle thing, but it spoke volumes. That quiet attentiveness of his, the way he always saw you without needing to say much. You were nearly done with the tart anyway, each forkful disappearing with a kind of desperate satisfaction. The sweetness still lingered on your lips as you felt his presence gradually close in behind you, that tall, statuesque frame casting a soft shadow over the kitchen counter and finally over the last glinting bite poised on your fork.

You barely had a second to react before his warm, bare chest brushed gently above your shoulder blades and his large hand wrapped lightly around yours. He guided your hand up to his waiting mouth behind you and stole the last bite off your fork, chewing with deliberate slowness, a little smirk curling over his lips. The suddenness of it made you giggle under your breath, an amused huff from your nose. Then you felt it—his other hand easing across the soft plane of your naked belly. A cradling, reverent touch that warmed you in its gentleness. It wasn’t too much. Not invasive. Just quiet, steady affection over the plain of your abdomen, like a wordless reassurance.

Instinctively, your free hand lifted and rested lightly atop his. You watched him as he chewed, watched that subtle smile play at his lips, his eyes glancing down to yours with an almost boyish delight. Then he reached up, cupping your chin in his palm, thumb brushing over your lower lip, swiping gently at the crumbs you hadn’t realized were there.

“Messy girl,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, the pads of his fingers lifting and turning back your chin just a little more, “where’s my treat? Hm?”

He tilted your face toward his, slow and fluid, his lips brushing over yours as he kissed away the last of the sugar. You smiled into it, laughing softly as he kissed you again, and again, dotting your lips with light, playful pecks that warmed you from the inside out. For a moment, all the tears, all the fear, all the spiraling thoughts from earlier evaporated like steam. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so…Present. So safe. So held.

Zayne turned you gently in his arms, guiding you to face him as your palms landed against the solid plane of his chest. Your bare bodies pressed together, soft against hard, warm against warm. His arms slipped around you, protective and steady, caging you in with a comfort that didn’t confine but anchored you. Another laugh bubbled up and escaped before you could stop it. Then another, brighter.

“I wonder what your cravings are like?” He mumbled against your jaw, his lips grazing a path downward, toward the sensitive hollow of your throat. He kissed you there—soft pecks between murmured words that fluttered like silk against your skin, “are they anything like my cravings?”

Your stomach fluttered with a sensation entirely unrelated to the pregnancy—an ache of want that pooled low and slow, electric and tender all at once. It was impossible not to feel it, not to respond. Because Zayne, in every way, was a craving of his own. You squirmed in his arms, laughter bubbling up from your chest in helpless waves as you twisted and writhed against him, trying to wriggle free from the ticklish kisses. The giggle you had tried so hard to keep down finally escaped in full, rich and breathless.

“You aren’t even the one who’s pregnant, Zayne!” You teased through your laughter.

The word slipped out before you could catch it. Pregnant. And the moment it left your lips, the air shifted. You felt it in him immediately—in the quiet inhale through his nose, in the way it exhaled warm and slow against your neck. His grip on you tightened just slightly, fingertips digging gently into the small of your back. Then you felt it: the unmistakable pulse of his yearning stirring between your bodies, pressed against your stomach. A reflex. Raw. Primal. The kind of instinct that bypassed words and logic and went straight to something older, deeper.

Your body prickled in response, heat blooming in your chest, spiraling lower—not from nerves, not from fear, not from the storm of the day—but from the grounding presence of him. From the quiet, possessive way his body reacted to yours. It sent a shiver through your spine and a warmth across your skin that had nothing at all to do with the baby.

But as quickly as it came, he reined it in. Zayne’s arms eased around you, and he drew in one last kiss—slow, steady—before he dropped into a controlled crouch. His strong hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted you with practiced ease. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms hooking around his neck. You clung to him, weightless in his arms, skin against skin.

“Well, the water’s still running,” he murmured as he started walking, his voice calm, coaxing, full of gentle command, “our shower will get cold if we don’t hurry.”

He carried you, careful not to jostle you as he stepped into the bathroom. The moment your feet touched the tile, his hands remained—steady, grounding—as he guided you gently past the rising steam into the waiting heat of the shower.

The water hit you like a sigh. Hot, steady streams rained down your back and rolled over your shoulders, unraveling the tension bound tight in your body. It washed over your face, cleansing the dried remnants of tears, rinsing away the salt, the ache, the weariness of the day you hadn’t realized was still clinging to your skin. You stood still for a long moment, head tilted slightly under the stream, eyes fluttering closed as warmth seeped into your bones.

And then—Zayne’s hands. Soft and patient as they slipped into your hair, fingertips combing through the damp strands with deliberate care. He poured the familiar scent of your shampoo into his palms, lathering it between his fingers before working it gently into your scalp. His touch was so reverent, so soothing, that your body swayed into his as if by instinct. You couldn’t help the faint smile that curled across your lips as your head dipped back, letting him work.

His fingers rolled slow circles at your temples before moving to the nape of your neck. Your limbs turned to honey under his attention—pliable, warm, grateful. And when his hands slid down your neck and over your shoulders, palms bubbled and slow, he squeezed, kneaded, loosened the knots tucked into your muscles. You hadn’t even known they were there.

You exhaled—long, deep—melting under his touch as you faced him and your own fingers reached out in turn. They found his chest, slick and warm beneath your palms, and you began to trace slow, reverent circles of lather over the defined, hard lines of him. Chest to collarbone, over his shoulders, down the slope of his arms. Gentle. Unhurried. Just feeling him, loving him.

His voice came low, almost a whisper, just above the steady hum of falling water, “feeling better?”

You looked up slowly, blinking through the mist, letting your gaze find his. His face was serene, lit soft by the golden haze of steam, his brows slightly raised in gentle concern.

“…A little,” you said, your voice still hoarse but no longer fragile. You nodded faintly, letting your body move with his as his hands swept up the lines of your back, tugging you a little closer beneath the steam, “I think so…I’m not—…Freaking out as bad, I guess…”

“That’s a good start,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly as he reached up and tapped a finger lightly to your forehead, “what’s going on up here, right now?”

His touch was featherlight, but the gesture grounded you—like he was reminding you that your thoughts still lived there, still mattered, even if they felt chaotic. You let out a slow breath. The steam curled around both of you in gentle waves, veiling the world outside this moment in hazy gold. Inside, you felt…Clearer. More anchored. Like you could begin to untangle everything that had spiraled through you earlier.

You glanced up at him, his face warm with patience, open with quiet attentiveness.

“A lot,” you answered honestly, your voice a soft breath between you. You didn’t try to dress it up. Didn’t pretend it was less, “I still can’t really believe it…That I’m pregnant. You know?”

“Mhmm,” he nodded, pressing you a little closer into the curve of his body as his hands resumed their quiet work, lathering soft soap over your lower back, down to your hips, around the gentle curve of your body.

“…Can you?” You asked softly, tilting your head to look up at him, searching his expression.

Zayne’s hands slowed, pausing at the small of your back. His gaze shifted to meet yours. A dry, affectionate smile tugged faintly at his lips, the kind of look he gave you when you were being adorably sincere without meaning to be.

He exhaled through his nose, ran one hand gently down the back of your soaked head, “well, I only watched you cry your lungs out and then proceed to inhale an entire pear tart at the speed of light.”

You laughed—quiet, sheepish, a flush rising to your cheeks as you turned your face away in embarrassment. But his hand was already there, fingers tender at your chin, guiding you gently back to him. His thumb brushed beneath your lip as his gaze settled into yours—steady, calm, with that deep, unwavering affection that only Zayne could hold in a single glance.

“But it’s hard to believe for me too,” he admitted, voice quieter now. More intimate, “I think I still haven’t fully processed the fact that you’re actually pregnant right now.”

Hearing him say it aloud—not just the word, but the whole truth, spoken by his mouth, with that grounded logic and that soft conviction—it settled something inside you. Like the truth had found a place to rest.

His hand drifted from your chin, down the length of your neck. His thumb traced the outline of your jaw, lingered there. Reverently, his eyes followed the path like he was memorizing the geography of your face all over again, tracing his love across your skin through the eyes of someone about to become something more. Something…Larger. And just like that, your fears didn’t disappear—but they quieted. Eased back into the shadows, where they couldn’t bite so hard anymore. Not when Zayne looked at you like that.

“Everything’s going to be just fine, I promise you that,” he murmured, nodding once with quiet, unwavering conviction—like the weight of his words alone could shield you from the world, “you don’t have to be scared, love. You don’t have to cry anymore…No matter what you choose, I’ll be by your side every single step of the way. You’re not doing any of this alone. We have each other, remember? You and I are a team. A unit.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he moved again—his hands trailing down from your face with reverent slowness, like he couldn’t bear to leave your skin untouched. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist, anchoring you against his soapy chest with a gentleness that unraveled you further. You folded into him without resistance, your cheek pressed to the warm, smooth plane of his body, arms resting across his lower back as water ran in rivulets down both of your skin.

He was warm. Not just from the steam curling around you, or the comforting heat of the water—he was warm with love. Warm with steadiness. Warm in the way a home felt warm. And then—suddenly, impossibly—you realized something else: he wasn’t just holding you. He was holding you and the small, unseen life inside of you. You and your baby were in his arms at once. Tucked together. Cradled completely. Protected in a way that felt so quiet, so profound, it swept through you in a breathless wave. Like something ancient had just turned in your chest. Something maternal. Something sacred.

The thought overwhelmed you in the softest, most staggering way. It bloomed behind your ribs like a rising tide, thick and heavy and beautiful and impossible to carry alone. It brought that emotion back again—the one too large for words. The one that made your breath hitch, your throat tremble, and your arms pull him in harder. You pressed yourself into Zayne like you wanted to merge with him. Like your bones wanted to wrap around him and never let go. Your heart thudded against his.

“I’m going to support you in every way I possibly can,” he whispered, his voice brushing against the top of your wet hair like silk.

One of his hands slid up the curve of your back, following the shape of your spine as he cupped the back of your head again, palm splayed protectively over your occipital. His hold never faltered, never loosened. It was as though letting you go for even a second might unravel him too.

It was more than comfort. It was a vow. It was his way of trembling. Not in fear, but in devotion. Love. You could feel it. It was in how he couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop cradling you, brushing his fingertips over your spine, lacing his arms around your middle like he needed you as much as you needed him. Like holding you was the only thing keeping his own balance intact.

“I need you to remember that above all else while you’re taking your time to decide,” he continued, voice weighted with sincerity, brushing your temple as he spoke, “I need you to rely on me completely and trust that whatever path we take together, you’re safe, you’re healthy, and I’ll take care of you the entire time. You’re mine until my dying breath.”

Hearing him talk like that—hearing Zayne offer you his calm, his certainty, his quiet, unconditional love—did something to you. It wasn’t just comforting. It was disarming. Your nose tingled with the pressure of emotion, that aching swell behind your eyes like the tide pulling in again. But it wasn’t hormones. It wasn’t some chemical shift moving through your blood. It was him. It was the way his words wrapped around your heart and gave it room to breathe again. The way he gave you permission to be fragile, to lean in, to let the weight of the world fall off your shoulders and into his waiting arms.

The tears came again before you could stop them. Slow and hot, slipping over your cheeks as your eyes twisted shut and your mouth trembled with the force of your cry. It was quieter this time. Not frantic or panicked. Just soft. Honest. A release that curled you tighter into his chest.

Zayne loosened his embrace just enough to guide your head gently back. His hands, warm and steady, cradled your face with such unbearable tenderness that you had to open your eyes. And when you looked up into his, what you saw nearly undid you again. He looked sad. Not devastated. Not broken. But quietly sad in the way only someone who loved you deeply could be—someone who hated to see you in pain, who would’ve taken it all from you if he could’ve. There was such understanding in his gaze. A solemn acceptance that you were in so much turmoil today. That it was meant to hurt. That it was okay.

You didn’t mean to speak. The words just fell from you, unfiltered and raw, rising from the core of the fear you didn’t know how to name, “what if I feel sad no matter what we end up deciding?”

Your voice was so small. Like a child’s. Just that little question echoing in the storm of choices, of possibilities, of losses no matter which path you took.

Zayne didn’t hesitate, “then I’ll make you happy again.”

Your throat clenched around another knot of emotion, your breath hitching as you fought to steady it.

“What if I feel all the guilt in the world?” You asked, your voice thinner now, threadbare from the ache.

“Then I’ll hold you until it goes away,” he murmured. His thumb moved in a slow arc over your cheek, catching a tear, “and if that isn’t enough, I’ll just have to schedule you nightly cuddle therapy and put you on a strict diet of sweets.”

A sound escaped you. Not a sob, but a puff of air—half-laugh, half-sigh. It surprised you. That little laugh. But of course, it was Zayne. Sweet, serious Zayne, who always knew how to carry both the light and the heavy in his hands at the same time. Who gave you both logic and love, calm and softness, who always knew how to crack through the stormclouds with the gentlest beam of light. Your silly, sweet, infuriatingly perfect man.

“I have colorful bandaids from the pediatric ward,” he said with a little nod, combing his fingers gently through your wet hair, smoothing it back, “the children can all vouch that they’ll heal anything. Even guilt.”

Children…The word hung in the steam between you. It snuck its way into your thoughts and burrowed somewhere tender. Somewhere raw. You blinked, slowly, and for reasons you couldn’t name, your mind quietly pressed children and guilt together like puzzle pieces, like some strange logic only your emotional state could understand.

“…You think kids can heal guilt?” The question slipped from your lips before you even realized you were thinking it.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, confused, “hm? What do you mean?”

There was a subtle crease between his brows. He’d meant the bandaids, clearly—his voice playful, comforting. And yet there you were, off in some deeper, murkier territory.

“I was talking about the bandaids, doll,” he added gently, the corner of his mouth twitching with affection, “how did you even mix that up?”

“…I don’t even know,” you admitted, your voice weary with an embarrassed little sigh. You shifted in the steam-warmed air, gently loosening out of his arms as you reached for your soap bar with slow, automatic hands, “ignore me…My brain’s fried right now, Zaynie.”

“It’s okay. I understand,” he said, not missing a beat.

His hand lingered briefly on your shoulder, giving it a soft, grounding squeeze before he turned to grab his shampoo. He didn’t rush. He never did when you were like this. Then, as if he’d still been quietly turning your question over in his mind, he spoke again.

“…But to answer your question, or at least what I think you might actually be asking me, I don’t think you should feel guilty at all if you ultimately decide that you want us to have a baby together right now. And if you do feel guilty,” he added, his voice dipping into a teasing softness, “and if my bandaids don’t help…I’m sure more pear tarts will do the trick.”

You stilled. Only for a breath. But it was enough for the weight of his words to settle over you like a warm towel. Was that what you’d been asking? Without knowing it? Without meaning to?

You stood there for a beat longer, water dripping quietly from your fingertips, your breath fogging faintly in the steam. Maybe you had been asking. Maybe you were just looking for permission. For reassurance. For him to tell you that it would be okay to want it, if you decided to. That choosing love wasn’t a sin.

“…How can you be so sure?” You asked, your voice quieter than you expected it to be.

You weren’t even sure why the question left your mouth. Maybe it was the vulnerability that lingered in your limbs, the faint tremble of uncertainty clinging to you like dew. Or maybe it was the way your hands had begun absentmindedly turning the bar of soap over and over between your fingers, slick and warm as you watched Zayne reach up into his jet-black hair, fingertips digging through lather with rhythmic calm.

He tilted his head slightly in your direction, that familiar, patient smile tugging at the corner of his lips—like the answer was simple. Obvious. Inevitable. And then his gaze dropped, gentle and unhurried, landing on your belly. Zayne stepped closer, and before you could process the way your heart began to beat faster, he reached down. He didn’t take the soap from you, but covered your hands with his—guiding them. Helping you bring the bar down, to the soft skin of your lower stomach.

“Because this is my child inside of you we’re talking about,” he said softly, but his words hit like thunder.

The sentence stopped everything. Air. Time. Thought. His words landed in your body like a weightless strike, as if they echoed not just in your ears but in your bones. Your skin reacted before your mind could catch up—goosebumps sweeping down your arms, your thighs, your back. Your lips parted, a breath catching in your throat, stunned by the way he said it. So certain. So soft. So unshakably real.

It cracked something open in you. A dam of unnamed feelings. You didn’t even know what they all were—just that they surged up in a single silent wave. Awe. Vulnerability. Confusion. Fear. Yearning. Love. And something deeper than all of that. Something you couldn’t name even if you tried. You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. But your body still moved in tandem with his, following Zayne’s gentle hands as they guided yours—helping you lather the soap along the plain of your stomach when you couldn’t seem to remember how to do it yourself.

It was so intimate. Almost unbearably so. There was something about letting him touch you there, wash you there, with so much care that it left your breath suspended in your chest. His touch sent shivers up your spine. It was reverent. Loving. Possessive in the purest way. And it gave you butterflies. Too many butterflies. It felt too good. Too soft. Too overwhelming. It wasn’t just tenderness—it was being seen. Being known. Being protected. There was a life growing inside of you, a reality you still didn’t know how to hold in your own hands yet, and somehow Zayne was already holding all of it. Holding you.

You didn’t know if you were ready to feel that yet. To accept that kind of softness. That kind of possibility. This baby hadn’t been planned—it had disrupted everything. It had flipped your world upside down. And still, Zayne touched you like it was the most natural thing in the world to care for you like this. To love you like this.

Your heart fluttered as his thumbs ghosted over the skin just above your hips. You flushed, catching your own breath and trying not to react to how hot your skin suddenly felt. Not from the water. Not from the soap. From him. From the way he cared. The way he moved. The quiet strength in his hands. His patient, knowing touch. His reverent gaze. God, he rendered you weak in a way that made your pulse stumble and your chest tighten. It was so intimate, so deep to be loved by him. Tended to by him. And somehow, it made you feel even more naked than your body already was.

You blinked through the warmth building behind your eyes, swallowing it down, deciding to take the soap back into your own hands when it felt like any more of his attention might simply melt you into the tile. You didn’t need the help anymore—not with washing. But you weren’t entirely sure you could survive what his worship was doing to your insides. Because even in your stress—even in the absolute chaos of your emotions—Zayne had a way of touching you that made you feel like he lit some ancient, feminine need in you.

You felt a little bashful over it, almost shy in your own skin despite the water already having traced every inch of it. The steam curled around you like a veil, softening the world to just that—just the warm hush of the shower and the quiet sound of skin brushing skin as you moved gently around each other. Neither of you said much. You didn’t need to. You just stayed close. Stayed with each other.

Zayne’s hand drifted through your hair from time to time, tucking the damp strands behind your ears, running his fingers lightly through the length of it, like the touch soothed him as much as it did you. It was tender. Quietly adoring. A grounding ritual, that subtle devotion in his fingertips. And in those small, unhurried moments, you felt it again—relief. Not peace, not yet. But relief. That you weren’t in this alone. That his strength was with you, wrapped around you in warmth, in patience, in care.

The emotions were still tangled in you—messy, aching, too big for a single breath. But it didn’t crush you anymore. Not with him there. Not with the sturdiness of his presence keeping you tethered to something safe. Something whole. But even in your quiet unraveling, even in the healing, soothing hush of soap and steam…Your body didn’t stop being your body. And he didn’t stop being Zayne.

There was something about the way he touched your dripping naked body—not carnal, not rushed, just intentional—that made heat curl low in your belly. Not because you were getting aroused, exactly, but because you felt something again. Because you were alive. Because the love you had for him was a living, breathing thing, pulsing against your ribs and humming beneath your skin. It made you ache—not just for closeness, but for him. For that kind of intimacy that transcended the body. That emotion you felt was desire—but it was rooted in something far deeper than lust.

And so you reached out, not even thinking. Just instinct. Your hand grazing his arm as you moved past him to rinse, fingers trailing slowly over the wet strength of his bicep, the subtle flex of muscle there. Another pass traced his abdomen, fingertips brushing over the faint line of sensitivity beneath his ribs. You saw the way he inhaled at your touch—how even something so featherlight seemed to call every nerve in his body to attention.

