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orphicmeliora · 7 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 3

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

NOTES: warning! this user has found the "I told you things x sign of the times mashup" in under extreme distress and this is the result, proceed with caution. lol

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part 2 | MASTERLIST | part 4

Zayne remembered the wedding day a little too well for his own good.

He supposed time should've worn the memory down to softened corners by now, smudged it enough that he could tuck it into a drawer and only take it out when the mood struck. But instead, it lingered—sharp and vivid, like a cold shard of glass buried beneath the skin.

The horrendous décor. The invitations sent out to a sea of strangers—names he hadn’t heard before, faces he didn’t recognize, smiles that felt too wide, too fake. The clatter of wine glasses and artificial laughter echoing off the marbled walls. Everything reeked of excess and performance. He had stood there, stiff in a suit tailored too tight at the neck, like he was being prepped for sacrifice instead of celebration.

Golds and reds clashing in chaotic flourish, floral arrangements overstuffed to the point of suffocation. He remembered the way his mother had looked around the hall with polite horror veiled under a scientist's clinical assessment, her jaw clenched just enough for him to notice. His father had muttered something under his breath and promptly stepped outside. Neither of them had to say it aloud. He knew what they were thinking.

This wasn’t what they had agreed to.

This wasn’t what you had wanted.

But Zayne had held his tongue. Bit down on every scathing remark that burned behind his teeth. For decorum. For diplomacy. And most of all—for you.

Only because she was your mother.

He’d told himself that—repeatedly, like a prayer.

Only because she was your mother.

And then the music had shifted.

A hush rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back, and the world slowed on its axis as you appeared—poised, back straight, bouquet clenched too tightly in your trembling hands.

Zayne had always imagined what it might feel like, watching you walk toward him.

He had foolishly thought it would be a moment filled with light, with heart-pounding anticipation and a reckless sort of hope.

But all he felt was dread. Guilt. A hollow ache he couldn’t name.

Because when he saw you, he felt the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

Even that god-awful dress—clearly not your choice, all lace and shine and suffocating tradition—couldn’t disguise the truth of you. You looked like a doll dressed for display.

And still.

Still, nothing could dare to compromise the beauty of your visage.

Your presence cut through the garish backdrop like a moon through polluted skies. Something pure. Sacred.

When you drew nearer to him. He froze.

Your face.

Your makeup had been done with flawless precision, not a speck out of place. But Zayne's gaze, honed by years of clinical observation, saw beneath the foundation. Saw through it.

A foreboding shape of a handprint—subtle but unmistakable—was ghosted across your cheekbone. A bruise that hadn’t had time to fully bloom, but hadn’t been entirely erased either.

Even though your smile was wide enough to please the lenses pointed your way. But your eyes—

Your eyes were dull.

Dull in that way a candle is dull when someone cups it with both hands and suffocates the flame.

You looked like you were walking toward your funeral, not your wedding.

And something in him cracked open.

The doctor in him was alert immediately—assessing, diagnosing, filing away invisible symptoms and silent alarms. He wanted to ask you how long ago it happened. Whether you felt dizzy. Whether you’d eaten. Whether the ringing in your ears had stopped yet.

But the man in him—the man who had spent nights watching you fall asleep across a screen, who had read every text you’d deleted before sending, who had learned to read the way your hands clenched when you were about to cry but didn’t want to—that man wanted to take your hand and run.

He wanted to pull you out of that aisle and into the nearest cab. He wanted to ask you:

What happened?

What do you truly want?

Why do you keep quiet?

Who did this to you?

But he already knew the answer to the last one.

And he knew he couldn’t act on any of it.

Not there. Not in front of the crowd. Not while your mother sat in the front row with her regal, poisoned smile and her power held tight in fists gloved in silk.

You would’ve lost face.

And he couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t suffer because of him—that, at least, he could promise.

So he swallowed it all.

He stood steady when your hand was placed in his. He didn’t flinch when you looked up at him with eyes that begged him not to make a scene. He let you lean on him, barely, as if your knees had gone weak, and maybe they had.

And as he whispered the two ceremonial words, slid the ring onto your shaking finger, Zayne’s heart was not present in that moment. It was elsewhere.

Running.

Raging.

Screaming silently behind his ribs.

But he said nothing.

He kissed you the way one kisses a photograph etched in fond memories—gentle, reverent, already grieving.

And the only thought that pulsed through his mind, louder than the music, louder than the applause, louder than the cameras clicking, was this:

Some people really don’t deserve to be parents.