Zayne didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Eyes darkened just slightly beneath the veil of water, lips parted like he might speak but didn’t. And maybe that was better. Maybe that silence said more than anything else could. You smiled faintly. Embarrassed. Flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the shower and everything to do with the way your heart beat for him.

Zayne guided you gently with a hand resting over your shoulder as he reached for the water handle behind you, “all done?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, your fingertip tracing down the small of his tall, toned back. He shivered at your touch, “you still have some soap on you…”

Zayne twisted, contorting slightly to catch a glimpse of his backside in the misted shower glass, “where?”

“Never mind,” you smiled, stepping closer. You drew your hand up along his chest, playing with a fingertip in a teasing circle around his sensitive pink nipple, “I think…That’s everything. Right?”

He paused, a faint smile playing at his lips as he reached to shut the water off—the kind of smile that spoke of inside jokes and shared moments, of knowing you better than you knew yourself. Even when you were at your lowest, he recognized the sparks of mischief in you—the playful glimmers that always found a way to shine through. And seeing that tiny flicker of anticipation in your eyes made him smile with quiet satisfaction, his hand warm on your palm pressed against his chest. He noticed how your eyes were still a little red and raw, but when they caught that mischievous sparkle, he knew he’d pulled you back, even if just for a moment.

He drew back slightly and bantered, his voice gentle but teasing, “is it?”

Zayne’s large palms pressed to your shoulders as he pretended to scrutinize your naked form, turning you slowly in the steam-laced air.

“No soap back here, I don’t think,” he declared in mock authority—and managed to coax an almost-reluctant giggle from your lips.

You flinched in pleasure as his hands molded down your waist and grazed your hips, almost cupping the soft roundness of your behind. The warmth tingling along your nerves made you break into a grin, and you lightly smacked his arm as you turned to face him again, “now you’re just copping a feel behind my back.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said, voice rich with teasing warmth. His eyes flashed with playful innocence as he looked down at your chest, “I’ll just do it in front of you next time.”

You laughed again, light and relieved, pushing on his chest in gentle mock protest.  You flushed at his boldness, covering your breasts away, “you’re making them all sorts of shy, Zayne…”

“They’ve never been shy around me before,” he chuckled, stepping out of the shower and grabbing your robe, “but all right. We can cover them up for now, then.”

You reached for the robe, but he held it open for you, motioning for you to turn your back to him. You turned around for him, slipping your hands into the fluffy sleeves one at a time, “thank you…”

“Mhmm,” he wrapped the folds over your front, arms circling you, body pressed behind you as he tied it snuggly around your wet frame. He kissed your temple, whispering quietly against your hair, “I’m happy to see you smiling again, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t stop the butterflies—those soft, weightless flutters that bloomed in your chest and spiraled down to your core. They mingled with the warmth inside of you: the comfort of his arms around you, the soft brush of his lips against your temple, the calm of his heartbeat echoing through your back. Zayne had always been affectionate, but this…This was different. This wasn’t the usual gentle tenderness of your fiancé comforting you through a hard day. This was something deeper. A kind of protectiveness that felt instinctual. Automatic. Primal.

It was like he couldn’t keep his hands off of you—not in lust, but in love. As if his very soul needed the reassurance of your presence, the grounding that came from touching you, holding you, surrounding you. His love bled into every graze of his fingertips, every soft caress of his palm over your robed tummy, each motion slow and deliberate. Like he was memorizing the way you felt with life nestled between you both.

The way his hands lingered there, right over your womb as he kissed the crown of your head, said more than words ever could. It confirmed what your heart had already begun to suspect—what maybe even he hadn’t yet fully acknowledged aloud: Zayne wanted the baby. Maybe not in some grand, prepared, picture-perfect way. Maybe not with a nursery already built or his work schedule cleared. But the truth lived in the way he looked at you. In the way he touched you. He wanted the baby…Because it was yours. Because it was his. Because it was the product of your love.

That realization settled heavily into your chest, warm and tremulous. And you wondered—how would that knowledge shape the choice you were still trying to make? How much would it sway you, knowing that he would love this child simply because it came from you both?

You wondered what that would be like—Zayne stepping into fatherhood before either of you had planned for it. What would those early days look like? Would you both stumble through the unknown together, clinging to each other like lifelines? Would he bring the same calm precision to diaper changes as he did to suturing arteries, the same meticulous care to bottle prep as he did to saving lives? Would you laugh through your exhaustion, hold each other in the midnight quiet, learning to be parents one heartbeat at a time? The thought both terrified and comforted you.

“Have you figured out what you want me to make for you to eat?” Zayne asked, breaking the silence as he finally stepped back, reaching for his robe. The soft fabric slid over his pale, carved frame.

You almost forgot you needed to eat—nothing sounded good anymore. You weren’t even nauseous now, but there was still no appetite to be found.

“…Not really,” you admitted, reaching for a towel and squeezing its wet fibers through your hair, “I don’t even feel hungry right now, to tell you the truth.”

Zayne nodded, matter-of-fact but gentle, ruffling his jet-black hair into his own crisp white towel as he stepped closer, his emerald eyes soft with concern, “your appetite will fluctuate with pregnancy. That’s completely normal. But you do need to eat. And I need to make sure you’re well-fed and hydrated so you won’t feel fatigued.”

It was in the way he spoke—like a doctor giving patient care, like a fiancé gently guiding you through something you hadn’t chosen yet—that told you how deeply he already cared about keeping this life. He wasn’t just preparing you—he was preparing for your well-being, your future.

He paused, looking you over as if assessing more than just your physical state, “are you tired at all? How are you feeling right now?”

“…Tired,” you admitted softly, voice raw, “like I got run over by a truck. But I think most of that has to do with what an emotional roller coaster today’s been for me…”

Zayne’s hand found your shoulder, giving it a soft, supportive squeeze, “well, I’m willing to bet that you’d feel better after having a full meal and a glass of water. Let’s go upstairs and get dressed so you can take a nap, and I can cook you something,” he paused before adding, almost playfully, “come, little one,” then he took your hand, tugging you gently into his warmth.

You followed Zayne upstairs, your fingers still entwined in his, as he guided you. Every soft word, every patient nuance in his voice wove a safety net around your fragile heart. That quiet authority, that careful, thoughtful leadership…It made your heart lurch. He didn’t need to speak loudly or lead with dominance—Zayne led with love. With presence. And somewhere in the back of your already-overwhelmed mind, an image formed: Zayne as a father. That same quiet command, that same gentle attentiveness he showed you now, bestowed on someone smaller. A child with his eyes. His patience. His heartbeat. He’d hold their tiny hand as they climbed stairs just like he was with you, watch every step, and never rush. Always steady.

The thought made your chest ache with warmth and a pang of something heavier. You felt your knees go faint as he opened the bedroom door and nudged you inside, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed with a hand to your back. You lowered onto the mattress like your body had simply forgotten how to stand upright on its own, and watched as he crossed the room, his movements fluid, familiar.

He slid open the closet and pulled out clothes—his, and yours. Well…Technically. You knew the soft oversized shirt in his hand was his, but he handed it to you anyway, setting it atop your pajama shorts. He always pretended it was yours. But he knew. Zayne knew you never wore your own shirts to sleep. Only his. Shirts that smelled like him. That swallowed you whole in comfort. Shirts you curled into on nights he wasn’t home—your silent way of feeling him close even when he was working late.

He placed the clothes beside you with a pair of underwear and a home bra, voice low and matter-of-fact but threaded with warmth, “put these on. I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Your gaze lingered on him. The way he stood there, hair still damp from the shower, robe half open like an afterthought, concern still dancing just behind the green of his eyes. And there it was again—that flash of something too tender to name. That innate protectiveness. That fatherly instinct that came as naturally to him as breathing. God…Zayne would make the perfect dad. But would it even be fair to ask that of him now? So soon? Just because he’d be good at it—would it be right?

The thought stung, even as your hands moved on autopilot. You stood, letting the robe slip from your shoulders and pool silently behind you on the bed. He did the same, unhurried as ever, folding his towel. You took the shirt he’d left for you, slipped it over your head and let it drape loose around your thighs, your skin still warm and dewy from the steam. You stepped into your underwear, glancing up as he pulled his briefs to his chiseled hips in a way that made your cheeks heat despite everything.

“Would you eat steamed vegetables and tofu?” Zayne asked as he adjusted himself into his briefs, “that’s a light meal with plenty of protein. I’ll add sesame oil for flavor.”

You let out a quiet, unamused whine, unable to help yourself as you skipped the shorts, “veggies?”

“Yes, veggies,” he said with that soft edge of authority, like he was prescribing medication rather than lunch, “doctor’s orders.”

He glanced up just in time to catch your eyes dragging across the bulge between his toned thighs, then the broad span of his bare torso. His mouth quirked in knowing amusement, but he didn’t call you out on it. Just reached for his shirt, shaking it out before slipping it over his head in one smooth motion. You tried to glance away before he could notice the flush blooming in your cheeks—but it was too late.

“I need you to eat something that won’t make you nauseous,” he added as the fabric stretched across his shoulders and chest, “and something that’ll replenish your energy. Maybe it’ll sound more appealing after your nap.”

You watched the hem of his shirt settle just past his waist, covering the firm lines of his stomach and groin—thankfully, or not so thankfully, depending on how you looked at it. Because the truth was…Every movement Zayne made stirred something in you, something low and tingly and ridiculous given everything you’d just been through. You were emotionally drained, physically spent, and still…Your body recognized him. Craved him. Your brain couldn’t even blame it on hormones—at least not entirely. He had just held you under hot water and washed your body like it was sacred. Whispered to you like you were breakable and beloved. Looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered.

And now he was standing there like that—dressed in nothing but form-fitting briefs and a shirt that clung to him in all the right ways. All six foot one of him was just…There, looking like something designed to ruin the resolve of even the most emotionally fragile woman. You, were that emotionally fragile woman. You blinked your way out of the trainwreck of that thought and tugged your gaze back to something innocent. His face. That sweet, dependable, handsome face.

“Okay,” you sighed, giving in, “but can I have my other pear tart for dessert?”

His lips lifted. You weren’t sure if it was from your childish compromise or the way your gaze had betrayed you again, trailing the stretch of cotton hugging his chest. Either way, you caught it—the faint smirk, the glimmer of affection—and felt your whole stomach flutter like the wings of a caged thing, thudding against your ribs. God help you. That man would be the death of you, even on your darkest days.

He sighed, feigning reluctance as he pulled back the covers, guiding you to crawl up onto the large, plush bed.

“I suppose I can indulge your cravings,” he murmured. Then he paused and gave you a curious look, “…And what exactly were you staring at, just now, Miss Hunter?”

As you crawled, you turned to answer and caught him in the act: his eyes helplessly fixed on your barely covered ass, betraying his own distraction, his own quiet craving. His expression faltered slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to catch him so directly. But the damage was done. You’d both been thinking it. Feeling it. And now, there it was—tangible in the air between you. Ah. So it was him, too.

“I could ask you the same question, Doctor Zayne,” you quipped softly, tossing a wink over your shoulder and giving your hips a little wiggle at his adoring gaze, “someone has hungry eyes…”

Zayne’s breath caught. A faint, guilty flush touched the tops of his ears, and his eyes darted briefly away—betrayed by his own expression. Your giggling, light and knowing, filled the room like a balm.

“Just…” He sighed, running a hand through his tousled black hair, voice caught somewhere between flustered and captivated. His gaze dipped again, though this time he didn’t bother pretending otherwise. He leaned over to gently pull the blanket up around you when you lied down. Then, quietly—softly—he smiled, “…Admiring my beautiful fiancée wearing my shirt and skipping her shorts underneath. Don’t mind me, I’m only a man with eyes.”

The sincerity of it stilled you. That open vulnerability. That love in his voice. And the way he called you his fiancée—like it still amazed him you were his. Your heart swelled with it. That tenderness. That distraction. That tiny, perfect pocket of affection carved out from the heaviness you’d both been navigating all day. It didn’t make everything disappear, but it softened it. Anchored you in something warm.

“Now close your eyes and get some rest. You desperately need it, darling,” he murmured, brushing his fingers gently over your hair. His voice had gone low again, velvety with concern, with devotion, “I’ll come up soon, okay? Text me if you need anything. I’m taking my phone downstairs with me.”

“Okay, I will,” you whispered back, your eyes growing heavy already.

And when he leaned in to kiss your forehead, warm and unhurried, you let yourself sink into the comfort of it—into the scent of his skin, the press of his lips, the quiet promise he left lingering there long after he straightened up. You watched him leave the room step by step, his retreat slow, unhurried, like even he was reluctant to pull away. Still, the ache settled in almost immediately. The absence of his warmth, his quiet presence, the feeling of being cocooned against his tall frame—it left the air a little colder. A little too still.

You adjusted yourself beneath the blankets, tucking the softness around your limbs as you sank deeper into the plush bedding. A breath escaped you, long and shaky, emptying out more than just fatigue. It carried the weight of all your feelings—frayed, tangled, raw—drifting upward toward the ceiling you then found yourself staring at blankly. The distant sound of the birds outside chirped somewhere in the background, indistinct and hollow, like a world still spinning outside your little corner of time.

And then, your mind drifted straight to Zayne again. What would it look like, truly look like, to see him trade emergency calls in the middle of the night for cries from a nursery down the hall? The image was immediate, vivid—his broad, slumber-rumpled frame rising without hesitation, still sleep-warm, his hair tousled and falling into his eyes, padding barefoot down the hallway with slow, steady purpose. And those hands—those large, scarred, brilliant hands that saved lives—curling protectively around something impossibly delicate and small. Cradling a fragile little body to his heart like it was made of snowflakes.

You could picture it too clearly. Your child tucked safely against his bare chest, held as gently as he held your face when the tears came. You saw him sway gently, rhythmically, in the faint glow of a nursery nightlight, those deep emerald eyes softened with something eternal as he soothed your newborn against the slow, steady beat of his heart, humming a song low beneath his breath. No complaints. Just quiet, instinctive love.

Your breath hitched. The image built itself out of nothing—out of longing, of curiosity, of some deep, ancient knowing that he’d be so good at it. That he was already built for it in all the ways that mattered. And then another image bloomed, and your chest constricted. You saw yourself blinking awake to the emptiness beside you, the space where his body should have been. You heard it—the soft cries echoing through the quiet of night. But it wasn’t fear that would make you rise. It was instinct. Just like when he got called away for surgery. Just like always—you would follow him.

Only then, you would find him not shaving over the sink, but curled protectively around your child. And then his voice—God, you could hear it so clearly. Whispering that you should go back to bed. That you needed to recover. That you didn’t need to move a muscle because he had everything under control.

You imagined arguing softly, insisting. The gentle compromise. His hands helping you take the baby with infinite care, guiding you to a comfortable armchair. His palm against your back. The reverence in his gaze as he would patiently make sure that his baby latched. The tenderness of his fingers adjusting the edge of your robe. Tucking your hair behind your ear. Stroking your thigh over a warm blanket while you nursed and he sat with you.

And just like that, your chest ached with too many emotions to name. It wasn’t pain, exactly. It wasn’t grief or joy or even fear. It was a bloom of something wordless and fragile expanding behind your ribs until it pressed up into your throat and settled there like a sacred thing. In every imagined scene, it was the same story playing out: Zayne setting your needs before his own, you reciprocating with gratitude, warmth, affection. He would shrug off the late-night work, you offering a hand—always partners, side by side. And you knew, irrevocably, that raising a child would echo that same rhythm. Whether unplanned now or planned later, you could picture you both giving everything—unwavering love, tireless devotion. The thought made your heart expand and your breath settle.

You dared to lift your hand, to reach beneath the oversized fabric of Zayne’s shirt draped over your frame like his presence still clinging to you. You raised the hem slowly, inch by inch, a quiet question trembling in your fingertips—was it okay to do this? To touch? To acknowledge what had been growing, unseen, beneath your skin? What had been forming without permission, without plan, but possibly…With purpose?

Your hand met the bare skin of your belly, soft and flat as ever, but it felt different now—different because of what it held. You smoothed your palm gently across it, circling the warmth where your womb lay hidden and busy with mystery. No bump. No evidence. Just sensation. Just your own heartbeat echoing beneath your skin and the emotions gathering like storm clouds inside your chest. It felt sacred. Terrifying. Surreal.

“…Are you really in there?” You whispered to the ceiling, your voice barely above breath, as if to speak too loudly might scare it away. Your eyes stayed open, unfocused, fixed on nothing as your mind raced and your body stilled beneath your touch, “are you…Really alive, inside of me?”

You felt it—soft as breath, but undeniable. A subtle warmth stirred deep in your tummy, blooming outward in delicate, shimmering waves that wrapped around your nerves like silk. It was awareness. Connection. Something ancient and wordless that unfurled inside of you, slow and tender and impossibly intimate. Like a hand had brushed against the inner lining of your soul. Your breath hitched. You lifted your hand from your stomach, startled. Was it just your imagination? A trick of nerves and exhaustion? Were your own emotions making your body lie to you? Maybe. But the truth settled low in your belly all the same, undeniable and present: you weren’t alone.

Zayne might’ve stepped out, might’ve left your side just moments ago. But someone else remained. Quiet. Small. Fragile. And somehow—already impossibly real. His baby. Yours. Created from a moment you didn’t plan for. Nestled in a womb you weren’t sure was ready. Growing inside a life still being figured out. You let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed as your hand returned to rest over that unfamiliar warmth, over that silent answer.

Without thinking, without even meaning to, you whispered softly to the ceiling, “…You kind of came a few years too early.”

The words felt strange, too casual for something so profound, but they were honest. They carried the ache of a truth too big to contain. You swallowed, your palm pressing gently into the soft plane of your stomach.

“Really early,” you repeated under your breath, the corners of your mouth turning up with the faintest, bittersweet smile, “Zayne and I…Your dad…We wanted to wait a while to have you. We had a plan.”

The ceiling stared back, blank and unmoved, but your voice trembled with something heavier as you went on.

“But here we are, right?” You said, your throat tightening, “I guess I forgot…No one really has the luxury to live their life exactly how they imagined it.”

You paused. The silence in the room folded around you like the arms you wished were still holding you, like the embrace you almost hadn’t let go of.

“But you’re here now,” you breathed, eyes stinging, “and I think I’m having a really hard time imagining anything but.”

The last words fell out of you in a hush, and with them came the burn behind your eyes, full and slow and inevitable. You blinked, but the tears came anyway, warm and wet and silent.

“I—…I don’t think I can get rid of you,” you whispered, breath catching in your throat. The words slipped out like a confession too heavy to keep inside, too fragile to say louder.

Your fingers curled against your stomach, trembling as they pressed into the softness of it—still flat, still unchanged, but already sacred. Already everything.

“I don’t think I really—…h-have the heart to…” Your voice cracked as the tremor rolled through your chest, shattering your composure, “and deep down, I know Zayne doesn’t either…”

You bit down on your lip, trembling with the flood of emotion rising too quickly to contain. Your body tensed, eyes squeezing shut as the tears broke free, slipping down your temples and soaking into the pillow beneath your head. Salt stung the corners of your mouth. The ache in your chest spread outward in waves.

“He hasn’t said much yet,” you managed, trying to steady the rush in your lungs, “because I know he doesn’t want to influence me. He wants to be strong for me. But…”

Your hands trembled as they laced over your tummy like a shield. Like a cradle. You held yourself tightly, protectively, clutching the place where something new—someone new—was quietly taking root.

“I know he already loves you,” you admitted, and this time your voice was barely audible through the tears, “I could see it in his eyes…And I—…I know deep down…Underneath all the fear, all the worry…I-I can’t help myself, either…”

There it was. Spoken into the silence like a spell, like surrender. The truth you had been holding back from yourself for hours, burst open in your chest. It ached. It bled. It softened everything. You pressed your lips together, but the tears kept coming. Not out of misery. Not panic. But out of something so complicated it could only be described as heartbreakingly full. This was grief for the life you thought you’d have, and joy for the one now taking its place. Both truths sat beside each other. Neither cancelled the other out.

But saying it—finally saying it—filled you with something unfamiliar. Not calm, exactly. Not certainty. But…Closure. A quiet settling. As if the storm inside had broken and cleared just enough for light to spill in because you were no longer hiding from it. In the stillness, your hands rested gently on your stomach again, cupping what you could not yet feel but had begun to believe in. There was nowhere to hide anymore—not from the truth, not from the love. You couldn’t imagine a world where you didn’t love a child Zayne put inside of you. This accidental miracle, even if the timing was all wrong. Even if the road ahead was nothing like what you planned. You loved that child. And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough. Maybe you and Zayne didn’t have to be ready. Maybe love would be what made you ready. And that the truth had surfaced, spoken aloud and held like a secret prayer—you couldn’t unfeel it. You couldn’t unlove them.

You slowly pushed yourself upright, the soft cotton of Zayne’s shirt shifting around your body like a second skin—too big, warm with his scent. You clutched the hem and gently lifted it up inch by inch, revealing the bare plane of your stomach. It was still flat, unchanged, but somehow it didn’t feel the same anymore. There was weight to it now. Meaning. Possibility. Your palm smoothed over your skin before your eyes, fingertips exploring with a strange tenderness—almost reverence. You hovered there, hand steady against the soft give of your abdomen, feeling a heat beneath the surface, a subtle tingling you could’ve sworn was more than just nerves.

“You’re gonna have to keep growing healthy inside of me, then…” You whispered, the words catching slightly in your throat as your fingers traced a faint circle over your belly. Your tone turned just a little wry, a teasing softness sneaking in through the emotion, “you can’t just beg for pear tarts and make me puke when I try to make us an omelette for breakfast, silly…”

Your other hand came up to join the first, cradling yourself as though you were already protecting something fragile, something precious. You gave your skin a small, affectionate poke—an awkward, uncertain kind of gesture, like reaching out to someone for the first time. Then a tear slipped from your eye and landed there. You wiped it away with a shuddering breath.

“I know I freaked out a little this morning…” You murmured, pressing your lips together, voice trembling faintly, “okay…I really freaked out. I’m sorry.”

The apology wasn’t just to the baby. It was to yourself. For the fear. The panic. The impulse to run. You stood carefully, bare feet pressing to the cool floor, the hem of the shirt falling back down around your thighs. The quiet shift of fabric whispered in the silence as you padded to the mirrored closet. The golden afternoon light filtered softly through the bedroom window, casting a gentle glow across your skin, wrapping the moment in warmth. There, in the mirror, you stared at your reflection. You turned slightly to the side, pressing your hand to your stomach again. It still looked like yours, still familiar. But you studied it differently now—like it was no longer just your body, but a vessel. A shelter.

“Is there even anything there yet?” You whispered aloud, “how big are you? A grain of rice? An olive? An apricot?”

You imagined it—cells dividing, multiplying, the tiniest of heartbeats starting somewhere inside you. It felt impossible. It felt real.

“Well, this is gonna be a huge adjustment for everyone,” you continued quietly, “including you…”

Your eyes welled up again as you spoke, voice softer now, more maternal—testing out the shape of what it meant to speak to someone who wasn’t quite there, but still…Was. You smiled faintly through the swirl of everything that hurt and everything that healed.

“So…I know veggies might not sound great, but you heard the man. Doctor’s orders,” you nodded, stroking your belly again, “that means we have to feed you something healthy. And you can’t make me throw up this time.”

You folded inward, down a little to face your tummy more directly, like you were whispering to a secret only you and the universe knew.

“Understood?” You asked softly, “let’s go downstairs and keep your dad company…We need to make sure he eats, too.”

You gently lowered the oversized shirt back over your tummy, smoothing the fabric down like you were tucking a blanket around something fragile. You gave your belly a soft pat—tentative, a little unsure, but oddly comforting. Like you were trying to reassure the tiny, invisible presence growing inside of you…Or maybe yourself. Maybe both.

The emotions were still tangled, still a little raw, but you weren’t recoiling from them anymore. You weren’t running. Instead, you were letting yourself feel—slowly, cautiously, like wading into water after a storm. You could breathe through them now. You could move.

Padding across the bedroom floor, you stepped out and made your way quietly down the stairs. The scent hit you first—warm and earthy, the distinct aroma of steamed vegetables. It wasn’t offensive like earlier. Your stomach didn’t turn. It simply was. Present. Neutral. Maybe even tolerable.

The soft sound of chopping filtered in from the kitchen, rhythmic and steady. As you turned the corner, you found him there at the counter, focused, calm. Zayne stood in his quiet grace—sleeves rolled up to his elbows, knife slicing deftly through a pile of crisp zucchini. The stovetop hissed softly with heat, steam curling gently from the steamer.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you, his movements pausing for the smallest second. His head turned, eyes finding you. There was surprise at first in his expression—an unguarded moment of wondering why you weren’t still curled up in bed—but it melted almost immediately into something tender. Warm. He smiled, and it reached all the way to his eyes.

“Setting the world record for the shortest nap ever taken, are we?” Zayne murmured without turning, slicing the knife cleanly down the length of a carrot.

The sound of blade against cutting board was crisp, methodical—comforting, even. You let out a soft, raspy laugh, eyes still heavy-lidded and swollen from the ocean of tears you’d cried that day.

“Cooking with your favorite vegetable, Zayne?” You teased, padding across the kitchen floor with slow, bare steps until you stood beside him.

He glanced down at the neat row of carrot slices beneath his hands, then tilted his gaze back up to you, calm as ever.

“…Carrots are healthy,” he said simply, matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious, “and you don’t mind them.”

You stared at the little orange slices on the cutting board, hesitant. Maybe your old self didn’t mind them. But with your hormones hijacked by the tiny, rapidly dividing cluster of cells growing in your womb—cells that happened to share his DNA—you couldn’t trust anything anymore. Pear tarts? An obsession. Carrots? Who knew. It felt like gambling with your own stomach.

Curious, you reached out without thinking and plucked a slice right from the pile. He blinked, surprised but amused, silently watching as you popped it into your mouth. You both stood there in tense anticipation for a moment. Two scientists observing a very specific, very irrational experiment—except the test subject was you. You chewed once. Twice. And then it hit you. That dreaded, raw crunch. That woody texture. The faintly sweet, vaguely earthy flavor that now tasted like betrayal incarnate. You grimaced hard with betrayal, squinting up at him like he’d tricked you into ingesting sawdust.

“Spit,” Zayne instructed, moving closer in an instant. His large hand curled gently under your chin, the other sweeping your hair aside.

You obeyed, tongue darting out to release the half-chewed carrot bits into his waiting palm. He watched coolly, then let a corner of his mouth twist upward.

“And what exactly did our child do to deserve surprise corporal punishment?” He teased, his voice grounded in concern and amusement.

“You’re the one cooking!” You griped, stepping back as he softly wiped at your lips with a damp cloth.

“I hadn’t even steamed or seasoned the carrots yet,” he corrected, guiding you toward the sink without detachment.

He remained close, eyes steady and constant as he watched you rinse your mouth, washing off the drool and rogue carrot pieces. He shook his head, his expression composed but amused.

“You just came in here like a lost rabbit asking for trouble,” he observed quietly, tilting his head as though marveling at your impulsive bite, “tell me, are you surprised? Entertained? Because I’m truly surprised by your brashness, but nonetheless just as entertained by the aftermath.”

You flushed, part irritated, part impressed by his gentle humor. He had that perfect balance of doctor’s calm and lover’s familiarity, watching you with patient interest—even when you were at your most impulsive.

“…It was a sneak attack,” you groaned, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you shut off the sink. The taste still clung faintly to your tongue, but the worst of it had passed, “I wanted to see how I’d react to carrots without the time to think about it, just in case I got sick over it…”

“Ah, yes, very sneaky, Miss Hunter,” Zayne said with mock admiration, brows lifting as he toweled his hands dry in that slow, practiced way of his, “I wonder how well you’d fare sneaking babies their shots before they become aware and begin crying…”

The way he said it was light, but that one word—babies—lingered in the air. Of course it was still on his mind. It was on yours too.

You let out a quiet laugh, faint and a little bashful, “probably not as well as Akso’s very own secret immunity agent, Doctor Zayne…”

That made him smile. It was subtle but unmistakably warm as he turned back to the counter, fingers moving over the cutting board with elegant precision.

“Sneak attacks have to be thoughtful and soft,” he said gently, placing the chopped vegetables into the steamer with deliberate care, “not sudden and clumsy.”

“Thoughtful and soft, huh…” You echoed under your breath, the words lingering like the flavor of something sweet.

Slowly, you stepped up behind him, letting your arms wrap gently around his waist. His warmth hit you first—solid, steady, a familiar heat you could curl up in like a blanket. You nestled your cheek between his shoulder blades, letting your eyes flutter closed as you inhaled him. He smelled like soap and steam and a little of produce. Like comfort. Like home. Like Zayne. You could’ve fallen asleep right then and there against his back.

“How so?” You asked quietly, “how do you sneak the kiddos their shots?”

“Make them comfortable,” he said without missing a beat, the sound of the knife gliding down a head of broccoli, “distract them. Usually with a stuffed animal or my evol.”

You smiled into the cotton of his shirt, feeling the sound of his voice vibrate against your cheek, each word pulsing through him and into you like some unspoken tether, “what do you do with your evol?”

“I ask the parent to name an animal,” he replied, his tone softening with fondness as his hands moved automatically over the cutting board, “then I make it out of ice. And while the baby’s mesmerized, I sneak the shot in. Quick and easy. Works like a charm.”

You let out a light laugh, your lips brushing faintly over his back, “that’s cute. You’re basically a baby-whisperer.”

You only realized what you’d said the moment the words left your lips—but they were true. You’d seen him with children, watched them instinctively lean in when he entered the room. You tightened your arms around him, drawing closer as his breath hitched ever so slightly. Trusting and drawn in, you slid your fingers up his chest, seeking out that steady heartbeat. You felt it skip, just once—emotion leaping before his words could follow. His damp hand, still cool from the washed vegetables, left the cutting board and closed over yours, pressing it flat against his chest in a silent, unspoken connection.

“…I do like them,” he murmured softly, contemplative, “I still work with newborns often when it comes to congenital heart defects…”

“Yeah?” you breathed into his back. Your palm pressed harder to his heart, “I bet they like you too. You’re so gentle…”

“Thank you,” he said, a slight nod acknowledging both you and the sentiment. He paused, looking down at your hand, his eyes softening, “I’d like to think so, too.”

You both stood in the quiet hum of the kitchen, wrapped in the low hiss of the steamer and the smell of tofu and soft vegetables filling the air. A warm silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts. Zayne moved calmly, methodically, scooping the last veggies into the steaming basket with practiced grace. He shut the lid gently, like he was sealing something else away with it, something unspoken. As he dried his hands on a dish towel, his posture told you he wasn’t just focused on making food. He was thinking. Hard.

Your fingers traced his chest lightly from behind, nails barely grazing his skin through the shirt—comforting. Curious. You swallowed softly, leaning against his broad back, the fabric of his shirt warm with his body heat, and whispered, “…Zayne?”

He turned his face just enough to glance back at you, his lashes low, “yes?”

“…How are you doing?” You asked softly, sincerity lacing each syllable, “how are you actually doing with all of this?”

You felt the hesitation ripple through him, his body pausing, as if unsure how to answer.

“What do you mean?” He said gently.

You could tell by the shift in his voice that he did know what you meant. He just wasn’t used to answering it for himself. Instead of replying right away, he reached back with his arm, wrapping it around your shoulders and guiding you closer into his side as he turned to face you fully. His chest met your cheek, and you let your arms circle around his waist, the smell of him—clean, warm—soothing you instantly.

“You’ve been so busy taking care of me and making sure that I’m okay,” you murmured, resting the bottom of your chin up against his chest as you gazed up at him, “you haven’t really told me much about how you feel…”

He gave you a soft smile—one of those quiet, affectionate ones, lips barely curved but eyes speaking volumes. His hand came up to stroke gently through your hair, fingers combing backward in a way that made your lashes flutter closed. You melted a little into it as he cradled the back of your head, grounding you the way he always did. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“Is this you doing your doctor’s checkup on me?” He teased with a low chuckle.

“Yeah,” you replied without hesitation, opening your eyes again, peering up at his green ones, “because my patient is very stubborn about being selfless and strong for me, and sometimes I need to get him to speak up on his own symptoms.”

He let out a quiet sigh of defeat, the edge of his smile still lingering, “I’m being a bad patient again, aren’t I, Doctor Y/n?”

“Yeah,” you nodded more firmly now, arching a brow up at him, “did you even make yourself food, or did you just make me steamed veggies and forget that you need to eat, too?”

Zayne stiffened ever so slightly in your arms, caught.

“I—…have the leftovers from last night,” he offered carefully, though even he didn’t sound convinced by his own excuse.

You gave him a knowing look, lifting your head just enough to give him a playful glare, the kind that came from love, not annoyance, “hmmm, likely story.”

You let go of Zayne with a playful nudge, pressing your palms lightly against his chest as you gently steered him aside. He stepped back obligingly, lips twitching in amused surrender. You made your way toward the fridge, the cool air hitting your face as you opened it and leaned down toward the vegetable drawer. You rummaged for a moment, the rustle of packaging and the soft thump of produce shifting filling the space.

“If I have to eat steamed vegetables and tofu,” you said, triumphantly fishing out a pre-washed bundle of greens, “so do you.”

You turned over your shoulder and flashed him a warning glance, then closed the fridge door with your hip. With theatrical authority, you marched back to the counter, herding Zayne gently out of the way with your elbow. He raised both palms like a guilty sous-chef surrendering control of the kitchen.

You seized the cutting board, placing it squarely in front of you as you dropped a heavy potato onto it with an intentional thunk, then followed with a zucchini and a crown of broccoli.

“…This is a very delicate operation,” you informed, straightening your posture and glancing at him seriously from beneath your lashes, “as head surgeon, I’ll need you to assist me.”

He huffed a soft laugh under his breath, “I thought I was the naughty patient. Now, I’m your scrub nurse?”

“Yup,” you nodded with mock gravity, then leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like it was a behind-the-scenes secret, “wait, that’s the person who passes me the surgical tools, right?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he replied without missing a beat, already making his way toward the utensil drawer, “that would be my role in this operation.”

“Right!” You chirped, refocusing. You repositioned the potato with all the pomp and ceremony of pre-op prep, then held out your hand expectantly, “peeler!”

Zayne opened the drawer with a metallic clink, rummaged briefly, then turned back with the tool in hand.

“Peeler,” he confirmed, placing it gently into your palm.

“Commencing operation,” you said solemnly, carefully dragging the peeler across the surface of the potato.

Pale skins curled up like ribbons beneath your fingers.

“…My patient-turned-impromptu scrub nurse better start talking before I put him on a liquid diet of carrot juice…” You added with a sly glance over your shoulder.

Zayne let out a quiet sigh, the kind that softened the space between you. Then—without a word—he stepped in close, wrapping his long arms around your waist from behind. His touch was slow and encompassing, like he didn’t want to startle you. Just…Hold you. His tall frame curved around yours, solid and warm, a reassuring wall of quiet strength that instantly grounded you. You felt the heat of him against your back, the familiar scent of clean skin and lingering steam from your shared shower washing over you as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss into the crown of your head.

His breath stirred your damp hair as he inhaled deeply, letting the moment settle before lowering his cheek to nuzzle the top of your head. You didn’t stop peeling. He didn’t stop watching. You worked in tandem, not speaking, just existing in the intimacy of shared space—his heart slow and steady behind you, your hands busy with simple, nourishing preparation.

“Well,” he murmured into the quiet, his voice a low hum that reverberated gently against your back, “I suppose I’ve been…Processing everything.”

The soft hiss of the steamer filled the kitchen again as his words trailed off. You could feel him thinking behind you—truly thinking—his chest expanding above your shoulder blades with every deep, silent breath. You didn’t rush him. You just listened, the kitchen knife steady in your hand as you carefully sliced through the tender flesh of the potato, one smooth cut at a time. Then, without a word, Zayne’s hands gently wrapped over yours. He guided the angle of your wrist, adjusting your grip to better protect your fingers from slipping along the slick, curved surface of the potato . His touch was careful, practiced, instinctual in its protectiveness.

“…I think I’m trying to regulate my emotions,” he confessed quietly, the timbre of his voice so close it melted into the shell of your ear, “I don’t want to get attached too soon…In case you decide you don’t want to do this right now. In case you want to wait a few more years like we planned…”

His words struck softly, like a stone placed in your hand rather than thrown. You nodded beneath his chin and said nothing for a moment, simply watching his elegantly long, scarred fingers move over yours as he helped guide the last few slices from the potato. They weren’t trembling, but there was something hesitant in them. Something quiet and unsure.

“I get that…” You murmured, voice low, touched with gentleness as you set the knife aside and scooped up the sliced pieces. The bowl beneath the steamer clicked softly as you filled it. Zayne’s hand opened the lid for you with silent coordination, the two of you moving together like one practiced unit. You let the question settle between you both for just a second longer.

“…Do you think that would hurt?” You asked quietly.

“It depends,” Zayne answered, the clinical part of him always ready to inform, “pain levels can vary a lot. The combination of mifepristone and misoprostol can cause uterine contractions that feel like strong period cramps. Some women describe it as manageable. Others have more severe pain, nausea, vomiting, even fainting—”

“—I meant you, sweetheart,” you interrupted softly, the edge of your voice barely a whisper as you nestled the tray into place and lowered the lid. You could feel his pause like a held breath behind you, “do you think you’d be hurt if we terminated…”

There it was. The question that had been circling your shared silence like a quiet orbit, finally spoken into the space between you. Zayne’s breath caught—just a little. Enough for you to feel the tension ripple through his chest, the smallest stutter in the rise and fall of it against your back. His arms didn’t tighten. They didn’t loosen either. He didn’t answer. Not right away.

Behind you, he was quiet—so, so quiet. Searching, reaching somewhere inside himself for an answer not just honest, but fair. One that wouldn’t influence you. One that wouldn’t shatter him.

“I know you want whatever I want, and that you don’t wanna influence my decision,” you murmured before he could even begin to echo the words you’d come to expect—that the choice was yours, that he only wanted to support you. You could already feel them in his breath, hovering unsaid on the tip of his tongue.

You reached for the zucchini, grounding yourself in the motion. You braced it against the cutting board, fingers steadying its soft green skin. The knife hovered just above it.

“But I know that you’re also not a robot,” you said gently, turning the blade down and beginning your first slow, careful slice, “that you have feelings. That you have your own thoughts about both our options…”

You could feel him still behind you, just listening, heart quietly pressed to your back.

“So lay it on me, Zayne. Rip the bandaid off and quit acting like I’m the only one making this decision,” you whispered, voice raw with a truth that had been slowly tightening inside your chest all day. The slices of zucchini dropped one by one onto the board, soft thuds punctuating your honesty, “we have to make it together…Just like we made this baby. I didn’t get pregnant by myself, hun…You matter as much as I do.”

You felt Zayne’s breath leave him in a long, quiet exhale—barely audible but felt deeply in the way his chest softened behind you, in the way his arms closed around your waist with just a bit more pressure, as if he needed to anchor himself there. His eyes followed the slow movement of your hands as you sliced through the zucchini with measured focus, the soft rhythm of your knife tapping gently against the board. He was quiet, but his silence didn’t feel withdrawn. It felt…Full. Like his thoughts were heavy and careful and waiting to be shaped into words.