Once again, the clink of cutlery against porcelain is the only sound in the dining room. A delicate, almost domestic kind of silence. Not cold, not tense—just... new. Hesitant. Like something wounded learning how to walk again.

It’s the second meal you’ve shared at the same table. No space between you filled with text messages to distract you. No carefully crafted "not-hungry-right-now" escape. You’re here. Present. Dressed simply, no makeup, your hair in the lazy knot you wear when you're not trying to impress anyone.

And Zayne... he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

Not the way he used to watch you from across rooms, trying to memorize the shape of your loneliness and pretending it wasn’t his fault. No, today there's something... quieter about him. Subdued. A man studying light through stained glass, afraid to reach out in case it vanishes.

You eat your rice slowly, methodically, as if chewing gives you purpose. The scent of cumin and roasted garlic fills the air—Zayne had cooked. Again. The food wasn’t fancy, but it was warm, thoughtful. He even remembered you don’t like coriander leaves in your food, which you had only mentioned once, in passing, over two years ago.

That fact alone sits in your throat harder than the food.

“I was thinking,” Zayne begins, his voice startling in the hush, “maybe we could repaint the hallway.”

You blink. Swallow.

“The color’s starting to chip,” he adds, shrugging like it's no big deal. Like it’s not the first suggestion he’s made in weeks that begins with “we” and ends with the future.

Your spoon hovers mid-air.

“Sure,” you say. You don’t sound convincing, but you don’t sound hostile either. And maybe that’s enough for him today.

He’s quiet for a moment, then exhales—relieved, maybe. Like that single word gave him permission to hope. His posture relaxes slightly, one elbow braced on the table, his thumb brushing idly against his lower lip.

You look at his hands. You always used to look at his hands. So steady, so precise. Doctor hands. Capable of cutting into people and healing them all the same. Scarred and flawed but so pretty. You used to wonder how gentle they could be when they weren’t holding scalpels or stethoscopes. When they held you.

You miss that without wanting to.

“I can call someone to do it,” he adds. “Or we could pick out the color together. If you’d like.”

He’s looking at you with that cautious spark again—like you’re something delicate he’s trying to coax out of hiding. And it should feel sweet, hopeful even.

But instead it makes your chest tighten with an unbearable grief.

Because it’s too late.

You put your fork down slowly. The ceramic click it makes, sounds like a decision.

He notices right away. That sharp, intuitive stillness in him returns.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t mean to ruin the moment.

You really don’t. But something inside you rebels at the way he’s talking—as if the future is something you both get to imagine now. As if a meal, one shared glance, one tentative truce is enough to erase three years of aching silence and missed opportunities.

So you say it. Gently, but clearly.

“I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes.”

The words land like a thunderclap across the table.

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The shift is invisible but seismic. A drop in barometric pressure you feel in your bones. The air sharpens. The room shrinks.

He looks at you like you just said something blasphemous. Like you’ve just stabbed a knife through the script he’s been quietly rewriting for the two of you.

“What?” he asks. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief, wrapped in glass.

You look down at your plate.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” you say, forcing your voice to stay level. “I think it would be easier, you know? Once everything’s settled. A clean break. Start fresh. It wouldn’t be right to stay.”

“You wouldn’t be staying,” he says, his voice suddenly taut. “You’d be living. In your house. With your—”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband?”

The words taste bitter. You hate how cruel they sound. You didn’t mean to twist the knife. You just wanted to say the truth. Clean. Simple. Without all this wreckage.

Zayne pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape.

He stands, but not like he usually does—graceful, precise, self-contained. No, this is different. There’s tension in his limbs. Unspent energy. His fists clench and release at his sides.

He takes one breath.

Then another.

You don’t dare look at him.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops. His voice is too calm. It’s the kind of calm you only hear right before the ice beneath your feet cracks. “I thought we were doing better.”

You wince. You can’t help it.

“We’ve had lunch together twice in three years,” you say, too quietly. “That doesn’t mean we’re better. It just means… I’m tired of this.”

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’ve already decided?”

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

Across from you, Zayne’s whole body stiffened.

His eyes lift slowly, as though he'd been waiting for your deflection with the same quiet patience he’s always used to weather your distance. His gaze is heavy. Sharp. It holds a quiet gravity that pins you where you sit. There’s no space to duck your head or fiddle with your napkin or pretend you didn’t just offer up a coward’s escape.

You force yourself to meet it. And regret it instantly.

The weight of his eyes is unbearable. Not for what they accuse, but for what they offer. No anger. No reproach. Only that soul-baring stillness you’ve been running from for years.

He tilts his head ever so slightly. A sigh curls beneath his breath.