You could feel it in the way he touched you—not just a steadying gesture for your sake, but a quiet acceptance that you were steadying him too. That he felt safe here. Safe with you. You felt it in the way he didn’t hide in the silence, didn’t let it smother the moment. He was trying. Not just to be strong, not just to be supportive—but to be honest.

“…I’d definitely feel sad about it,” he whispered.

His voice was soft—too soft. Like the truth might break apart if spoken too loudly. But it didn’t. It landed square in your chest like a weight dropped from the sky, and it ached. Ached in the deepest part of you that always, always wanted to protect him from pain. Zayne had carried so much already—seen too much, suffered terribly in life. The last thing you ever wanted was to add to his sorrow.

You said nothing at first. There was nothing to say that didn’t feel like it would fall short. Instead, you reached beside you, plucking a soft cube of tofu from the tray and laying it on the cutting board. Zayne stood behind you, wordless now, but you felt his gaze settle on your hands again as you picked up the tip of the knife. Carefully, you began carving the tofu, shaving the edges down with delicate control, rounding the corners, smoothing its form into a shape from your mind. You felt the soft compression of his forearms drawing tighter over your stomach, his body curved instinctively around yours like he was sheltering not just you, but the life blooming quietly within you both.

“…I think I’d be waiting until I could actually be a dad,” the words landed with no preamble, no warning, shattering something in your chest like glass, “until I could make you a mom.”

Oh, God. That poor, loving man. You weren’t prepared for how deeply it hit you—how achingly sincere his voice was, how much you could feel his hope and restraint woven into such a quiet truth. There was no desperation in it, no pressure—just a gentle ache. A confession clothed in longing, tucked into a promise he hadn’t even asked you to make. The kind of ache that made you want to fold into him, wrap your arms around his neck and hold him like it would be enough to take away the weight of uncertainty and timing and reality.

You couldn’t speak yet. You didn’t trust your voice not to break. Your hand trembled faintly, but you kept working, the tip of the knife gliding delicately over the soft tofu as you shaped it—each stroke more careful than the last.

“…What about everything we’d have to give up or push off if we have a baby right now?” You asked, keeping your voice low, composed—trying to meet his honesty with your own, “would you be okay with that? Giving up vacations…Travel. Sacrificing the first few years of our marriage just being about us and our relationship…”

You felt his answer before he spoke. It lived in the steadiness of his breath behind you, the calm resolve that pulsed from his chest to your back like a second heartbeat. Zayne didn’t hesitate.

“Our marriage will always be about us and our relationship together,” he said, his voice firm with the kind of conviction that left no room for doubt, “with or without having a child sooner than we planned for. That would never subtract from us…On the contrary, it’d add to our lives together. I have plenty of room in my heart for all of it.”

You’d never thought of it quite like that—never considered the possibility that Zayne’s heart was just that vast. That he could stretch it wide enough to welcome a child right now and still hold you, wholly, without compromise. That the love he gave so fully, so deeply, didn’t run out in portions—it simply grew. That you wouldn’t be edged out, wouldn’t become some faded afterthought swallowed by fatherhood.

You’d still have him. Still be his wife. Still be loved with that same focused intensity you fell for. And the thought of it stirred something strange in your chest—relief and guilt and longing, all tangled together like threads in a loom you didn’t know how to weave yet.

In silence, your hand reached for the little tofu heart you’d carved out so carefully. It sat soft and pale in your palm, a silly little shape born of emotion and impulse and the need to communicate love. You raised it over your shoulder without looking. Zayne took it between his lips without a word, just as he gently turned you around to face him—his hands finding your hips, grounding you. He chewed slowly, watching you with that unreadable concern he wore when he sensed you were thinking too hard, feeling too much. His brows furrowed softly as he searched your face.

“Tell me something,” he began carefully, “are you worried that you won’t have me to yourself for as long as you want? That I’ll stretch myself too thin?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart was already answering in all the subtle betrayals of your body—the tightening of your fingers at his sides, the way your eyes dropped just a little towards his chest. Zayne read it all and sighed to himself, like the truth should have been obvious for you.

“Did you think…” His hands crept under the oversized hem of his shirt you wore, fingers gliding up your waist to the warm skin beneath as he stepped in closer, his voice falling to a tender hush against your ear as he dropped towards it, “…That making me a dad too soon would somehow magically make me less of a husband to you?”

Your breath caught. The honesty of the question. The closeness of him. The way his body cradled yours, firm and gentle and steady, like he could sense your fear and was already offering his answer through touch.

“Well—…What if I’m too greedy?” You whispered, the words barely audible, fragile as they tumbled from your lips like the secret you hadn’t dared say aloud until then.

It wasn’t just a passing thought—it was a quiet confession, a glimpse into the depth of your love for Zayne, how thoroughly you craved him. Not just his touch, not just his affection, but all of him. All to yourself. The possessive ache of being so in love, so emotionally tethered to someone that even the idea of sharing them too soon—even with your own child—felt like too much to bear. But Zayne already knew. Of course he knew. And he had you beat.

“And what if I am?” He murmured, voice low, deliberate, full of that tender possessiveness that always unraveled you.

He stepped in closer, backing you toward the counter until your hips met the edge and you flustered under his gaze, your hands behind you fumbling for balance. His body heat came with him—tall, unshakable, commanding—enveloping you as the air thickened between your bodies.

“Children aren’t some…” He began, emerald eyes glinting as he took you in—like every angle of your face, your breath, your tremble was another vow he’d memorized, “…Inevitable end to romance. Courtship…Affection. Passion.”

His words struck something deep and aching in your chest. Your breath caught, lips parting around the fragile pause that followed as he leaned forward, reaching past you, your senses tingling at how close he came. The subtle shift of his arm moved the cutting board aside behind you, clearing the space. Then—without warning—Zayne’s hands clutched your hips, strong and sure, and pulled you effortlessly off your feet.

You gasped, startled by how easily he lifted you, how secure you felt as he guided your body up and onto the counter. Your thighs opened slightly with the motion, legs brushing his waist, shirt riding high on your hips as you blinked wide at him, heart pounding beneath your ribs. He stepped in, nestling himself between your knees, close enough for you to feel the heat of him in your bones.

“I’d have strict rules as a dad,” he said, his voice like velvet dragged over fire, “especially if you make me one this soon.”

You swallowed, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself—strong shoulders, warm beneath your fingers, familiar in their strength. Your eyes searched his face, drinking in every detail: the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the calm intensity in his eyes as your pulse thundered inside you. Shit. Was it your hormones?

“…Like?” You managed, voice breathy as your fingers flexed against him, “what—…kind of dad would you be, huh? You’d be spoiling this kid rotten with macarons and plushies, I can totally see it.”

“I would,” Zayne murmured, the smile he gave you carrying both mischief and quiet conviction, “just like I spoil their mother.”

His fingers, warm and deliberate, glided slowly up your bare thighs beneath the oversized shirt you wore, dragging the soft cotton higher over his wrists as he moved. You felt your breath catch at the way he leaned in close, the way his voice dipped lower like he was sharing something sacred, just between the two of you.

“But I’d teach our child discipline quite early on,” he went on, fingertips grazing the sensitive outside of your thighs, stopping just short of your hips, “like my own parents did with me. I’d make sure we raise a child who’s taught that mom and dad are husband and wife, too…No sleeping in our bed. No coming to our room at night. The door stays locked. And when dad says he needs alone time with mom…” His eyes flicked up to yours, smoldering and soft all at once, “he means it.”

“…Is that how auntie and uncle raised you?” You asked, trying to steady the tremble in your voice, trying to sound casual, but the goosebumps rising on your skin betrayed you. His fingers had you fluttering with anticipation, gliding so near your hipbone it made you shiver. Your hands, acting of their own volition, smoothed up the broad slope of his shoulders, grounding yourself in him. The press of his body between your thighs made your entire frame hum.

Zayne nodded with a low hum, eyes not leaving yours, “mhmm…”

He brushed the elastic curve of your underwear now, just shy of touching skin that made your stomach flip. Warmth against lace. Soft. Reverent. You swore that man could start a fire with gentleness alone.

“when I was little, I didn’t understand why my parents always needed alone time so often just to talk while making dinner, or hang out together on the couch over a movie,” he explained, that faint nostalgia softening his voice, “I used to think they were talking about me…So I’d frequently eavesdrop, thinking I’d uncover some big secret.”

You watched him, fully immersed, your pulse fluttering with both affection and desire.

“…But all they ever talked about was random things. Boring things,” he continued with a small, amused breath, “about work. Family gossip. Bakeries they wanted to take me to over the weekend. I never understood why my dad was so adamant about wanting time alone with my mom to talk about the most mundane things a child could ever hope to hear.”

He looked at you then, his thumb brushing slowly along your hipbone, tracing just below where your shirt had ridden up, and his voice softened with meaning, with something tender and deeply lived-in.

“But as an adult…” He whispered, “and as someone with a partner…I do.”

The heat you’d felt a moment ago, sharp and startling, softened into something else entirely. A slow-burning warmth that filled your chest, spreading down your spine, all the way to your curled toes. Your eyes locked with his, full of emotion. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink. All you could do was breathe through the wave of love, overwhelmed by the man standing between your thighs like he’d found home in the center of you.

You wrapped your ankles loosely behind him, pulling him closer. Not to tease. Not to escalate. But to hold him near—that man who understood so intimately what it meant to nurture a relationship even through change, even through chaos. Even through the unplanned.

“He was making husband time for her,” Zayne murmured, his voice slow, deep, reverent, like he was letting you in on a treasured family secret.

His fingers ghosted along your skin, brushing delicately against the thin lace straps of your underwear with the softest, most intimate kind of reverence. It wasn’t lustful—it was loving. Tender. His touch carried a kind of nostalgia that wasn’t his own but inherited from memories of watching the people who raised him.

“He was giving her her own time with him. Whether it was a mundane conversation about the hospital,” he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips, “or something whispered that made my mom giggle and smack him in the arm.”

You smiled too, easily picturing it: Zayne’s father leaning in close to tease his wife while dinner simmered in the background, a gentle hush of shared domestic affection that only a child on the outside wouldn’t yet understand. You looked up at Zayne, tracing your fingertip softly over his chest, letting it glide above the steady rhythm of his heart.

“…You think you’d be like your dad, then?” You asked, voice quiet, genuine.

His eyes widened—just a flicker. Barely perceptible, but it was there. Like you’d unknowingly confirmed something. The subtlest shift passed through his expression, a crease of realization behind his green eyes. You saw it. You felt it. That was the moment he knew. The moment he realized which direction your heart had been tilting in all along over his baby growing inside of you. And the smile he gave you—it wasn’t big, wasn’t boastful. It was small, knowing, delicate. Like something sacred had bloomed silently between the two of you.

“Well,” he said gently, and without warning, he scooped you into his arms, sweeping you off the counter with ease. You let out a soft noise of surprise as your body bounced lightly against his chest, and he pulled you in securely, like you weighed nothing in the world, “I think our conversations are much more entertaining than medicine.”

Your arms circled around his neck, your thighs tightening instinctively around his waist. You glanced behind him as he carried you effortlessly away from the kitchen, the warmth of him surrounding you like a blanket.

“Steamer should be done in a few minutes,” he added casually, voice rumbling near your ear as he turned into the living room, “let’s watch something together while we eat. Relax a little. You should pick out show while I finish up. I’ll bring you a bowl right now.”

He adjusted his hold, letting you slide carefully down onto the couch, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary on your waist.

“You want sesame, right?” He asked, pausing before turning back toward the kitchen, his gaze still on you.

“Yeah,” you said with a warm smile, “and my pear tart!”

“Still?” He chuckled, one brow raised as he stood over you, grinning.

“Blame your child,” you groaned dramatically, letting your limbs fall into the plush chaise with a theatrical sigh. You draped your legs out and curled slightly on your side, settling in like you were finally allowing yourself to let the world be soft again—for now, at least.

“Greed runs in the family, I see,” he teased, his voice dipping into that quiet fondness that made your heart ache and flutter all at once. Then, without warning, Zayne ducked down and pressed a quick kiss to your belly.

It was fast. Too fast. So quick you barely had time to catch your breath—but you still felt it. The ghost of his lips lingered, the sensation radiant through your nerves like a secret being whispered directly into your womb. A flash of affection he tried not to let linger too long. He was trying—trying not to get too attached too soon. But it was no use. That love in him—so boundless, so uncontainable—kept slipping through the cracks.

He pulled out the couch’s extension, turning it into what became a plush bed for you to relax over. Then he straightened and turned, heading off to the kitchen.

“I’ll get your pear tart too,” he called over his shoulder, “but I expect you to be good and eat all of your vegetables.”

“Okay, dad!” You laughed, half-shouting after him, giggling at your own sass.

But as soon as the word left your lips, it hit you. Dad. You’d called him that before—jokingly, teasingly, whenever he’d play the role with you: protective, scolding gently, overly responsible. But this time…It meant something. Something tender. Something real. You paused, letting the word echo inside your heart like a bell struck softly in a cathedral.

You grabbed the remote and started scrolling Netflix, the screen flickering soft colors across your skin as you flipped through titles, letting the sound of him clinking dishes in the kitchen soothe your nerves. You heard the rustle of the fridge, the soft hiss of water pouring into glasses. He made two. You heard him. And with every little sound, you knew it more deeply in your bones. You were going to keep his child. Not in fear. Not in grief. But in calm. In peace. In the arms of a decision that didn’t feel like pressure, but like clarity.

When Zayne returned, his hands were full—two steaming bowls of vegetables cradled carefully in his palms. He placed yours down beside you with a little flourish, then moved to fetch the drinks and your pear tart, his every step deliberate and steady. The kind of steadiness that made you feel held even when he wasn’t touching you. And then you saw it. Beside your bowl, set delicately on a small dessert plate, was your pear tart—golden, glossy, glistening with syrup and soft pastry flake. But next to it, placed with a kind of quiet thoughtfulness that made your throat tighten, was a tiny cube of it he’d cut away. Just a small piece. Set aside. Separate. Like it was for his baby.

Your gaze snapped up to him, and Zayne—who had just handed you your water—caught your eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. You saw it in him. That soft, knowing smile. The way his eyes searched yours, how his hand briefly touched your knee as he sat down beside you. He knew you were keeping it. He’d known without you needing to say it. Just like you had.

“Pear tart for the lady,” he said matter-of-factly, motioning to the glossy, golden slice on the plate beside you. Then, with a flick of his fingers to the small cube next to it, “pear tartlet for the baby.”

A soft giggle escaped you before you could help it, your lips curling into a smile as you nudged his leg, “you’re too damn cute…”

He sat beside you with his own bowl, his posture relaxed, his long legs folded up just enough to bump your thigh as he settled in. You stole a glance at the steam rising from both your bowls, wondering if your stomach was truly ready. Vegetables weren’t your favorite, but you wanted to try for his child growing inside of you. You picked up your chopsticks and poked cautiously at a zucchini first, slicing it with your teeth and chewing slowly. You held your breath for the reaction—but your stomach stayed mostly steady. Not great. Not inspired. But tolerable. That was good enough.

Zayne, true to form, hadn’t added any carrots to his bowl. You caught him watching you out of the corner of his eye, the faintest amused smile tugging at his lips as you pushed a lone slice of carrot off to the side. The rest of the bowl—soft chunks of tofu, glistening zucchini, crisp broccoli, and lightly oiled potato—you ate bit by bit, sipping water between each. You felt him watching, but it wasn’t pressure. It was silent encouragement.

You managed most of it before your gaze drifted to the dessert. And when you finally reached for the pear tart, the smell alone was enough to make your mouth water. You took a delicate bite—soft pastry flaking at your lips, warm pear melting on your tongue—and moaned quietly in relief. Heaven. The baby tartlet, you held up ceremoniously before placing it onto your tongue. And then, you broke off a piece of the larger slice and held it up to Zayne with a cheeky smile.

“Open,” you motioned.

He met your eyes with that playful glint, leaned in, and took the offered bite straight from your fingers, lips brushing your knuckles. You fed him a few more pieces like that, until your plate was nearly clean—only tiny flakes of crust left like confetti from a celebration.

You chased the last bite down with a slow sip of water, the coolness soothing the back of your throat as you set the glass down with a quiet clink. The movie you’d half-heartedly chosen flickered across the screen, but neither of you were really watching it. It was just noise, soft light and dialogue filling the quiet, giving space for your thoughts to settle after everything that had happened since the morning. Then Zayne reached out and gently tugged on your arm, his fingers curling loosely around your wrist—not demanding, just coaxing. You looked at him, and his expression was open, waiting, like he didn’t even have to say it. You melted willingly into him.

He guided you into his lap as if you were something delicate, easily bruised. His hands found your waist, lifting you just enough before settling you gently across his thighs. You folded into him without resistance, your back resting snugly against his chest, the solid, comforting rhythm of his breath immediately calming something low and restless inside of you. His legs were warm beneath you. His body, a gentle fortress.

And then you felt it—his hand, casually, instinctively resting over your lower stomach beneath the soft drape of your shirt. He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was simply where his hand landed. Natural. Protective. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch—not because it was overt, but because it was him. Him, cradling the possibility of a future he hadn’t pressured you into, but clearly already felt in his blood.

The other arm came around you slowly, wrapping more snugly over your shoulder, drawing you close, as if anchoring you there. His chin brushed the top of your head. His chest rose and fell against you like a quiet lullaby, and when he spoke, the sound of his voice rumbled through your spine.

“Are you still experiencing any nausea?” He asked softly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the comfort you’d both sunk into. His thumb moved in a gentle, unconscious stroke where it rested, “or is your stomach relatively okay right now? How are you feeling?”

The question wasn’t medical, not really. Not from him. Not in that moment. It was love wrapped in concern, compassion shaped like a check-in. You felt the corners of your mouth tug as your fingers found the back of his hand and laced over it, holding it there.

“I feel a lot better…” You admitted, your voice softer now, worn by emotion and gentled by the quiet intimacy around you, “I think I know what did the trick, actually.”

“Oh?” He asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice before you saw it. He gave your tummy a gentle, affectionate caress, “and what would that be?”

“Oh, you know…” You teased, voice full of something softer than humor, something tender, “only the best medicine ever…”

“Which is?” Zayne chuckled, his smile pressed directly into the strands of your hair as he leaned closer.

You turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder, your nose brushing his cheek, “my daily dose of Zaynie, of course.”

He let out a low, affectionate breath—half laugh, half sigh—as his lips pressed into your temple in a long, slow kiss. His fingers tightened gently in yours, and the embrace he pulled you into then was firmer, fuller, a kind of full-body affection that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

You rose gently from his lap, just enough to shift your weight and turn, facing him then, knees folding to either side of his hips as you straddled him. His hands immediately came to your thighs, warm and steady, guiding you closer as he slid his broad frame lower along the chaise to give you a proper seat over his lap. You settled there, comfortably, naturally, the perfect fit against him—like you belonged in his arms and nowhere else.

Zayne’s green eyes lifted to meet yours, and in them was something that quieted every loud thing inside of you: reverence. A soft, aching adoration that made your pulse stutter with emotion. That was what he always gave you—his full, unguarded self. Not just when things were easy, but even when the world felt like it had tilted on its axis and you were just trying to catch your breath.

“You always manage to make everything way less stressful than it has to be…Even something this crazy…,” you murmured, your fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt over his chest, toying at the firm lines beneath. You looked up at him through your lashes, smiling softly, “do you treat your other patients with this much tender love and care, Doctor Zayne?”

His low chuckle vibrated against your fingertips. He gave your thighs a gentle squeeze as the corners of his mouth lifted, a teasing glint in his gaze, “only one of my patients is special enough to receive husband treatment from me. And I’m not even her husband yet…But she’s so special to me that I started her on that prescription early on.”

“Well…” You smiled and poked his cheek, and he tried to dodge your finger with a grin, dodging again on the second attempt, “I’m sure she’s very happy and healthy because of you.”

For the briefest second, something flickered in Zayne’s eyes. That look—half surprised, half moved, as if he hadn’t expected your words to hit him right there. His lips parted slightly, his eyes studying yours with that raw openness he always saved just for you.

And then you leaned in with a content little hum, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing yourself fully into his chest. You inhaled deeply, catching the clean, masculine scent of him—fresh skin, shampoo, something uniquely Zayne. A scent that made your heart clench in a way that felt like comfort and yearning all at once.

He held you like he never wanted to let go. One strong arm circled your back, the other hand lacing through the back of your hair, fingers slipping through your roots like he was memorizing the feeling. His warmth folded around you, and for a few sacred seconds, nothing else existed—no decisions, no stress, no fears. Just the rhythm of his heart keeping time with yours, like a second pulse echoing through your ribs.

“I love you so much,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, your voice as soft and vulnerable as the words deserved to be, “I really can’t wait to marry you already…”

“I love you the most…And likewise. I’m counting the days until your last name gets changed to Li,” he nuzzled you, “my Y/n Li. It has such a nice ring to it…Don’t you think?”

“Mhmm…” You murmured, melting deeper into his chest, “I’m dying to take your last name and make it my own.”

Zayne’s arms tightened instantly around you, drawing you closer like he could pull you right into his skin. You felt the squeeze, firm and full of emotion, followed by the softest, happiest sigh ghosting against your hair.

“God…” His voice dropped low, warm and reverent, “keep talking…”

You giggled softly, the sound muffled against him, butterflies flaring in your belly at the way his tone shifted when you spoke like that—when you gave him pieces of your heart so openly. He always melted for it, for you.

“So greedy,” you teased, your voice lilting with affection as you shifted slightly on his lap, feeling the steady strength of his arms cradling your frame.

“I have you on my lap, pregnant, telling me you’re dying to take my last name…” His breath hitched faintly, his words laced with that adoration that made your chest ache, “can you really blame me for being greedy? It’s because of you. You do this to me.”

His hands squeezed gently, grounding you against him.

“And frankly,” his voice dipped lower, teasing but achingly sincere, “I think you quite enjoy it…”

“I do,” you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing the broad line of his shoulder before curling into the back of his shirt, I love how greedy you are…Because I am, too.”

You felt him smile against your hair as he nuzzled you again, felt the warmth of it spread through you like sunlight before he pressed his lips there in a soft, lingering kiss.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he whispered, his voice so close and tender it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, “you’re perfect the way you are, darling. Don’t change.”

“I won’t,” you promised, nuzzling him back, letting the steady thrum of his heart and the safety of his arms wrap around you like a blanket.

You both stayed like that, cocooned in each other’s embrace, the TV long forgotten, your veggie bowls finished on the table. There was only the sound of your breathing—deep, rhythmic, entwined—like your lungs were keeping time together. Your limbs melted into his; your head lay against the strong curve of his neck while his heartbeat thrummed beneath your cheek, steady and soothing, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone in anything—especially your pregnancy.

The world outside didn’t exist. Not the stress. Not the decisions. Not even the future. Just that—that warmth, that tether, that man who held you like you were something sacred. You stayed there, breathing him in, letting the slow expansion of his chest rise beneath yours. Time blurred, like a long exhale stretched across eternity. Two souls stitched into a single silence.

How blessed you were to have him. To know that that man—the one holding you so tenderly—was yours, not just in this life, but in every lifetime you could imagine. Your fiancé. Your future husband. The father of your growing child. The thought of your unplanned pregnancy, once terrifying, then curled through you like a golden thread of joy. It made you happy—so deeply happy—to be carrying his baby. To give him something so precious. To make him a father. To bear him a child born from the fierce, unshakable love you shared. You loved him so much you’d do anything. Face anything. Even a baby sooner than you’d planned, if it was his. Especially because it was his.

Then…There it was, a silent spark in the warmth of affection. At first, it was subtle enough you barely noticed. A faint shift beneath you, almost imperceptible—until it pressed up firmer against you in a way that was unmistakable. Your breath hitched softly. You adjusted, shifting slightly on his lap as though to settle more comfortably, and that’s when you felt it for certain. That quiet, telltale tension beneath you. The gentle, restrained throb pressing right where you straddled him, nestled intimately between your thighs, radiating heat through the thin layers of underwear that still separated you.

It pulsed—soft, steady, wanting—and the awareness of it rippled through you in an instant, curling low and warm in your belly. Zayne’s breath hitched—barely audible, but real. It fluttered against your hair. The smallest, softest reaction. Like he didn’t mean for you to notice, but couldn’t help it. The giggle escaped you before you could catch it. A tiny, delighted laugh bubbling up from your chest as you turned your face against his neck. And just as quickly, you heard him exhale a sheepish chuckle of his own, low and deep in his throat. It was subtle, almost shy. But warm.

“Babe?” You grinned in flattered disbelief, pulling back just enough to meet his face—your palm landing flat against the center of his chest, feeling his heart thump beneath your hand as you caught the flushed smile curling at his lips, “are you getting hard right now?”

Zayne gave the tiniest shake of his head like he was embarrassed by how natural it was, how involuntary. He let out a sigh that was equal parts amused and helpless, “I’m definitely not getting soft…And you’re definitely not helping me much with your squirming, either.”

Your breath hitched at that. At his honesty. At the feeling of him—solid and growing firmer beneath you, nestled right against the tender heat between your thighs. Thick. Insistent. You bit back another laugh, cheeks blazing with warmth, your body fluttering in embarrassment and affection all at once.

“Why are you hard right now?” You asked, a little dazed, your voice a half-gasping giggle as your fingers clutched at the front of his shirt. There was no hiding the blush in your cheeks, the twitch of a smile tugging at your mouth, or the way your thighs unconsciously pressed around his hips, “am I moving around too much? I’m sorry…”

Zayne lifted his brows, as if the answer was simple, the most natural thing in the world. His hands rested gently on your waist, not even pushing or pulling, just there, grounding you.

“Because I love you,” he said plainly. Softly. Like it was the clearest, most obvious cause and effect, “don’t apologize for it…I don’t mind one bit, if you don’t. I like how it feels when you get me hard…It feels nice. You feel nice, sitting on me.”

You laughed, beaming at him. You brought your hand to your burning cheek, hiding it as you turned your face away. But Zayne followed you with his gaze, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth as his hand reached up and cupped your jaw, guiding you gently back to him.

“I don’t mind, silly,” you whispered, incredulous, practically breathless with flustered joy, “but seriously, how do you get hard like this so often? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered that you do…I like it, too.”

It happened every time. Zayne could never stop it, never suppress the tidal pull of his body toward yours. That was what love did to him—love that didn’t just bloom in the chest, but spilled, surged, bled into every inch of his being until it warmed places in him that had never known heat before you. Even the smallest affection from you—your praise, your laughter, the way you curled around him like he was home—sent his blood rushing low, urgent and wanting.

Because for Zayne, love was not something he only said. It lived in the way he touched you. Looked at you. Held you. And most of all, in how he showed you—in the most intimate, wordless ways that tethered him to you so fiercely it hurt. His love language had always been physical. He was a man of restraint, of cool calculation, of winter’s stillness…But you—you—were his spring. His thaw. And he’d never stop melting for you. Never stop craving that quiet, worshipful act of loving you with everything he had.

“Because…” He began, his voice low and steady, hands lowering to your bare thighs with reverent grace, his long fingers spreading warm across your skin. His gaze didn’t waver—anchored deep in yours, open and tender, “my feelings for you are more intense than I could ever hope to explain…I don’t really get lustful too often, you know that. Rather…The love I feel for you makes my body react in a way that’s—…Needy. I know it happens frequently…But I can’t help myself when it comes to you.”

Your heart gave a pulse so strong you thought it might echo into his chest. The heat of his touch, the weight of his stare, the fullness of his words—all of it wrapped around you until you swore you could feel yourself unraveling with every slow breath.

Goosebumps chased the places his hands touched, spreading outward, curling into your spine. Oh, Zayne. How effortlessly he could wreck you. How he made you feel like you were his only need, his only world. There was no man who could ever look at you the way he did—like he wanted to worship, protect, and devour you all at once.

“Yeah…” You whispered, dazed, your fingers lightly circling his chest, “you’re pretty hopeless, huh, Zaynie?”

You caught the dip of his collarbone, the soft rise and fall of his breaths beneath your touch. Then you toyed with the edge of his collar, slipping a finger beneath it like you were teasing the boundary between restraint and everything else you knew he wanted to give you.

He moved with that same fluid precision he carried everywhere—like every movement was part of something deliberate, like the world slowed just enough for him to navigate it with purpose. You barely had time to gasp as he pushed himself upright, slid his hands around your lower back, and lifted you seamlessly into him. The strength in his arms was effortless, second nature, and yet he held you like you were precious cargo—as if letting you go too quickly might make him shatter.

Your body melted into his instinctively, legs curling closer around his hips just as he shifted you, flipping you onto your back on the extended couch mattress without ever once breaking your gaze. He followed you down, settling his tall frame between your thighs, bracing his weight on his forearms as the heat of him sank into you. Your legs spread further, without needing to be asked, welcoming the press of his body, your every nerve alight and singing. But it was his face—God, his face—that nearly undid you. His green eyes were cast down like reverent hands, scanning every inch of you like he needed to memorize the curve of your cheeks, the part of your lips, the rise and fall of your chest. You could see yourself in those emerald orbs. Reflected in the kind of love that could burn entire worlds down if you asked him to.

His knuckle grazed your cheek, featherlight. Barely there. But you felt it down to your spine. His hand was steady, but his touch held trembling reverence, as though he wasn’t sure how he got that lucky—how he got you. Then his voice dropped. Low. Gentle. Hot with affection.

“Oh yes, I’m completely and utterly hopeless,” he whispered, the words brushing your lips before his mouth followed suit in a kiss so soft it damn near completely unraveled you, “in fact…I hope you know that I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you once you start showing.”

Oh. Oh God. You swore you felt the earth fall away beneath you. The air left your lungs in a rush and was replaced by him, only him—his breath, his weight, the way he hovered over you like your body was a prayer he’d waited his entire life to answer.

Because somehow, impossibly, he’d made it sexy. He was talking about your pregnant body, about your womb gently swelling with the baby you hadn’t even meant to make together—and still, somehow, Zayne managed to whisper that sentence like a confession and a craving all at once. His words melted into your bones like a furnace, sparking every nerve, every inch of womanly heat that curled and ached and needed.

He was already insatiable. Already addicted to you. But this? This was something deeper. More primal. He was claiming you in the softest, most reverent way possible. Not just your body—but your future, your motherhood, the shape of your life growing inside of you. And in that moment—when you saw the love in his eyes, when your body flushed with heat under the low rumble of his voice—you knew. You knew that he knew in his bones you were keeping his baby.

His thumb glided slowly across your bottom lip, the pad of it warm and deliberate—possessive in the most devastating way. His gaze, once so soft and loving, deepened by degrees into something far more passionate, more primal, as if the image in his mind—you, full with his child—was driving him to the edge of his restraint.

“Once you’re all swollen and round,” he murmured lowly, “once I can see clear evidence of my child growing inside of you…I’ll be truly, absolutely helpless. A slave to love.”

God help you. The rush of heat that rolled down your body at his words was instantaneous—liquid fire pooling between your legs, catching in your chest, seizing the back of your throat with want. You couldn’t even answer him. You couldn’t breathe. Your hips, all on their own, tilted upward into the dense, heated pressure of his groin where you could feel him thick and ready, the heavy mass of him slotting perfectly between your thighs. He sighed softly at the contact, and instinctively pressed down to meet you, rolling his hips into yours in a grinding motion so slow, so precise, it made you gasp out loud.

Your brows pulled together, lips parted in a breathy sigh, and Zayne saw it—every flicker of pleasure, every flush of helpless desire that lit your face like a revelation. The satisfaction in his eyes made your stomach tighten.

Then he broke. He dipped down and captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss that left no room for hesitation. His mouth opened yours, his breath tangled with yours, and he took—with sighs, with tongue, with aching reverence and a hunger barely leashed. You barely knew what to hold onto, gripping the taut lines of his shoulders, your fingers clawing at the muscle there as his body surged against yours. His hand slid into your hair, palm cupping your jaw, holding your head like something fragile, irreplaceable, as he kissed you like he needed you more than air.

He exhaled into your lips, voice breaking on the edge of restraint, “you’re already irresistible enough as it is…”

He trailed kisses across your flushed cheek, soft and slow, brushing along the shell of your ear. The whisper of each one landed like a flame licking across your skin, every sound wet, intimate, deliberate, until your breath hitched and your thighs squeezed around his waist in reflex. And still, he kept going—cradling your body, praising you with every word, every sigh, every press of his lips.

“Tell me how the hell I’m supposed to compose myself while you’re pregnant?” He whispered, voice low and raw with a need that almost made you whimper, “knowing that…Just knowing, now, makes me yearn even harder. Makes me delirious. I’ll never be sane around you again.”

He wasn’t just aroused. He was undone. Worshipful. As if he couldn’t decide whether to make love to you or drop to his knees and kiss every inch of your belly. His hands trembled faintly with the sheer emotion of it all.

Your hips lifted in a slow, aching grind, pressing yourself up against the hard, pulsing shape beneath him. It stole a moan from the back of your throat, muffled behind your teeth sinking into your lip, your breath catching when his mouth sealed over your earlobe. The warmth of his lips, the wet pressure of the gentle suck, pulled an electric thread straight down your spine, and you arched into his touch—his hand tucking beneath you, possessive and tender all at once, like he needed to hold every inch of you in place.

You reached for him, fingers slipping under the curve of his jaw, turning his face to yours until your eyes met—storm and flame. His pupils were blown wide, the deep green of his irises swallowed by hunger and reverence, his dark lashes casting shadows over the fire there. You stared into him like you could see every memory you’d ever shared flash behind his gaze, and he looked at you like there was no world outside the space between your bodies.

“You’ve never been composed or sane around me, anyways, Zaynie,” you whispered, voice low, sultry, honest, “you’ve always been my big, rebellious snowman. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A half-smile flickered across his lips—shaken, undone, adoring. And then you kissed him. You pulled him down to you, and he melted into it—his hands gripping you like you were the last tether to something real. Your leg slid up and around his hip, locking him to you as your mouths tangled, slow and full and deep. He kissed like he worshiped—utterly, madly, desperately.

And it was true. Zayne had never been sane around you—never from the moment your paths crossed as children, when your very presence made his evol go berserk in a way he couldn’t tame. Even years later in adulthood, as your doctor, when he tried to hold his heart back, but his professionalism cracked once he was near you again. And on the day he dropped to one knee, that collapse became a promise: no matter how tangled fate—or a cruel God—wove its threads, nothing could tear him from your side.

A large, steady hand began pushing up your shirt, fingers splaying slowly, reverently, inch by inch across the shape of your ribs. His touch was warm—hot, even—contrasting with the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin. Each pad of his fingers traced your frame like he was relearning the topography of your body, committing you to memory with an almost aching tenderness. And you were meeting him with equal hunger—your lips parted, your tongues tangled, a soft moan vibrating between you as your hands fisted in the fabric stretched over his sculpted shoulders. Every brush of his skin to yours sent sparks crackling across your nerves, dizzying and breathless, grounding and unraveling all at once.

Then his hand slid higher, slow and deliberate, until his palm curved over your breast. His touch was careful, cupping you over the thin fabric of your bra with the kind of gentle weight that made your breath catch. He felt so big against you, his long fingers spanning your softness, cradling you.

You arched instinctively into his touch, pressing yourself into the warmth of his hand. He gave the faintest squeeze—just enough to make you shiver—massaging the weight of your breast in his palm. It wasn’t rough, wasn’t rushed; it was a tender mix of need and awareness, testing your sensitivity with each careful motion.

A low moan slipped past your lips, unbidden, when his thumb began to circle slowly over your perked nipple through the thin bra fabric. The sensation was sharp—half sting, half pleasure—and it made heat bloom low in your belly.

“Is this okay?” He murmured softly, his voice brushing against your mouth like silk. His fingers kept working you gently, reverently kneading the swell of your breast.

You nodded quickly, the answer instinctive, and pulled him back into a kiss—harder this time, more eager. Your hand curled along his jaw as you kissed him deep and slow, filling the room with the wet sound of plush smooches that tasted of warmth and wanting. You melted against his touch, goosebumps racing across your breasts, your nipples tightening in response to his worship.

You felt his sigh warm against your cheek, deep and heavy, as if the sound came from somewhere low in his chest. The subtle twitch of him between your thighs didn’t go unnoticed either, firm and insistent, pressing where you wanted him most. The way your hardened nipple peaked under his thumb only deepened his breath, pulling a quiet groan from his throat. You arched slightly, instinctively pressing into his hand, into him, desperate to close every sliver of space between your bodies.

He felt it—the needy push of your hips—and without breaking the kiss, his arm slid swiftly around your waist. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up with him as he sat back against the couch, guiding you effortlessly into his lap again. Your thighs framed his hips once more, and you braced your hands against his chest as you settled onto him, sinking fully onto the solid heat beneath you. The contact dragged a trembling sigh from your lips, swallowed instantly by his kisses as he proceeded to find your breast.

“How do your nipples feel?” He murmured against your lips, his breath warm and intimate, his voice low and coaxing in that velvet timbre that always unraveled you. His thumb circled slowly over the stiff peak straining against your thin bra, teasing in unhurried strokes that made your skin prickle with heat, “are they still sensitive?”

“A little…Yeah,” you admitted in a trembling breath, your voice so soft it nearly melted between you.

You allowed him to guide you back, his hands steady but gentle as he put just enough space between your bodies to slip his other hand beneath the hem of your shirt. You watched him, mesmerized, as his emerald eyes lowered, the intensity in them molten and unblinking. They lingered on your chest, on the soft rise and fall of your barely clad breasts, his focus sharp enough to make your heart skip. The hem of your shirt bunched up around his wrists, trapping heat against your skin, while his hands cupped you fully then—large. Warm. Commanding.

He kneaded you in slow rhythm, his thumbs sweeping languid arcs over your nipples while his fingers pressed in deep, rolling the supple weight of your breasts upward before circling them in a way that made your entire body move with his hands. The sensation was dizzying, almost hypnotic. You felt yourself melting against him, muscles loose, head tipping back slightly as if you were surrendering yourself to his worship. He handled you like he knew every inch of your body belonged to him—and it did.

You stared down at his hands, utterly fixated. They looked huge on your body, broad and capable, those strong fingers kneading with deliberate reverence. There was something undeniably sensual about it, almost sinful, the way he molded you in his grasp. Each squeeze sent soft ripples of pleasure spiraling through you until you were nearly limp in his lap, lulled by his touch and the heat simmering low in your belly.

“Take this off,” he said quietly, the deep rumble of his voice curling over your skin like smoke.

His fingers gathered the fabric of his shirt you were clad in, bunching it deftly as he coaxed your arms upward. You obeyed without hesitation, trembling with anticipation as he peeled the shirt higher, slow and deliberate. He pulled it up over your ribs, brushing past the curve of your sides in a way that made your stomach flutter, before sliding it past your shoulders and over your head. Your hair tumbled loose, cascading around you as the shirt slipped from your body and landed somewhere forgotten.

“Let me have a proper look,” he whispered, his tone warm and laced with hunger, yet steady in that unmistakably doctorly way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. There was a precision to him, a control that made your pulse spike.

His hands glided back down, tracing the lines of your bare sides, thumbs dragging with languid care as goosebumps rippled in their wake. He looked at you then—really looked—and it was the kind of gaze that made your breath falter. His eyes were reverent, molten, as if he were staring at something divine. He looked at you like you were a goddess, one he could only worship in silence.