He advances slowly, his movements fluid and unhurried, like he’s afraid to startle you. Like you’re a bird on the edge of bolting from the table. He reaches for the plates—his and yours—stacking them with a care that feels at odds with the way your pulse has begun to pound.

And then—

He leaves them in the sink.

You stare at the dishes as if they’ve personally offended you. Because—he never does that. Not once in three years of walking on eggshells around each other. Zayne always washed and dried and stacked everything back in its rightful place before bed. Quiet order, tidy structure, a kind of control that helped him survive the messier things he didn’t speak about. But now?

The dishes sit in the sink, unattended, like he couldn’t care less what breaks anymore.

You swallow down the unease rising in your throat.

“I believed that holding back and giving you space was better for you,” he says, his back to you, hands braced on the countertop. His voice is low, layered with something raw. “So that you could breathe. So that you might feel like this house belonged to you too. That you might consider me…”

He turns slowly, the words trailing into silence until they settle between you like dust.

“…your husband.”

His eyes are not intense now. They’re tender. Devastatingly so. And you hate him for it—for knowing the exact tone that could unravel you. For speaking like the man you once imagined in your future instead of the one you’ve been braving in the present.

You say nothing. You don’t move. The only sound is the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows. A world still spinning outside the implosion of yours.

“But I realize now…” His voice returns, softer, more certain. “That was the wrong way to go about it. What I should have done instead was occupy your space. Invade your mind the way you’ve invaded mine. And made damn sure you knew it.”

He crosses the room in measured steps—each one a declaration, a breach, a reclaiming.

And then suddenly—he’s in front of you.

His arms come down to either side, hands braced on the table, trapping you in. Not violently. Not even aggressively. But in a way that commands. That says: I am done being polite about wanting you.

Your breath hitches. The heat from his body seeps into yours, uninvited. You are far too aware of the difference in your height. The way you have to look up to meet his gaze. The way the nearness sharpens every nerve ending along your spine.

You drop your gaze, too suddenly, to the middle button of his shirt.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

You hear it before you feel it—a sigh, long and quietly exasperated, falling from his mouth. It isn’t angry, not quite. It’s weary. Like he’s been walking through a blizzard in nothing but the hope that you’d look at him.

“Look at me.”

His voice carries a command now. Not loud, but low and unwavering, wrapped in something that has long outgrown patience.

Your jaw tightens. You feel it all the way to your molars.

And so—just to spite him—you let your eyes drop further. Past his shirt, past the belt at his waist, all the way down to his shoes.

Pristine, polished shoes. Of course they’re polished.

You want to scream.

He says your name again, quieter this time. But it lands with the weight of a hammer. You feel him watching your every breath like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your defiance.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time the restraint in his tone is fraying at the edges. “I will not ask again.”

How dare he?

Where was this conviction when you cried yourself to sleep on nights he didn't come home? When you sat alone in his office? When the silence stretched between your bedrooms like a chasm neither of you dared cross?

You glare harder at his shoes. Furious. Silent. Glued to your stubbornness.

And then—

Without a word, his hands find your waist. His grip is firm but reverent, like you are breakable but he’s done pretending not to want to touch you. In one swift motion, he lifts you. Sets you on the table. The movement is fluid, like his body remembers yours. Like this closeness isn’t strange—it’s forgotten.

It steals the breath from your throat.

Your pulse is a war drum now, thrashing against your ribs.

You stare at him, stunned, suspended in the moment. It’s not the lifting that flusters you—it’s the claiming. It’s the way his fingers linger at your hips, the way he steps in closer, nudging your knees apart so he can fit between them. His chest brushes against yours, steady and unyielding.

You lean back slightly, resisting the pull of him, but he follows. His hands find the base of your back, the curve of your neck, drawing you into his gravity.

There is no room left for distance now.

His breath fans against your lips.

You close your eyes—not in surrender, but in defense. The tension is unbearable. Too much. Too close. Too late.

When you open them again—

“There you go,” he whispers, and the way he says it—gentle, reverent—makes your stomach twist.

“If I don’t want to look at you, then I won’t!” Your voice comes out shaky, but you manage to push the words out like a threat. “You can’t force me to do otherwise.”

He exhales, but not with frustration. It sounds almost hurt. And that makes you even angrier.

“Don’t steal your eyes away from me, then,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Not when they’re the only truth I get out of you these days.”

That does it.

Something inside you snaps—splinters and bleeds. You grab the collar of his shirt with both fists and yank him down, your body folding into his like a question you no longer know how to ask. You let him bear your weight—your grief, your anger, your longing—all of it.