And oh, that look—God, that look—it sent a tingling ache straight between your legs. Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and urgent, especially as you shifted slightly, feeling the hard, steady press of his cock beneath you. It pulsed where you straddled him, your thighs spread over his lap, his arousal a relentless reminder of just how much he wanted you. The rhythmic throb of him beneath you only made you rock down faintly in response, an instinct you couldn’t suppress as need coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

Zayne was setting you ablaze with touches so light and reverent it was maddening. The slow drag of his long fingers down the slope of your shoulders sent goosebumps racing in their wake, your skin hypersensitive beneath his steady hands. His gaze devoured you, lingering shamelessly on your breasts—on the way your nipples strained hard against the delicate lace of your bra, perfectly outlined, almost pleading for him.

A deep, satisfied hum rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against you as he tilted his head, his expression one of pure reverence. His eyes, molten emerald, swept over you as if he were memorizing every inch. He cupped your breasts again, broad palms warm and heavy, his thumbs grazing the lace trim along the tops of your cups, barely skimming the exposed swell of your skin in a teasing whisper of contact.

“You’re divine,” he breathed, the word soft and awed, almost spoken to himself. His voice was husky, low, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. He shook his head faintly, lips parting as if nothing else he could say would ever be enough.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, his thumbs pressed more firmly over your nipples through the thin lace. The touch made you gasp—sharp and small, your fingers clutching at the firmness of his chest for balance. It tickled in the most intoxicating way, a teasing ache that lit fire through your veins and sent heat coiling deep in your belly.

“You’re very sensitive,” he murmured knowingly, his voice dipping darker. His eyes flicked up to your face, studying every flicker of your expression, watching the way your lips parted, your breath stuttered, your lashes trembled. His thumbs circled again, pressing just lightly enough to coax another wave of sensation from you, “mm, let’s see…”

You shivered as his hands slid around your back, firm but gentle, guiding you into a slow, deliberate arch closer to him. His fingers deftly found your bra clasp, years of practice from being with you distilled into that single, seamless motion as he unhooked it with one hand.

Your bra loosened instantly, slipping over your breasts and shoulders with a tantalizing slide. Your heart thudded wildly, adrenaline surging in tandem with desire as he eased the straps down the smooth slopes of your arms. The fabric brushed your skin like the softest tease, tickling over the goosebumps prickling in its wake, until it slipped free from your wrists entirely.

The cool air met your heated skin, kissing over your bare breasts and taut nipples with an almost shocking contrast. You drew in a sharp breath as Zayne tossed your bra aside with an easy flick, his eyes never once leaving your exposed chest. The intensity in his gaze pinned you in place, molten and unwavering, like he was starving for that sight.

And then his hands were on you again—skin to skin this time. His palms cupped your bare breasts fully, unhurried but firm, warm enough to make you sigh outright. The weight and heat of him enveloped you as his thumbs dragged outward in slow, deliberate strokes over your taut nipples, rolling them with exquisite care before tugging them lightly into his rhythm.

You shuddered, a breathy sound spilling from your lips, your insides clenching tight with unbearable heat. It was heaven—the way he touched you, bare and unshielded, every motion steeped in worship, in possession, in love so tangible it left you trembling in his lap.

“How does this feel?” Zayne asked softly, his voice low and velvety, his eyes flicking up to yours with that molten, deliberate intensity that made your breath hitch.

If felt magnificent. Otherworldly. Like the sweetest, most decadent tease, each touch winding your nerves tighter and tighter. He shifted lower against the couch, sliding down until his face was level with your breasts. The movement drew your hips forward instinctively as you adjusted against the steady, unyielding heat of his cock beneath you. You shivered when his warm breath ghosted over your bare skin, raising goosebumps that chased along your breasts. His thumbs and fingers continued to pull and flick at your nipples in gentle, coaxing motions—light enough to make you ache, teasing enough to make your core clench in desperate response.

“Is it still okay?” He whispered, his voice feather-soft and intimate, vibrating straight into your bones.

You nodded instantly, your neck rolling back slowly, helplessly, as the sweet tingling sensation spread through you, “it’s better than okay,” you sighed, your voice trembling in blissful surrender.

An involuntary grind of your hips pressed you down against his lap, rolling over the thick ridge of him through his briefs. Heat coiled sharply in your belly, glittering and relentless, and he responded with a steady, grounding motion—his thigh shifting upward, a gentle but firm nudge that pushed against your backside and drew you forward into him.

Your hands slid up his shoulders for balance as you followed his guidance, leaning closer, closing the small distance until his arms wrapped fully around your bare back, strong and encompassing. He held you there, pulling you into him, into his warmth. His lashes fluttered down against his cheeks as his mouth tilted closer, and then—softly, tenderly—his lips pressed a warm kiss over the curve of your breast.

You gasped faintly at the sensation. His lips trailed downward in languid increments, each kiss melting into the next, his chin grazing teasingly against your nipple until finally, finally, he closed his mouth over it in a slow, lush kiss.

You twitched, a shudder of pleasure spiraling through you as your fingers slid instinctively up the nape of his neck, curling into his dark hair, tugging gently. His mouth parted, sealing over your nipple in a languorous, indulgent suckle that drew a startled, needy sound from your throat. When he let go with a soft, decadent pop, you felt your breath stutter, your body trembling.

He did it again. Firmer this time. Testing. Another heated suck, another wet pop as he released you, and a sigh spilled helplessly from your lips, your eyes rolling at the mixture of pleasure and intimacy he wove so effortlessly. Your hips shifted instinctively against him, rolling down over his lap, chasing that friction you craved.

Zayne sighed, the sound low and heady, his hands exploring you with quiet hunger. One slid down, firm and certain, over the curve of your ass, fingers squeezing lightly, possessively. The other hand came back up, cupping the underside of your other breast, his palm broad and hot as he kneaded and lifted it. His grip coaxed it closer to his mouth, his head tilting, his lips sealing around the tender flesh again. He sucked, kissed, and flicked his tongue over your nipple in teasing strokes, each motion deliberate, slow enough to make you dizzy.

The assertion in his touch, the silent command in his movements—it sent molten heat straight between your legs. There was power in it. Not harsh or rushed, but quiet, reverent, a wordless authority that made your pulse thunder.

Zayne didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to posture or perform. His silence was a language of its own: steady, certain, claiming you completely. Every kiss, every squeeze, every drag of his tongue over your skin said what words never could—he wasn’t there to impress you. He was there to love you. To worship you. To mark you as his in every way that mattered.

You couldn’t stop yourself—even through the thin barrier of his briefs and your panties, you could feel him—hot, solid, demanding. The sensation was electric, sending a moan spilling from your lips, muffled against the crown of his dark hair as his mouth continued to worship your breast.

Then his hand—firm and steady on your ass—slipped lower. The sudden give of elastic parted around his fingers as he slid beneath it, his palm searing against your bare skin. God. The heat of his hand was scorching, claiming, fingers spreading wide as he grasped the full curve of your ass with a slow, deliberate squeeze that had you digging your nails into the strong expanse of his shoulders.

You gasped, smothering your chest against his mouth, pressing your breast tighter into him as he exhaled hot over your nipple. His lips sealed tighter, sucking with a firm pull that made the sensitive peak sting sweetly—a sharp edge of pleasure twisting perfectly into aching delight. The sensation shot like fire through your veins, heat rolling outward, settling molten and low in your belly.

His mouth released you with a wet pop, only to take you in again—tongue swirling before his lips closed once more, suckling with unhurried devotion that sent goosebumps racing down your spine. You trembled, his slow worship of you only heightened by the way his fingers flexed inside your panties, kneading, guiding your hips as he encouraged every needy grind against him.

“Zayne…” You whimpered softly, shuddering as he squeezed your ass possessively, pulling you into his lap harder, urging you into motion. His hips answered in tandem, lifting to meet you with a steady press, the thick, aching line of his cock nudging up against your clit through the thin layers separating you. The pressure was divine—exquisite—forcing a helpless moan from your throat, sharp and breathless.

Your body trembled in his hands, every nerve raw and alive, your hips rocking helplessly as his grip anchored you there, baring you to him, guiding you to the rhythm he wanted—his worshipful touch and commanding restraint perfectly intertwined. His mouth trailed to the other breast now, lips brushing, teasing, before sealing in another slow kiss. Every movement of his hands and hips whispered ownership, devotion, and need, flooding your senses until you felt dizzy, drunk on him, your body a pliant offering in his lap.

Zayne was unraveling you piece by piece, every kiss, every touch stripping away your restraint until all that remained was raw, aching need for him. Your fingers tugged insistently at his shirt, desperate to feel him skin to skin, until he finally released your nipple with a wet, breathy pop. His chest rose and fell fast beneath you as he helped you peel the fabric over his head, tossing it aside without a thought.

The moment he was bare to you, he shifted smoothly, his strong frame levering back from the couch. He used that motion to settle himself deeper into the chaise, sinking against the small pillow nestled in the corner and opening more space between you. The change of angle drew a startled breath from your lips as his hands never left you—one releasing your breast, the other sliding up, squeezing the back of your shoulder with quiet command as he pulled you down firmly into his arms.

You followed easily, helplessly, caged perfectly in his embrace, his solid chest pressed flush beneath yours. His bare skin seared into you, the steady thrum of his pulse matching the wild rhythm of your own heartbeat where your ribs arched against his. You couldn’t keep your hands off him—your palms roamed the heat of his torso, tracing the defined lines of his chest and abs before curling around his sides, clinging.

You smothered yourself against him, pressing your breasts fully into his face again with a needy whimper, and his response was instantaneous. His mouth opened wider over your nipple, enveloping as much of your breast as he could draw into his mouth, sucking deep with a worshipful groan that vibrated hotly through his nose against your skin.

“Oh—fuck,” you gasped, the sharp sting of his suction threading through your nerves, twisting with an intensity that only drove your pleasure higher, hotter, more desperate.

Your hips betrayed you, rolling down against the thick ridge of his cock beneath you, pressing and grinding as need spiked unbearably sharp in your belly. The sound it drew—God. That lewd, wet squelch of your core through your panties shattered the air between you, obscene and intoxicating, a raw testament to how desperately your body craved him. The filthy noise only heightened the feverish steam enveloping the two of you, punctuated by the guttural groan Zayne muffled into your breast, his breath hot and ragged.

You heard it, felt it—the precise moment his restraint finally snapped. It was in the sharp inhale against your skin, the primal sound of him losing himself, the sudden squeeze of his large hand gripping your ass with possessive urgency. Then, before you could even react, he shifted beneath you with the powerful, fluid grace of a man driven entirely by devotion and need.

In a flash, he was moving—digging one hand deep into the couch cushions for leverage while the other wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you with him like you weighed nothing. The strength of it stole your breath. He angled you effortlessly toward the armrest, your pulse skyrocketing as you braced your palms against it for balance, your thighs trembling around his hips.

Then came the sensation—the unmistakable drag of his broad shoulders shimmying lower, sliding down between your spread knees until he passed the space between them and hooked your thighs. Oh fuck. Your mind barely had time to catch up with your body, your pulse roaring in your ears as adrenaline spiked hot and sharp, surging through every nerve ending like lightning. And then—ohhh, God help you.

You felt his sigh, low and husky, a gust of heat ghosting across the delicate skin of your inner thigh. It stole a gasp straight from your lungs, every muscle tightening in anticipation. He lingered there for a heartbeat, letting his breath fan over you, letting you feel the weight of his focus. The first kiss landed just shy of your center—hungry, needy, wet. Another followed, then another, trailing upward, each one hotter, filthier, more consuming, his mouth worshipping the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs with a fervor that made your vision blur. His lips, the drag of his tongue—it was intoxicating.

Then his arm curled over the back of your thigh from behind, pinning you more open with silent dominance. His fingers wrapped firmly around the soaked strip of your panties, and in one swift, sure motion, he yanked it aside, baring you fully to him.

Your breath stuttered, chest heaving, but when his gaze shot up to meet yours—emerald eyes molten and sharp—you nearly forgot how to breathe altogether. The intensity in them pinned you in place, struck through you like a jolt. It wasn’t lust—it was possession, devotion, hunger so consuming it commanded you without a word. And then his voice followed, low, reverent, and inevitable.

“Sit on my mouth,” he demanded, voice dark and husky, thick with unrestrained hunger.

His large hands seized your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to claim, and before you could even process it, he yanked you down with a strength that made your stomach flip. The command turned into action in an instant—your weight guided flush against him—and then his mouth was on you, open and eager, latching onto you in a wet, obscene kiss that made your head spin.

“Mmph,” the sound rumbled low from his throat, muffled by the press of you against his lips, the vibration coursing straight into your core.

Your jaw fell open in a breathless gasp, words torn from you before they could even form. Your entire body jolted, muscles tightening sharply as his tongue darted out and slapped straight over your clit with startling precision, the wet flick sending white-hot sparks detonating behind your eyes. The sensation was immediate—raw, blinding, your thighs quivering as his moan hummed through the seal of his mouth, the low timbre reverberating up into your spine.

You twitched violently, hips jerking instinctively away from the intensity, but Zayne only groaned louder, hands squeezing your hips in a bruising grip that anchored you down against him. His hold was unyielding, his strength a cage pulling you tighter into his face until there was nowhere else to go—nowhere else you’d ever want to go.

The overstimulation hit first, sharp and unbearable, but then—oh, God—it melted. It softened into molten pleasure that dragged you under like a tide, your resistance dissolving as your body surrendered fully. A trembling moan broke free from your throat, shaky and desperate, pouring out with your breath as you let yourself sink deeper into him, riding out the dizzying bliss of his mouth.

Your fingers clawed for purchase, tangling in his hair with trembling urgency, pulling him closer, deeper. You felt the heat of his scalp under your nails, felt the subtle flex of his neck as he groaned into you, his tongue pressing harder in response to your grip. Your other hand snaked back, hooking into your panties from behind and tugging them further aside, baring yourself completely for him, giving him everything he demanded without hesitation.

Zayne looked utterly ravaged between the heated spread of your thighs. His face was flushed, his dark brows furrowed in raw concentration, every sharp line of his features softened by that wrecked need he only ever showed for you. His emerald eyes were heavy-lidded, half-hooded in their hunger, but still sharp enough to pin you in place when your own fluttering gaze met his. That single glance—hot, feral, worshipful—sent a shudder straight through you, your body twitching helplessly against the relentless grind of his tongue.

God. That man had no shame in the way he loved you, in the way he devoured you so openly, so hungrily, like you were a feast meant only for him. And it was ruining you, leaving you dizzy, flustered, your pulse climbing higher with every second. Heat surged to your cheeks, spreading through you in a haze of molten embarrassment and arousal so tangled you couldn’t even tell where one ended and the other began.

Your hand, shaking faintly, pushed his hair back, exposing what little of his face you could see from where it was buried—pressed flush to you, skin glistening with your arousal. The sight was devastating. The smother of his parted lips moving in sin, the edge of his furrowed brows—all of it framed in the sinful sound of your own wetness, obscene and relentless, filling the room with every flick of his tongue and pull of his mouth.

He was gorgeous like that—feral and undone, worshipping you without hesitation or restraint—and it made your thighs tremble around his head, your breath catching sharply as your hips twitched forward on instinct, desperate for more. You could hardly even look at him without coming apart completely, overwhelmed by the sheer heat of being adored so shamelessly by the man you loved.

Before your fluster could overtake you and make you retreat into shyness, you steadied yourself, your fingers tightening gently in his hair as you shifted your hips with playful deliberation. Slowly, seductively, you swiveled your sex left to right, dragging yourself across the slick glide of his tongue, teasing him as much as you teased yourself. A breathy laugh of affection slipped out unbidden—soft, airy—your body trembling at the sheer intimacy of it all.

That small sound seemed to break him. For a brief moment, you saw it—a flicker of raw, unguarded pleasure flashing across Zayne’s face, his brows twitching, his heavy-lidded eyes nearly rolling back as your motion undid him. He melted, just for a second, before regaining himself with an almost primal focus, his gaze sharpening, darkening.

He nuzzled into you with new hunger, groaning into your slick heat as if he could drown there and never come up for air. His fist tightened fiercely around your panties, knuckles whitening with restraint as he yanked the soaked strip taut, pulling it away from your body with needy insistence.

“Mmph,” he growled low, lips dragging wetly across your flesh as his brow furrowed with intensity. Then, voice breaking in husky demand, he breathlessly gritted, “take them off.”

Oh, God. The way he said it—deep and strained, his mouth still pressed to you, breath hot and ragged—sent your pulse spiking. Zayne was like a volcano when he snapped like this, his calm and control melting away in an instant into something raw, elemental. When he got a taste of your pleasure, he lost himself in it, became addicted in seconds. You could practically feel him unraveling beneath you, drunk on every sound you made, every twitch of your body above his.

And you obeyed without hesitation. He was already pulling you upward with a firm grip, guiding you just enough for your leg to swing wide as your trembling fingers hooked into your panties, peeling the damp fabric down over your hips and thighs. His hands didn’t leave you; even as you lifted yourself, he anchored you, that steady grip on your waist grounding you as desire crackled between you like static.

By the time you shimmied them down past your knees, Zayne was already reaching lower, his own need surging. He shoved his briefs down with quick, impatient force, kicking them off in one fluid motion. A heavy sigh of relief escaped him—a sound that vibrated in your core—as his cock sprang free, flushed and rigid, thick and magnificent in its sheer weight.

You reached back, instinctively, desperate to wrap your fingers around him, to feel the hot, throbbing length of that beautiful tool of ecstasy and destruction—but you didn’t even get the chance. Zayne’s hunger was faster. In one decisive pull, he yanked you back down over his face, his grip unyielding as he slid your panties the rest of the way off your ankle. A hand locked around your waist again, dragging you down, grounding you in his worship with a force that stole your breath.

Your neck arched back instinctively, eyes fluttering toward the ceiling as a trembling moan slipped free, breathless and needy, “Zayne…God, you’re fucking insatiable…Zayne!”

His name poured from your lips like prayer, reverent and wrecked all at once. The sound of it broke him. You felt the sudden, sharp pull of suction against your clit, your hips twitching with a gasp—just shy of a sting before it vanished, replaced by that lush, decadent warmth of his tongue laving over you again. All it ever took was that—hearing you call for him, the way you said his name, thick with want and gratitude and need.

You trembled above him, heat flooding your cheeks, your breath coming in shallow, broken gasps as his mouth worked you relentlessly. His lips and tongue played your clit like a cherished instrument, pulling wave after wave of tingling pleasure from you. The sounds—oh, the sounds—were obscene. His muffled moans vibrated through your flesh, mingling with the wet, sinful squelches of his tongue and the lewd, juicy smooches he pressed between licks.

And then, you felt it—his arm flexing behind you, shifting with deliberate purpose—and as you turned your head to glance behind you, the sight that met your eyes sent a shockwave through your entire body, igniting your insides with white-hot, devastating heat. Zayne had your soaked lace panties wrapped loosely around the thick, rigid length of his cock, stroking himself in needy, possessive pulls. The fabric was twisted just so, the damp strip you’d left sticky and messy pressed directly against the flushed, swollen head of him, perfectly outlining the shape of his engorged tip through the delicate lace. It was filthy. Shameless. God, it was so Zayne.

Your breath hitched audibly, your thighs trembling around his head as your pulse thundered in your ears. That sight—the raw hunger of it, the sheer greed—was intoxicating. The man beneath you was utterly insatiable, basking in your pleasure so deeply he had to feel it for himself, had to stroke himself while worshipping you with his mouth.

God, it wrecked you. Just seeing him like that—knowing how much he craved you, how lost he was in you, how much he loved every twitch, every moan, every drop of you—it was almost unbearably euphoric. You couldn’t look away. You couldn’t. The sight of his large hand working himself through the mess you’d left, the way his thick cock flexed and strained under his grip—it was hypnotic. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding harder against his mouth, each roll of your hips pressing your clit firmer into his tongue as if in desperate response to the shameless display he was giving you.