“Who do you think you are?!” You demand, voice rising with every beat of your heart.

“Your husband,” he says, without hesitation.

The words knock the wind from you. Not because he’s wrong—but because he says it like he never stopped being yours.

“Don’t make me laugh!” you spit, tears stinging behind your eyes now. “You haven’t acted like my husband in three years! You and I don’t talk. You and I don’t eat together. You and I don’t sleep together, or do the laundry together. You and I don’t plan for anything. You and I don’t go out. You and I don’t call. You and I don’t touch. You and I don’t try. You and I are not together in anything!”

Each word is a wound. And still, he takes them.

You wait for him to defend himself. To retreat. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a map.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs. “Then we’ll do all of it. We’ll talk. We’ll eat every meal together. We’ll sleep together. We’ll fight over the bills, do the laundry. We’ll plan our future down to every damn weekend. We’ll go out. We’ll touch. We’ll do everything. Together.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. You feel the tremble in his breath, the warmth of his promise bleeding into your skin.

“I vow no part of you will go unloved. Just… give this another chance.”

The silence crackled.

You didn’t mean for any of this to matter again.

You want to hate him.

You miss him.

You want him to let you go.

You want him to fight for you.

Zayne’s eyes are searching yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your head and gather all the pieces you’ve left behind.

His voice is soft now. The way you used to imagine in your dreams. The way it never was during the marriage except—

“Tell me what you really want,” he says, not quite breathing.

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s you, you want to scream.

Because when I’m near you, I forget everything.

Because I swore I’d walk away this time.

Your hand twitches against the table.

He doesn’t move. But his stillness has always been dangerous. It invites you in. It lures you closer. It makes you think maybe—maybe if you leaned just a little—

You’re already kissing him.

Your hands are in his shirt before you even realize, fisting the fabric like it wronged you. Your lips are brutal, messy, a furious grind of need and grief. It's not soft. It’s clumsy. Open-mouthed. Raw.

Zayne gasps into your mouth like he’s been underwater for years.

Then he grabs you—hands cupping your jaw, tilting your head just so, as if this is the only thing he’s allowed to touch in this universe. And suddenly he’s kissing you back like he means to end every argument with his mouth, like he wants to stake his claim on your tongue.

You arch against him and he groans. It's ragged. Aggravating. You’ve never heard him sound like that. Like he's unraveling.

Your legs part without thinking and he shifts forward, mouth never leaving yours. His thigh slots between yours, and your hips buck like you're trying to crawl inside him, like you're trying to use his body to forget the fact that you just told him you were leaving.

You hate yourself for it.

You want more of it.

His hands move down your spine, sliding under your shirt, burning cold, and your fingers bury into his hair, yanking, tugging—needing.

More. More. More.

He gasps your name against your jaw. You kiss his neck. You bite, and he hisses. You’re not being careful anymore. You want him to feel what you’re feeling. You want to ruin him the way he’s ruined you.

He shifts again, this time straddling your thighs, and for one perfect second, your noses brush. His breath is hot against your cheek. His hands tremble where they hold your hips.

It feels like the edge of something.

Then—

He pulls away.

Violently.

His body rips from yours like a fault line cracking.

You’re left gasping, lips tingling, every nerve ending exposed like a live wire. You stare at him, blinking, dazed, feral in your confusion.

Zayne’s breath is heavy. Unsteady. His fingers dig into his thighs like he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.

You reach for him again, not even thinking.

He flinches back.

“Don’t.”

His voice is like shrapnel.

You freeze.

And that’s when you see it—he’s hurt.

Not just frustrated. Not just angry. Hurt.

Your brows pull together. “Zayne…?”

His eyes are glassy, but hard. Like ice melting too slowly to be useful. He stares at you, and he doesn’t hide the pain in his face this time.

“You're deflecting.”

“What?”

He laughs, but it sounds broken. Like gravel ground beneath tired wheels. He leans back, still panting. Runs a hand through his hair. Won’t look at you now.

“You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

“That’s not true.”

He doesn’t reply.

You try again, sitting up straighter, your shirt sliding back into place. “Zayne, I—”

“No.” His voice is quiet now. Flat. “Don’t try to make excuses.”

Your heart seizes.

“I’m not trying to make excuses, I just—”

“Then what?” he demands. His eyes whip back to yours, wild with betrayal. “What was that? Was it closure? One last kiss before you pack your bags?”

You swallow.

Because you don’t know.

It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a strategy. It was you. Wanting. Hurting. Reaching for the only thing that’s ever felt remotely like home—even when it didn’t feel yours.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say softly.

Zayne nods. Once. Slow. His eyes close. “That, I believe.”

You stare at him.

And he looks away, hands braced on the table now like he’s trying not to collapse.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then:

“I told myself... if I gave you time... if I kept my distance... you’d come to me when you were ready.”

He lifts his gaze.

“But now I’m starting to wonder if you ever intended to come back.”

The truth sits heavy in the room.

You try to speak.

But stop.

Because anything you say now will sound like an apology. And apologies feel too fragile for the storm you’ve just unleashed.

So instead you sit there, breath shallow, lips bitten, body still aching from the loss of his weight.

Zayne walks away.

Far enough to hurt.

Far enough to make sure you know he’s not chasing this time.

Zayne doesn’t remember walking out of the room.

Doesn’t remember what his hands were doing—whether they were shaking, whether they were clenching, whether they were still warmed by the feel of your hips beneath his palms.

All he remembers is the kiss.

The kiss and the shame and the haunting suspicion that it hadn’t meant anything to you.

No—no, that wasn’t fair.

It had meant something. He felt it in the way your fingers gripped him like a lifeline. In the way you kissed like you were starving but furious about it. Like someone who hadn’t eaten in days finally letting themselves feast—and then hating the meal for tasting so damn good.

It had meant something.

But not what he’d wanted it to.

It hadn’t been a promise.

It had been a distraction.

And that’s what undid him.

That’s what left him standing in the middle of the living room, alone, the shadows of the room cold around him. His breath still caught in his chest like a secret he couldn’t say out loud.

He lifts trembling fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips.

They're still swollen. Still damp. Still yours.

“Good lord,” he whispers.

The walls say nothing back.

He leans his back against the cool wall, jaw clenched tight, trying to push the kiss out of his head. But it’s in his bloodstream now. In his nerves. In the grooves of his scars and the shape of his spine and the hollow in his chest where hope used to live.

You asked for a divorce.

You told him you were leaving.

Then you kissed him like it killed you to want him.

Was that guilt? Pity? One last mercy before you walked away?

He presses his eyes shut. The pressure makes sparks dance behind his eyelids.

He’s so damn tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

Tired of watching you build walls while he stands outside in the cold.

Tired of loving you in silence, in shadows, in the corners of rooms where you won’t look at him.

He thought—God, he hoped—that maybe things were changing. After the truce. After that rare moment of laughter during the dance. You’d looked soft again. Your voice had lilted. Your eyes had found his and stayed there.

For one selfish second, he let himself believe the worst was behind them.

But then—

"I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes."

The words keep echoing. They shouldn’t hurt more than the first time you said you wanted to leave, but they do. Maybe because this time, they felt final. Not just angry. Not just hurtful. But resolved.

Like you’d already made peace with the idea of a world without him.

He sinks down onto the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands laced over his mouth.

His heart beats unevenly. His evol flickers—small cold pulses at his fingertips.

He hates this.

He hates how easily he let himself fall again. How much he still wants you. Even now. Even after you kissed him like you were drowning and then looked at him like he was the one holding you underwater.

He breathes in deep, once. Twice. Tries to settle the roaring thing in his chest. The ache. The ache that started years ago and has never really stopped.

And then—

He stands up.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

But he knows he can’t stay still.

The silence after Zayne leaves is almost unbearable. The room feels colder. Emptier. Like he took the warmth with him.

You bring your fingers to your lips, stunned.

What have you done?

You kissed him.

You kissed your husband—the man you served divorce papers to—the man you told you’d be leaving soon.

And it hadn’t felt like regret.

It had felt like hunger. Like madness. Like reaching for the edge of a cliff and being glad when you started to fall.

Your hands are still shaking.

Your thighs still remember the press of his body between them. Your skin still hums with the feel of his cold hands beneath your shirt. His breath in your mouth. His groan when you bit his neck. The desperate, frightened sound he made when your hips rolled against his.

God.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to erase it—but it’s carved into you now. It’s a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

What the hell were you thinking?

You’re the one who keeps saying this isn’t sustainable. That the marriage was a farce. That your mother orchestrated your future like a cruel puppeteer and left you dancing in a cage.

But the way you kissed him—

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even lust. It was worse than that.

It was longing.

You bite your lip hard, trying to push down the heat rising in your chest. You feel stupid. Ungrateful. Traitorous to your own cause.

You told yourself this time you’d be strong. You’d see it through. No matter how gentle his voice sounded. No matter how lonely you felt at night. No matter how beautiful he looked in the light that spills through the high windows.

You’d be the woman who finally chooses herself.