Zayne felt it—the way your hips bucked needily above him—and with your gaze glancing down on him, he looked up through hooded, fevered eyes and groaned, the sound vibrating into you as he began stroking himself faster. His movements turned rougher, needier, his hips giving small, involuntary thrusts into the tight fist wrapped in your panties.

It was obscene. Utterly filthy. And God, it made you dizzy with lust. Heat exploded through your every nerve ending, radiating outward in surging waves as you cried out softly, rolling your hips faster over his mouth. His tongue lapped and painted hot, sin-stained strokes over your clit, drinking in every bit of your reaction like it was his lifeline.

You were getting off on it all—on his mouth, his hands, his reckless devotion, his obscene display of need—everything about it feeding that molten pleasure building inside you until it felt like you were teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic.

“B-baby,” you gasped, both hands tangling into Zayne’s hair as you gripped him tightly, trembling from head to toe. You turned forward fully, your breath ragged, finding his blissed-out gaze staring up at you from between your thighs. His pupils were blown wide, molten emerald framed in heavy lids, locked on you with a kind of worship that made your insides twist, “don’t you dare cum yet! Don’t you—! I’ll—! F-fuck!”

You swore you felt it then—his smile pressing into your flesh, hot and shameless, right before he let out a muffled chuckle against you. The sound was devastating. Unhinged. It vibrated straight into your core, and it destroyed you. Zayne was so wrecked, so undone by you that even laughing into your sex sounded feral and wanton, and somehow it was more electrifying—more intimate—than even watching him stroke himself with your soaked panties while he ate you out like a man starved. You couldn’t handle it anymore. His heat overtook you entirely in that moment.

“I’m gonna cum,” you cried out, your voice breaking with desperation as you rocked harder over him, grinding your clit shamelessly into the hot flicks of his tongue, chasing that perfect bliss, “Zayne! Fuck! I’m cumming, Zayne! Yes! Keep licking it! Zayne!”

You screamed his name at the ceiling, convulsing violently as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot ecstasy. It tore you apart in the most euphoric way, your spine arching, every muscle locking tight as pleasure detonated through your body in pulses that left you breathless.

You could feel his eyes on you, burning up through the haze of your bliss. He watched you fall apart for him, saw the fleeting flash of a blissed out grin curve your lips right before you cried out his name again, louder, rawer, trembling from the sheer force of it. Your fists tightened painfully in his hair, knuckles white, holding on for dear life through every wild spasm, every roll of your hips as your climax wrung you out against his mouth. And he stayed there. Mouth sealed to you. Drinking it all in. Worshipping you in every second of your unraveling, until you were utterly, completely undone above him.

“Baby, you’re so good!” you cried out, your voice breaking high with bliss, trembling as waves of ecstasy wracked your body. You knew exactly how much he loved it—hearing his name spill shamelessly from your lips, drenched in pleasure and devotion—and you gave it to him freely, unrestrained, “mmm, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Your words were all he needed. Zayne groaned deep into you, the sound feral and hungry, vibrating against your clit as his mouth sealed tighter. His tongue lashed indulgently, slapping side to side in quick, teasing flicks that made your thighs quake uncontrollably around his head. He relished it—the involuntary squeeze of your trembling thighs crushing him, the feel and taste of your body coming undone, locked in euphoric chaos because of him.

You were shaking from it all, ecstasy radiating outward in molten waves that lit up every inch of your body. Your toes curled hard enough to ache, your fingers seized into his hair and locked tight, your eyelids squeezed shut so hard fireworks burst and scattered in dazzling arcs of color behind them. You were lost, a raw nerve, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his mouth and the relentless rhythm of his worship.

Your orgasm rolled through you in wave after wave, each crest slamming you higher, each fall leaving you trembling and breathless, only to be pulled right back up again. Your heart thundered in your ears, each pounding pulse echoing through your whole body until it felt like you were dissolving, floating, consumed in dizzying, heavenly pleasure.

Gradually, slowly, you began to descend from that high. Twitching, trembling, your body sagged slightly forward as sensitivity took root, every nerve still electric and raw. Your hips shifted in tiny, involuntary jerks, instinctively fighting his relentless grip on your hip now that overstimulation edged in.

Zayne finally let you go—just enough to ease off—his mouth popping free of your clit with a wet sound that made your chest heave. He tilted his head back against the cushion, panting for air, utterly wrecked. His face was glistening, slick and glimmering with the evidence of your pleasure, his lips swollen from his devotion to you.

He pressed messy, unrestrained kisses against your thigh, his mouth trailing along your quivering skin as he caught his breath, his exhales hot and uneven. His emerald eyes—still dark and molten—followed every twitch of your body, watching reverently as your stomach rose and fell in shallow breaths, as your breasts heaved, damp with a sheen of sweat.

You tossed your hair back, strands sticking to your flushed face, trying and failing to gather composure. Your pulse was still wild, your body still trembling faintly from the aftermath, and his gaze on you only deepened the intensity of it all. And soon, Zayne was pulling you down again, utterly insatiable, his strength and devotion wrapping around you like gravity itself. His hands clutched your waist, reverent yet commanding, guiding you lower toward the eager heat of his mouth as though nothing in the world mattered more than worshipping you.

“Even if I were to cum right now,” he rasped, voice husky and ragged, abandoning your panties where they sat dangling over his rigid cock, marked with your slick. His fingers flexed firmly on your hips, grounding you as he drew you back down against his face, “I’d be up and ready again before you even start begging me for mercy…”

The words shot molten heat straight through you, and then his mouth sealed back over your clit with a hungry, wet pull that made your breath catch in a sharp, trembling gasp. He sucked you, his lips lush and possessive around your sensitive flesh, and you shuddered, thighs quaking around his head.

“We both know that from plenty of experience,” he murmured against you, voice muffled, sinful vibrations humming through your core, “don’t we?”

You did know. It wasn’t even a surprise anymore: the nights he’d gotten so lost in your pleasure, so drunk on the taste of you, that he’d cum untouched beneath you while you rode his face, ruined and desperate, begging for his cock until he finally gave it to you after recovering. The memory fanned the heat blazing in your belly.

“Now,” he coaxed lowly, his words curling warm and possessive against your flesh, “be a good girl for me.”

God. You…Could never count the orgasms with Zayne. Not with him. Not when he was like this. Every time he got you alone and truly let himself go—when that insatiable, maddened-with-love side of him came out—you stopped keeping track. Numbers became meaningless. All that existed was him, his mouth, his hands, his worship, and the slow, sweet destruction he wrought on your body until you could barely remember your own name.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, shadows spilling beyond the slats of the cracked blinds, Netflix had long defaulted back to its main menu on the flatscreen, the room dim and quiet save for the obscene sounds of your pleasure. You were trembling—an overstimulated, ruined puddle in his hands—your mind hazy and frayed, sanity dangling by the thinnest of threads as wave after wave rolled through you.

Three, you vaguely remembered—three blissed-out highs ground out on his face, your thighs locked around his head as he moaned into you, insatiable. Then more—a couple with you flat on your back, legs held high and wide apart in his firm grip, knees bent to your chest while he pinned you open and devoured you, tongue and lips relentless as you writhed helplessly beneath him.

But he wasn’t done. He never was when he was like that. At some point, Zayne ended up kneeling on the rug, broad shoulders squared behind your thighs as you obeyed his reverent command. You found yourself bent over on the chaise, on your knees and chest, face buried in the cushions while you held yourself open for him exactly the way he asked—his voice low and hungry, coaxing you into perfect surrender.

And God, the way he worshipped you there…His mouth was lewd, obscene, every lap of his tongue loud in the otherwise quiet room, mingling with your wrecked cries. His fingers curled deep inside you, pumping steadily, insistently, coaxing pleasure until it spilled violently from you, squirting hot against his wrist and dripping down his neck as he groaned, messy and drunk on your taste. He lapped you up without hesitation, licking you like he was starved, like he needed every ounce you gave him.

You were nothing but incoherent, pliant mush in his hands, lost to the dizzying high he’d wrung out of you. Zayne’s lips trailed reverent, featherlight kisses across the curves of your ass, each lingering smooch making you shiver and arch instinctively for him. He left faint hickeys, his mouth worshipping the very skin he’d just watched tremble and quake beneath his touch. Your slick folds still fluttered weakly around the slow, indulgent thrust of his two long fingers, massaging you through the aftershocks as he murmured quiet, satisfied sighs against your skin.

You were utterly drunk on him—completely undone, yet somehow still needy for more, always more. Zayne was everything. Time didn’t exist anymore. The world outside dissolved to nothing but the rhythm of his hands, the press of his lips, and the blissful haze consuming you whole. You gave a slow, appreciative swivel of your hips in his grip, a trembling motion of surrender, offering yourself to him even now as he steadied you.

He sighed softly at the gesture, his hands tightening at your hips as his heated face pressed another kiss to the arch of your ass, lingering like he couldn’t bear to part from you. Finally, you felt him move. Slowly, reverently, Zayne stood, his body heat rising higher over you, and you swayed faintly, dizzy and disoriented in your euphoria. His strong hands slid tenderly around your waist, supporting you as if you were precious cargo, guiding your limp, trembling frame with effortless care.

He coaxed you down onto the couch, easing you flat against the extended mattress. Your back met the cushions, and you sank into them bonelessly, completely weightless in his arms. Zayne hovered above you for a breath, his chest heaving, emerald eyes molten with satisfaction and love as he studied the haze on your flushed face. He smelled like you.

You were bliss-drunk, hazy and tingling, floating somewhere beyond yourself, your lips curving in the sweetest, delirious smile. A soft, breathless laugh bubbled out of you—pure, euphoric contentment—before your lashes fluttered closed for just a moment, surrendering to that warm, glowing restfulness only he could put you in, “oh my God, you’re amazing…”

A sudden, cool sensation ghosted over your forehead, sharp enough to make you jolt softly back into awareness. Your eyes fluttered open, hazy, and there he was—Zayne—propped up on his side beside you, his forearm braced against the couch’s mattress as he smiled down at you with that devastatingly tender expression. His free hand hovered close, channeling his icy evol with practiced ease, cooling your flushed skin in a wave of refreshing relief that made you sigh out softly.

Your gaze drank him in, and oh, God, he was beautiful. His black hair was a mess—sweat-tousled and wild, falling boyishly over his forehead. His cheeks and ears glowed with a deep red flush, heat still clinging to him, while his chest glistened faintly under the dim light spilling through the quiet living room. He looked utterly spent yet impossibly composed, every detail sharpened by the molten fondness in those emerald eyes fixed on you.

You hummed, enthralled, sinking into the simple bliss of his care. He’d wiped his face clean—probably with some tossed article of clothing—but you still saw it: the lingering tension in him. The way his cock still stood thick and straining, flushed and needy, pressed tight against the soft stretch of his abdomen as though every second of restraint was agony. Yet still, he was there, giving you aftercare before anything else. Oh, that sweet man.

Zayne had you dizzy, undone, flustered down to your bones—and he knew it. You saw it in the subtle twitch of his smile, that faint, teasing smirk barely breaking through the warmth of his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of how completely he had you.

A delicate brush of icy air washed over you, making goosebumps dance along your overheated skin. You shivered lightly, though not from discomfort, and then you saw it: the faint, ethereal curls of steam coiling around you both, ghosting upward into the quiet air as his evol cooled you down.

He looked at you like you were his world—like nothing else mattered. His fingers stroked gently through your hair, cradling your head as though you were something fragile and precious, his touch grounding you in the kind of love that felt almost too much to bear. And despite the insistent ache still visible in his body, in that flushed, straining hardness you couldn’t ignore, Zayne’s focus never wavered from you—cooling you, soothing you, worshipping you even in your calmest moments.

“Do you need a second to cool down, love?” Zayne’s voice was velvet-soft, deep and steady, as his icy-cool hand drifted lower, cupping tenderly over the heated slope of your cheek.

The contrast of his evol against your flushed skin made you sigh out in relief, grinning as you instinctively leaned into his palm, pressing yourself greedily into his touch.

“I can wait…” He murmured, thumb stroking featherlight over your damp skin. His gaze softened even more, his smile faint but endlessly warm, “I’m a patient man. Take as long as you need.”

You cracked an eye open, fixing him with a drowsy, mock glare despite the way you were practically melting beneath his hand. Your breathless voice came out as a teasing slur, playful even in exhaustion, “you know what you really are?”

“Hm?” He arched a brow, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “tell me. What am I?”

“You’re a greedy man, Zaynie…” You accused fondly, a giggle bubbling from your chest as you nuzzled deeper into his cool fingers, steam beading into tiny droplets along his elegant, pale knuckles, “an insatiable snowman!”

Zayne laughed—low and warm, the sound so effortlessly rich it fluttered straight through your belly, sending butterflies to your pregnant tummy. That perfect flash of his teeth was enough to make your heart squeeze.

“I know,” he admitted easily, utterly unashamed, that teasing smirk curling wider across his flushed face. His emerald eyes glimmered with heat and devotion alike as he leaned closer, his voice dropping in that silky, indulgent way only he could manage, “I’ve never denied that about myself…And you know me best.”

He leaned in closer, his lips descending to yours in a kiss that was both grounding and electric. The air between you shimmered faintly with the cooling mist of his evol, the steam rolling off your overheated skin in delicate curls. The contrast was intoxicating—refreshing enough to soothe, yet sharp enough to make you shiver, goosebumps rising as you clung to him instinctively.

Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, fingers tracing over the taut planes of muscle there, desperate to feel more of him. You pulled Zayne down to you, hungry for his weight, his warmth, his presence enveloping you entirely. His body eased over yours, steady and deliberate, caging you perfectly beneath him in a way that felt both protective and wildly possessive.

The quiet lull of aftercare—those fleeting, tender moments of calm—shattered the instant his mouth opened against yours. The kiss deepened, molten and hungry, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. The raw, decadent intimacy of it made you whimper into his lips, arching closer, your hips twitching needily beneath him.

You spread your legs for him without thinking, knees bending and falling open as if they were guided by instinct alone. But when his cooled skin brushed the hypersensitive heat of your inner thighs, you jolted, shivering under the delicious contrast. Your body squirmed reflexively, trembling from the lingering sensitivity of everything he’d already done to you.

Zayne stilled you effortlessly. His strength was quiet but absolute as he captured both your wrists, lifting them with reverent precision and pinning them above your head beneath his large hand. His grip wasn’t harsh; it was steady, anchoring you in place with a calm certainty that made your breath catch.

“Stay,” he murmured lowly against your mouth, his words commanding yet tender, steeped in love.

With his free hand, he slid it between your bodies, knuckles grazing your lower belly before curling lower still. Then you felt it—the thick, heavy press of him as his cock dragged slow and deliberate through your slick folds, flushed and hot, the only part of him that didn’t carry his cooling touch as the rest of him began to warm. The contrast seared into you, making your spine arch, your pulse trip.

“Oh God,” you breathed, voice trembling with raw need, hips shifting helplessly beneath him. Your wrists tugged lightly under his palm, testing, restless, but his restraint only made you ache more, “honey, I fucking need it already…Need you…”

Your plea hung between you, breathless and reverent, every syllable soaked in desire and trust, your entire body trembling in anticipation beneath his weight. He was so heavy in his grasp, his cock thick and needy in his palm, flushed deep and slick at the tip as it practically wept against the heat of your folds. He nudged himself along your slick lips in slow, deliberate drags that made you moan softly, helplessly, hips tilting up in a pleading offering. Your need was palpable, trembling in every motion as he teased himself against you, coating his length in the proof of your desire.

Zayne exhaled deeply, a sound tinged with restraint and hunger, and then he moved, “then have me.”

His pelvis pressed down into yours in a smooth, controlled roll, his weight sinking over you inch by inch, flattening you deliciously beneath him. The blunt crown of his cock pushed against you, spreading you open in the most intimate way, your slick lips parting to welcome him.

You gasped sharply into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as it deepened—hungrier now, more desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours in perfect sync with the slow press of his length inside you. The stretch was exquisite, every nerve alight, tingling pleasure glittering up your spine and radiating through your insides.

Zayne groaned low in his chest, a ragged sigh of indulgence trembling against your lips as he sank deeper, his cock sliding in steady, delicious inches. The weight of his balls pressed flush into the squelch of your slick folds, grounding you utterly beneath him as he filled you—completely, undeniably.

“Is this okay?” He whispered instinctively, the words low and cautious despite the hunger laced in his tone.

His body pressed flush over yours, but you felt the hesitation in his restraint, the careful, tender way he held himself even while buried to the hilt. You knew it wasn’t fear—it was love. Even with his medical knowledge reassuring him that he couldn’t hurt your pregnancy, Zayne’s protective nature ran deep, woven into every cautious inch of motion.

“It’s amazing, honey,” you breathed out, voice trembling with bliss, eyes flicking up to catch his molten emerald gaze. The depth of love there nearly undid you—fierce, reverent, aching—and you smiled faintly through your pleasure, “don’t worry…Just give it to me…”

Your leg hooked tighter around his waist, pulling him in closer, deeper. That was all it took—your green light, your assurance—and then his lips were back on yours in a molten kiss, swallowing your words, your breath, every sound you made as he began to move.

Zayne was deep. Every thrust was slow, deliberate, drenched in molten passion as if he wanted to memorize every sensation, every inch of you. He pushed in with exquisite patience, savoring the way your tight walls stretched and clung around him, then drew back to the very tip, dragging against your most sensitive places before plunging forward again, smothering himself down into you with a fervent groan.

“You’re so warm…” He murmured between your lips, his tone already wrecked, “so tight around me, it’s dizzying…”

Each time his hips met yours, his shaved groin ground against your slick folds with a wet, obscene squelch that echoed faintly in the quiet room, pinning your lips apart around the thick, unyielding girth of his cock. You mewled into his kiss every time he sank in deep, every time he bottomed out and rolled his hips in that way that made sparks scatter white-hot behind your eyes.

The power in his body was undeniable—the flex and ripple of his shoulders with every push, the taut draw of his back leading down to the perfect shove of his hips, all of him focused entirely on you. He moved with intent, his entire frame working in perfect harmony as he pinned you down and thrust into you like he was fusing you together, imprinting himself deep in your body and soul alike.

Your fingers clawed lightly against his slick skin, breath catching in gasping mewls as the pleasure mounted higher and higher. Then, with a guttural sigh, he released your wrists from above your head, his hand sliding down to your thigh. He gripped your knee firmly, his touch hot and commanding as he pulled it higher around his waist, opening you wider to him, deepening his angle.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, his voice rough, velvety, laced with hunger and love all at once.

A wave of molten heat surged through you at his words, the raw need in his voice striking through you like lightning. You squeezed your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, and were rewarded with a guttural groan spilling from Zayne’s lips as he kissed you harder, hungrier, as though he couldn’t possibly get enough.

His energy was palpable, almost physical—rolling off him in waves so heated and consuming it felt like it wrapped around you, pinned you to the couch in a cocoon of his passion. It electrified every inch of your skin, goosebumps rippling up your arms, shivers running through you even as you burned under him. He was everywhere—his weight, his heat, the scent of his sweat and clean skin, the taste of him intoxicating on your tongue.

Your hands roamed greedily over him, clutching fistfuls of his damp hair, gliding down the sculpted plane of his bicep, clawing gently at the ridges of his back as if you couldn’t keep still. Every time he thrust forward, your nails bit a little harder, and you squeezed yourself down on him in desperate counterpoint, the thick stretch of his cock filling you so completely you could feel him in your very bones.

Zayne’s pace quickened, each deep thrust hitting harder, sharper, the weight of his hips slamming into yours in steady, perfect rhythm. He was hopelessly gone, unraveling right above you, driven wild by your warmth, your sounds, your body gripping him tighter with every push. Helpless. Insatiable. Yours. And you loved it—every glorious second of it. Every thrust, every kiss, every ragged breath he spilled into your mouth as he made sweet, consuming love to you like nothing else in the world existed.

“My girl,” he groaned low, reverent and raw, his voice vibrating deep into your chest as he tangled his fingers into your hair.