So why—why did you pull him in?

Why did it feel like sucking in air after almost drowning?

You stand too quickly. The world tilts. You steady yourself on the table, staring down at the half-finished lunch. The chair across from yours, empty.

Was he disappointed?

Of course he was. You saw it. The way he stepped back. The way his voice cracked when he said, you’re deflecting.

He wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t right either.

You didn’t kiss him to distract him.

You kissed him because—for just a second—you forgot how to not want him near.

You press your forehead to the wall and let yourself cry, just once. Quiet. Fierce. Into the walls that’s held your worst secrets for three long years.

Zayne has always made you feel like you’re on fire and underwater at the same time.

You don't know if this was the beginning of the end.

Or the start of something far more dangerous.

The scent of antiseptic and artificial citrus fills Zayne’s lungs the second he walks through the doors of Akso hospital. It's too clean, too bright—everything in sharp contrast to the slow, simmering rot in his chest.

He’s been here less than two hours and already he’s running on autopilot—clipboard in hand, white coat crisp, hair shoved back in a way that makes him look more polished than he feels.

There’s a buzz in the air: nurses rushing in and out of triage, residents scrambling over their notes, someone shouting down the hallway for a portable EKG. It should energize him.

Instead, it grates.

He walks his rounds with a practiced rhythm, checking vitals, reviewing charts, murmuring soft reassurances to anxious patients with lines under their eyes and oxygen tubes in their noses.

He knows how to do this. He likes doing this.

It’s people who are easy to help. Their pain is visible. Their injuries are diagnosable. They bleed in measurable units and respond to treatment.

You though;

You bleed in silence.

You hurt in corners he couldn’t reach.

And now he’s standing in the middle of a ward full of wounded people, and all he can think about is how badly he failed to treat the most important person in his life.

“Someone’s grumpy today,” comes a teasing voice from behind.

Zayne turns, just in time to catch a chart tossed his way. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it to the floor.

Greyson grins at him.

Yvonne stands beside him, watching Zayne like he’s a puzzle she’s just realized she wants to solve.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, too casual.

“Not now,” Zayne mutters, brushing past them both toward the elevators.

But Greyson just follows, unfazed. “Come now, Dr. Zayne. We’re your emotional support package. That’s what friends are for.”

Zayne jabs the elevator button too hard. “I'm fine.”

Yvonne raises a brow. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be composed but you’re blinking like you want to scream.”

“I’m. Fine.”

The elevator dings. Zayne walks in alone.

Greyson leans forward and says through the doors as they close: “Fine means ‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional’—just saying.”

Zayne exhales sharply as the elevator ascends.

He doesn’t want to talk to them. Not today. Not when his thoughts are still steeped in your scent, your mouth, your voice cracking as you said, “I’m thinking about moving out—”

The doors open on his floor. He walks to his office with practiced detachment.

It isn’t until he’s behind the door—closed off from the world, just him and the dull grey sky through the open window—that the tension starts to thaw.

He lowers himself into the chair behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t slept. Not properly. Not since yesterday. Not since your mouth was on his. Not since your nails bit into his skin, begging without words, and then pushing him away again.

He rests his head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Then it rang. Persistent. He glances at it.

Mom.

Zayne hesitated, his thumb hovering above the screen. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was that he didn’t trust his voice not to tremble the moment she said his name in that gentle, knowing way of hers. His mother had a scientist’s mind and a healer’s intuition. Sharp as a blade and soft as a lullaby. He didn’t know how she did that—read him from halfway across the Arctic like he was a field experiment gone wrong.

He let it ring out.

Then it rang again.

Zayne sighed and finally answered.

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a second of silence. Just the wind in the background on her end—he imagined it rushing past some research camp or snow-drifted station in the north. Then her voice came through, warm like cocoa by a fire.

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”

“That’s the exact voice you used when you lied about breaking your arm at eight.”

Zayne huffed a soft laugh, weak at the edges. “I didn’t break it. It was a sprain.”

“Because you thought you could ice-skate down the driveway on your boots.”

“You told me it was physics in action.”

“I told you friction was important,” she teased. “And that you were not, in fact, a penguin.”

Another silence stretched between them. Then, her tone gentled.

“Zayne,” she said, carefully. “What happened?”

His hand curled into a loose fist against the counter. He could feel it then—the tight band around his chest that had been there since you uttered those words.

He’d felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

Just when he thought you were softening toward him. Just when he thought the worst of the storm had passed and maybe—maybe—this thing between you might become real, not just in name or contract but in heart.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said quietly.

Her voice came through steady, no pressure, just presence. “Start where it hurts.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead like he could will the ache away.