He gripped firmly, steadying you against the couch cushions as his hips snapped forward, fucking you deep while his lips stayed sealed to yours, catching every breathless moan you made.

“My beautiful,” he panted, pulling back just enough to gaze down at you with molten adoration, his thrusts slow but punishing, “pregnant girl…”

The reverence in his voice—the way it trembled, raw and unrestrained—sent a violent shudder rippling through you. Goosebumps rose sharp across your overheated skin, the fine hairs at your nape prickling as if electrified. You clutched him tighter, arms snaking around his broad, muscular back, holding him to you like you could fuse yourself to him entirely.

Something deep within you cracked open under the sheer, all-consuming weight of his love. It was inescapable, overwhelming in its depth—the way Zayne caged you in, surrounding you in him. His body, his heat, his scent—it pressed into every sense, saturating you until there was nothing else.

You could feel him everywhere. The solid, grounding press of his chest pinning you down, the molten brush of his breath ghosting over your lips, the messy, desperate crush of his kisses smearing across your mouth. His tongue—slippery, warm—slid against yours in wet strokes that left you dizzy, panting. It was intoxicating, like drowning in his passion and loving every second of it.

Your heart was racing so wildly it almost hurt, pounding in sync with every delicious thrust of his cock pistoning deep into your slick, fluttering heat. The thick drag of him stretched you perfectly, each stroke carving out your insides and filling them with molten pleasure until you were trembling beneath him, utterly undone.

Your voice spilled freely, breathless and uncontained—moans, soft mewls, and gasps tumbling between his hungry kisses. He swallowed every sound greedily, lips claiming yours over and over, as if even your pleasure belonged to him. God. It was heaven to be loved by that man. To be fucked by him. To be worshipped so completely that your body and soul felt inseparable from his. Every thrust, every kiss, every shiver of his touch carved the truth deeper into you: Zayne was your everything. His love was ruinous and divine, and you wanted nothing more than to drown in it forever.

“My world,” he groaned, the words ripped from him raw and unrestrained, as if he couldn’t stop them from pouring out no matter how hard he tried, “my darling, oh God…”

His voice trembled with the force of it, thick with need, devotion, and that ruinous love only Zayne could wield. He was lost in it—consumed by it. Overcome. Addicted. Every thrust was harder now, sharper, driving deep into you as though he could bury his soul inside your body with each piston of his hips.

He broke the kiss, panting raggedly, to look down at you. His hand cupped your face with trembling reverence, holding you steady as he rocked you beneath him, his emerald eyes molten and hooded with desire. He studied every flicker of your expression, drinking it in like oxygen—every furrow of your brows when his cock hit that perfect spot, every fleeting bite of your lower lip, the flutter of your lashes, the way his name stuttered off your tongue in broken pleas.

“I want to give you everything in this life,” he rasped, his voice shaking, reverent and desperate, spilling like confession. His hips drove harder, faster, pounding into you with a rhythm that left your breath shattered. Sweat dripped from his brow, falling hot onto your skin as he pressed his forehead against yours, the intimacy so intense it almost hurt, “I want you to bare me children…”

Oh. God. In. Heaven. The words obliterated you. You didn’t know if it cracked you wide open or detonated ecstasy inside you. Maybe it was both. Maybe Zayne had broken you raw with those words, baring every vulnerable, tender piece of yourself, even as his thrusts turned your body into a live wire sparking with bliss.

You swore you could feel him love you through every piston of his hips, through every slap of his balls against the obscene squelch of your soaked lips. Love made him volcanic—unbearably molten, unstoppable—turning you into a conduit for his fire, his worship, his insatiable devotion. And then, a rush of adrenaline exploded in your veins, sharp and dizzying, pleasure screaming through you.

“Zayne!” You cried, your voice breaking high as your eyes rolled back, your neck arching, exposing yourself fully to him. The coil in your core wound impossibly tight, each glorious thrust of his cock burying deeper, stretching you open in ways that felt almost divine, “please!”

You could feel him trembling, every flex of his body wired with intensity, approaching that molten edge with you. His hips faltered just slightly in their precision, grinding harder, deeper, desperate. You knew that feeling—how close he was, how love was hurling him headlong toward a volcanic climax—and God, you were right there with him, teetering breathlessly on the precipice, ready to fall together.

“Y/n,” he sounded out like he was squeezing down the volume of his voice for your complete attention, like he was about to fall apart any moment, “look at me right now, angel…Look at me.”

It made your eyes fly open, glistening, your vision blurring with tears of sheer pleasure as you stared up at him. His face—God, his face—was wrecked, ecstatic, every sharp line softened by unrestrained bliss. Watching him like that, utterly lost in you, drowning in the ecstasy of loving you, sent another crashing wave of heat barreling through your trembling body.

Your insides fluttered uncontrollably, squeezing tight around the relentless, pistoning thrust of his cock. Every deep, powerful stroke drove you closer to ruin, each one hitting so perfectly that you cried out louder and louder. Your fists clawed at the cushions above you, knuckles white as your back arched hard, breasts shaking violently against his slick, heaving chest. The sound of skin on skin mixed with your desperate moans and the wet, obscene squelch of your soaked core swallowing him in over and over.

It was impossible to keep your eyes open for long, not when his gaze was on you like that—intense, molten, burning through you. The way he looked at you, raw and naked in his love, stripped every last ounce of composure you had. You felt so exposed, undone beneath him, your heart laid bare. Every time your lashes fluttered open, that emerald stare only deepened it, devouring you with an adoration so fierce it shattered you all over again.

“Zayne,” you gasped, his name spilling past your lips once, then again. And again. Louder, higher, each cry more desperate than the last as pleasure mounted inside you. The unbearable heat coiled tight, summoning that instinctive push of your insides against every brutal, divine thrust of his hips. Your knees trembled wildly, then squeezed hard around him without your control, locking him closer, deeper. Your body broke. Your voice tore out, screaming raw and frantic as your head rolled back, your jaw falling slack, “Zayne, you’re gonna make me squirt!”

“Yes, good, let me hear you then,” Zayne groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with both praise and a desperate, feral plea at your words. His hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb gripping your chin while his fingers tangled tight in your hair, anchoring you to him as he pounded into you with feverish strength, “say my name for me again—yes, good girl—scream it for me…”

“Zayne!” You screamed, your voice splitting as you shouted to the ceiling, trembling violently under him as the coil inside you twisted impossibly tight, ready to break, “make me cum! Oh, shit! Sweetie!”

Your cry cracked into euphoria, your entire body clenching around him, a white-hot explosion tearing through your core as your orgasm took you, wild and all-consuming. As if on command, the coiled tension inside you snapped, detonating in a blinding eruption of pleasure that ripped a cry from your throat. Ecstasy exploded white-hot, searing through every nerve as your body convulsed beneath him, and then—oh God—you felt it: warmth squirting out of you in sharp bursts with every brutal slam of his hips. First a trickle, then a streaming rush, soaking him, soaking the couch beneath you.

You were blinded by it—by the sheer force of release, by the relentless wave after wave of earth-shattering bliss that wracked you. Zayne’s name spilled from your lips incoherently, tangled with desperate moans as you let yourself drown in it. Drown in him. In the divine, relentless pounding of his magnificent cock, driving into you like he was sculpting your insides just to fit him.

“Oh, you’re so perfect,” Zayne groaned above you, the sound guttural, fraying at the edges, wrecked with his own pleasure, “good girl, you deserve it all…”

His lips crashed against your jaw in feverish, sloppy kisses as he powered through the obscene, wet bliss drenching him, each thrust splattering your joined bodies in lewd, unabashed music. The room was filled with it—his labored breaths, the wet slap of hips to hips, the raw cries tearing from your throat, unrestrained and wild. It was filthy. Beautiful. Utterly intoxicating.

Your hands clawed desperately at his slippery back, your nails dragging down the flexing muscle there, clinging to him like your life depended on it. You were pinned, wrapped in him, your body nothing but a trembling mess molded perfectly beneath his power, and God—you loved it.

And then—his voice. That pleading, raw voice right by your ear, desperate and fevered as he lost himself entirely:

“Tell me you want to make me a dad,” Zayne begged, hoarse and mindless, his words broken and reverent as his hips hammered into you with reckless abandon, “say it for me!”

Your climax only tightened around him at those words, dizzying heat shooting through you so sharp it almost hurt. You didn’t even hesitate, arching into him, turning your face into the slick column of his neck, threading your trembling fingers deep into his damp hair.

“I wanna make you a dad!” You cried out, voice trembling but loud enough to cut through the haze of pleasure, clinging tighter to him as you chanted it in his ear like a vow, “cum for me, show me how you got me pregnant in the first pla—”

“—Fuck! Oh, fuck, Y/n!” Zayne’s loud, feral curse ripped out of him mid-thrust, raw and uncontrollable, his voice cracking under the sheer force of it. The sound sent another jolt straight through your overstimulated body. He was losing it. He was gone, undone by you, by your words, by the raw truth of what you’d just given him.

He broke into a delirious burst of speed, his hips snapping forward with wild, unrestrained abandon, every thrust harder, deeper, as though driven purely by instinct and need. His muscles locked taut around you, trembling from the sheer strain as his voice cracked with urgency.

“I’m cumming!” He groaned, his tone wrecked and raw, every syllable fractured by pleasure. He slammed himself flush against you, burying himself to the hilt, smothering his full weight down over your hips as though he needed to anchor himself there, “Y/n! Y/n…Oh, God…Have every drop…”

And then you felt it—him. Hot, molten ropes of his release shot deep into you, painting your insides with a rush of spreading warmth. Each pulse was thick and undeniable, tangible proof of his love spilling into you as he gasped through his climax, shaking violently from the sheer force of it.

He collapsed fully atop you then, utterly spent, his entire body trembling as a guttural moan—low and relieved—escaped his lungs. His hips gave a few slow, lazy thrusts, working himself through the aftershocks as if he couldn’t bear to part from you yet, his cock still pulsing within your soaked, fluttering heat.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, your embrace instinctive, possessive. You held him close, snug around his sweat-slicked back, his broad, trembling shoulders, his heated nape. You kissed the side of his steaming head reverently, lips soft and lingering, uncaring of the weight pressing you into the cushions beneath him. You loved it—loved the feel of Zayne collapsing, undone and sated, in your arms.

Your legs, once tight around his waist, slipped weakly from his body, falling limp and shaking in the wake of your shared euphoria. You tangled your fingers tenderly through his damp hair, soothing him as he gathered his breath and you gathered yours, your chests heaving together in the dim quiet of the room.

His hand—still trembling faintly—cupped your shoulder with aching gentleness, grounding himself in your warmth. He turned his head just enough to press a soft, exhausted kiss against your neck, his lips lingering there as though anchoring himself in the taste and scent of you, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin.

You and Zayne stayed like that for what felt like forever, tangled together in a blissful, intimate quiet. The only sounds were your mingling breaths, slow and steady as you both came down from the high, and the occasional soft hums of affection he pressed into your skin. His fingertips traced soothing patterns along your back, while yours stroked idly over the muscles of his shoulders, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his damp skin.

Pregnant. The thought settled over you like a warm, luminous blanket, no longer startling, but right. In that moment, with his weight grounding you, his scent clinging to you, and his love wrapped around you like armor, everything in the world felt perfect. You felt it deep down, in your chest, in your bones: this was meant to happen. Like it had been written in the stars all along—for you to carry his child, unplanned and unprepared, yet guided every step of the way by his unwavering presence.

Zayne was your soulmate. In this lifetime. In every lifetime. Across every universe, it would always be him. And as you lied there, cocooned in his arms, you knew you wouldn’t want it any other way—not if it meant having him. The man you loved more fiercely than anything else in existence.

Eventually, Zayne shifted slightly, tender even in his exhaustion. He gently eased himself out of you, his cock slipping free, sensitive and spent, leaving behind a warm ache that only reminded you of him, of what you’d just shared. Then he pulled you close again, curling the both of you up together against the soiled cushions without a care for the mess.

The air around him cooled once more, his evol activating in that instinctive, protective way he always used to soothe you. The heat clinging to your bodies faded slowly, steam curling lazily between you in delicate tendrils as his chilled skin tempered your lingering burn. You sighed in blissful relief, nestling in closer until your flushed cheek pressed firmly against the marble-like firmness of his cold, toned chest, your palm smoothing over him in quiet reverence.

He caught your hand gently, his long fingers intertwining with yours. Then, in one of those gestures so tender it made your heart ache, he lifted your knuckles to his lips. One by one, he kissed them—slow, soft pecks that melted into your skin, lingering as though memorizing the shape of your hand. Your thumb traced along his lips in return, stroking over the plush warmth there as he kissed you, that simple, wordless exchange of affection saying more than language ever could.

“I hope I didn’t make that too weird…” Zayne murmured quietly, his voice low and secretive, like a confession he wasn’t sure he should give.

You blinked up at him, finding that rare, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. His ears had turned pink, betraying his embarrassment, and it was so endearing you couldn’t help but melt. It was almost impossible to reconcile this bashful man with the one who, not even minutes ago, had fucked you senseless against the living room couch, wringing orgasm after orgasm from you until you were limp in his arms.

“What?” You teased, smiling softly at him, warmth in every syllable.

He exhaled lightly, dropping his gaze as his hand skimmed down over your waist, tracing the curve of it before letting his fingers linger against your stomach in a subtle, tender caress.

“Demanding for you to tell me you want to make me a dad…” He admitted, his voice trailing off, unsure.

A laugh bubbled from your chest, affectionate and giddy as you reached up to pinch at his flushed cheek.

“That was—…Kinda hot, honey,” you teased with playful warmth, eyes glimmering with mischief as his blush deepened, “I wonder if I should I start calling you Daddy?”

Zayne froze for half a heartbeat, his green eyes cutting to yours sharply, wide and flustered in that way that made your heart do somersaults. His lips pressed into a firm line as he pried your mischievous hand away from his cheek, his grip gentle but steady as he held it captive against his chest.

“God,” he groaned, his tone stern but tender, shooting you that exasperated glare you adored, “please don’t.”

You laughed softly at his utterly adorable reaction, unable to resist how flustered he got. Your heart felt impossibly full as you turned him fully toward you, cupping his warm, flushed cheek in your palm. With a gentle tug, you pulled him into a string of slow, tender kisses—unhurried, lingering, savoring the quiet intimacy that followed the storm you’d just shared. His lips softened against yours, his hand resting steady at your waist as if grounding himself in you.

Neither of you moved to clean up or break the spell. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the comfort of holding each other, soaking in the afterglow of love so deep it felt unshakable. Zayne reached for a discarded shirt nearby, tucking it between your legs with casual, doctorly care, his thoughtfulness so instinctive it made your chest ache. Then he gathered you back against him, pulling you close once more.

He shifted downward, his broad frame curling protectively around you as he nestled his head against your stomach. His cheek rested warm over your bare skin, and he pressed a featherlight kiss there, nuzzling softly as though he were greeting the life growing inside you. You smiled, tender and overwhelmed, your fingers weaving through his damp, black hair in slow, affectionate strokes.

Zayne’s hand settled at your hip, holding you with quiet devotion, anchoring you in his steady, unshakable love. The room was calm then, filled only with the sound of your joined breaths, the steady hum of the air conditioning, and the distant sound of crickets outside the tall living room windows.

You felt it then—calm. Peace. That deep, bone-deep certainty that everything was going to be okay. You and Zayne were in this together, exactly where you were meant to be. Unplanned, unexpected, and yet somehow perfect. This was your future, the one written in the stars: you, Zayne, and now…

Baby Li.

And as his lips brushed your stomach again, and you combed your fingers gently through his hair, you knew in your soul that all three of you would be just fine. Wrapped in his arms, basking in his tender love, you remembered—this was home.

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Oooh

Oh no…

All the third myths are going to be all angst, no comfort, aren’t they?

Can we Zayne and Caleb girlies get a break??? Please???

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thinking about what if junimos were not only apple-like, but also like other types of fruit/vegetables

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This man and his sunglasses istg

I literally logged on this evening and he decided to wear this not really complaining though, he’s always fine af

He would be the husband to wear his sunglasses even on his wedding day; him and his sunglasses against Astra the world

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My honest reaction:

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cuptain dance

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As a Zayne girly with abandonment issues I'd like to say a special fuck you to infold for hurting me like this 😭😭😭

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I wish that you were able to go through the ink wall from a Steel Eel if you use Kraken Royal’s charged attack. I can’t count how many times I’ve lost a run to being stuck inside a Steel Eel that’s coiling around me while Kraken was still active and dying instantly after it’s done

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TIL that Toby Fox hid Penumbra Phantasm in the Undertale OST - Hopes and Dreams. At the 1:18 mark in the OST, you can faintly hear the leitmotif under Flowey’s theme (it’s easier to hear with headphones; yes, it’s played on piano)

We may get an official release of Penumbra Phantasm in Deltarune maybe, hopefully

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cuteness aggression

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HOLY SHIT INFOLD DELIVERED WITH CALEBS BDAY CARD

I TRIED GOING BACK TO F2P; THIS IS GOING TO BE MY EXCEPTION

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Revisited the story branches from "Prologue to Tomorrow" and I may have some theories, please bear with me.

Contains spoilers for "Death and Rebirth"; speculation about future story updates; ramblings and probably won't make sense

So, in Xavier's branch, we meet Soren; in Zayne's we meet Carter. I have a feeling we'll end up seeing Soren again in a new main story update like we have with Carter. I also have a feeling that Soren will also be affiliated with Ever just like Carter was in Zayne's chapters in Death and Rebirth.

In all three branches of Prologue to Tomorrow, we have the radio-frequency chip that causes the wanderers to show up. In all three branches, it was revealed that these chips are a product from Ever. In Xavier's and Zayne's branches, it's implied that both Soren and Carter planted the chips to cause the appearance of the wanders; and in both cases, defeating the wanderer lead to us claiming parts of the Spatium Core.

I believe the new story update will involve Xavier and Rafayel in some way. I think we'll end up having a storyline with Xavier that's similar to what we had with Zayne's in the latest story update. I think that with MC absorbing the Spatium Core, the things we see in Xavier's and Zayne's story in Prologue to Tomorrow are slowly becoming reality.

In both cases, MC and the boys were transported to a protofield that's affiliated with a negative memory or dream. In Xavier's, we're transported to Starfall Forest and in Zayne's, we're taken into his nightmares about the Dawnbraker timeline.

In the recent story update, Zayne enters the Dawnbraker state, and proceeds to do the exact thing that Dawnbreaker does in his timeline, which is killing people who are turning into wanderers. I feel like where MC absorbed the Spatium Core, it's caused some of the timelines to converge into the current one.

I also think that this affect Rafayel too. In his story branch in Prologue to Tomorrow, we know Ever wanted Jewel Reef because it had the Spatium Core located at the bottom of the blue hole, plus it's possible ties to Lemuria. Rafayel was able to reach the Tome of the Sea God and reclaim the power of the sea along with getting the Spatium Core that was in the Tome (he was drawn to the Spatium Core in the Tome).

I know that recently people are concerned that the new myth for him will involve him forgetting us, but what if it's part of the main story? We know that he had a moment of forgetting us after reclaiming the power. He also said that he must answer the sea's call after reclaiming its power. I wonder where MC absorbed the Spatium Core if this will reactivate Rafayel going into "Sea God" state, causing him to forget MC like he did in Land of Secret Flames.

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I love you Splatoon thank you for existing!!! 🦑🐙

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"But even though you're killing me

I, I need you like the air I breathe

I need, I need you more than me

I need you more than anything

Please, please"

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they deserve a kiss after everything they've been through 😭

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TIL that the LI has a different reaction to when you touch their lower backs rather than their butts lol

This totally isn’t me getting back at Zayne for putting me through the angst in the latest story branch

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As a Zayne girlie, I fear that I won’t emotionally recover from this week or financially from the MoF rerun

Oh my Shayla; my husband *sounds of a sad mess*