“She wants a divorce,” he swallowed hard. “She wants to leave me.”

A pause. Just long enough for the truth to settle into the Arctic air.

“Oh.”

One word. Soft. Sympathetic. Full of layered understanding only mothers seemed capable of. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask for details. Just accepted it. Let it land.

He was grateful for that.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he said, and it came out raw now, all his composure worn thin. “I tried giving her space. After everything she went through, I thought the best thing I could do was… not pressure her. Not add more weight. Not corner her. Not ask for anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, his voice gaining traction like an avalanche starting to slide.

“I didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting her come to me when she was ready.”

His mother exhales softly through the speaker.

“I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

He lets his head fall.

“No.”

“Zayne…” Her voice thickens, like it aches to be closer. “My sweet boy. A woman’s heart is a fragile thing. Not weak. But fragile. It bruises in places you can’t see. And it remembers what you never meant to say.”

“I thought we were doing better,” he said, his voice barely above a breath now. “She started laughing again. She let me touch her. We talked. We shared space like… like maybe it meant something again.”

“And you hoped that meant she was healing.”

He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but feeling seen anyway.

“I thought I had time,” he whispered. “Time to make it right.”

“And maybe you still do,” she said, but not with false hope. It was quieter than that. More reverent. “But Zayne… she probably doesn’t know what your silence was meant to say. You were protecting her, but you forgot something.”

“What?”

“You forgot to protect your marriage, too.”

That hit like a stone to the chest. He turned away from the window, one hand dragging through his hair.

“She told me she never wanted a wedding like the one we had,” he murmured.

“Did you?”

He hesitated. “No. I hated it.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“I thought it would sound like I was complaining. I didn’t want her to feel guilty for something her mother planned.”

“Oh, baby,” she said with a tender laugh. “Your love language is martyrdom, and hers is probably honesty. You two are going to need a damn translator.”

A breath of amusement slipped out of him, bitter-edged.

“I didn’t mean for things to get like this,” he said.

“No one ever does. But love doesn’t live in intention, Zayne. It lives in the messy, stupid, everyday execution of it.”

She paused, then said more gently, “Have you told her what she means to you?”

Zayne opened his mouth, then closed it.

The silence was answer enough.

“I thought I had time,” he said again.

His mother was quiet for a moment.

Then, “You do. But only if you stop assuming she already knows.”

Zayne swallowed hard. Blinked rapidly. He could feel it now—that burning behind his eyes, the ache of everything unsaid and all the ways he had failed to translate the language of his love.

“And sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t just fight for her when she’s pulling away. Love her loud, even when she’s close. Especially then.”

“I’ll try,” he said, quietly.

“Good. That’s all you can do.”

When the call ended, Zayne stared at the phone for a while. His reflection in the black screen was drawn and haunted. He looked like the man he feared he was becoming—a man who let love slip through his fingers in the name of being careful.

But then he stood.

His fingers were trembling. But his feet moved forward.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe love, when wielded like truth, could still be enough.

You don’t remember walking here.

One moment you were sifting through the hollow remains of what used to be your life—old drawers, forgotten boxes, the kinds of things people leave behind when they’re about to leave for good. You were supposed to be packing. That’s what you’d promised yourself. A clean break, swift and merciless. A disappearing act.

And then you saw them. Nestled under a heap of old scarves, like a secret you didn’t mean to find.

The tennis rackets.

One handle wrapped in worn leather, stained from your palms. The other still pristine, a spare you never used. You stood still for a moment, just staring at them, that same dull ache blooming somewhere behind your eyes, where memory begins to hurt. You weren’t even sure why you took them. You just did. Walked out of the apartment like a ghost wearing your skin.

Now, here you are, standing in the middle of the empty, crumbling court on the edge of town—the one no one uses anymore. Weeds crawling up the chain-link fence. The lines faded. The net sagging like it, too, had given up.

You didn’t warm up. You didn’t stretch. You just served.

Ball after ball after ball. Serve after serve until your shoulders screamed and your legs threatened to buckle. You were playing like you had something to prove, like you could burn through the pain if you just kept going. Like the ache inside you could be outrun, outraged, outplayed.

Eventually, the racket gave up before you did.

The strings snapped mid-swing. It all collapsed—the ball, the breath caught in your lungs, your knees. The frame splintered, the sound of it cracking through the still air like a shot.

Now you’re sitting on the concrete. You must’ve sunk to your knees, then sat down, but you don’t remember the motion. You don’t even remember crying. But your cheeks are wet, and your hands are trembling in your lap. Your palm is bruised. There’s a small cut near the base of your thumb where the racket bit back, and you didn’t notice until now.

The broken racket lies beside you like a corpse. The last piece of a version of you that had almost been brave.

You feel hollow. Carved out. Nothing left to give, not even rage.

Only silence.

You tried to do the right thing. You handed him the divorce papers because it was the only way you knew how to love him. You tried to make it easier—for both of you. Tried to set him free before either of you drowned in the wreckage.

You keep telling yourself that.

You keep trying to be the kind of person who doesn’t need anyone. You so desperately want to be that person. That person who sits in silence and calls it strength, who shrugs off neglect with grace and wears independence like a tailored coat. That person who says—no, I don’t need validation. No, I don’t need affection. No, I don’t need intimacy. No, I don’t need to be taken care of. No, I don’t need love.

That no, you don't need a tight hug that knocks the air out of your lungs and a warm hand on your head and a soft voice whispering “It’s okay,” while you fall apart. You tell yourself you’re strong, that you’ve been strong all your life, that this is just another chapter of loneliness you’ll survive.

You want to believe that. God, you do.

You want to believe you are whole enough. Self-sufficient enough. Sharp enough to protect yourself from ever needing something so messy and warm and inconsistent. Love. Comfort. Him.

But it’s not true.

Because you want.And you want.

And you want and you want and you want and you want and you want—

It’s not a feeling anymore.

It’s a condition.

A disease.

This wanting is stitched into your very marrow, into the curve of your spine and the ache in your chest. You wake up with it. You eat around it. You try to distract yourself from it. But it’s always there.

A howl inside your ribcage.

A fist pounding on a locked door.

You ruined the one good thing you had in life. But what else could you do? You had to.

Because what were you doing in that marriage, really?

What kind of life is it for him, being married to a parrot? Nodding at dinner, smiling through things you don’t believe in, echoing someone else’s dream until your voice is just an afterthought? You couldn’t keep lying. Not to yourself. Not to him. Not to this marriage that had become a beautifully furnished silence.

Zayne is a good man. Too good, even. You know that.

He has too much integrity to have suggested a divorce by himself. Not even if it suffocated him. He will see this marriage through to the end even if it kills him to do so. He would’ve stayed out of duty because he was raised to honor his word, to never break an oath.

And you love that about him.

You love him.

You love him so much it has become something shameful, something dangerous. Because you can’t look at him without seeing everything he deserves and everything you will never be.

And it’s precisely why you have to let him go.

Because he deserves more. He deserves a marriage rooted in trust and truth, not sacrifice and guilt and delayed conversations that never happen. He deserves joy. He deserves a home, soft sunday mornings and laughter in the kitchen, not silence so thick it suffocates. He deserves a wife who reaches first. A wife who brings light into a room, not clouds. He deserves to be happy when he walks through the door, kissed until his glasses fog, loved without conditions or footnotes. True companionship.

He deserves to be seen.

And you—you're just… gloom. Rainclouds in human form. Even your joy is fragile, apologetic. You swallow your needs until they become sharp enough to cut from the inside. You want too much and say too little. The shadow of your mother clings to you like smoke. She always took everything. Your medals. Your wins. Your agency. Even in death, she haunts the periphery of every decision you try to make for yourself.

So you understand. Of course you do. You understand why he was distant. He was hurting too. Probably trying to give you space in the only way he knew how. But silence stretches like a chasm, and eventually, something had to fall in.

So you did.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare straight ahead. You don’t cry again. You’re past the crying. This is the part where everything is numb. This is the part where you stop expecting things to be okay.

It’s almost sundown when he finds you.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate. The hesitant tread of a man trying not to startle something fragile.

Zayne.

You don’t turn your head, but your breath hitches just a little.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just sits down beside you. Not too close. Not too far. You feel the warmth of him before anything else, even in the cooling air. You glance sideways and see his profile—drawn tight with worry. Haggard. Out of breath.

You wonder how it must’ve looked when he came home. The silence must’ve hit him first. Then the mess.

Drawers half-open. A jacket missing. A book out of place. Your favorite coffee mug, gone from the rack. Your slippers, gone from beside the bed.

He must’ve assumed the worst. Yet he still looked for you.

His eyes fall on the racket, the frayed strings, the bruises on your hand.

He says nothing.

You whisper, “It’s broken.”

Your voice cracks like the racket had.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “We can always buy new ones.”

You swallow. “But it was a gift. From my high school coach. She gave it to me after we won regionals. She was so proud of me.”

You let the words hang there for a second, like you’re afraid of where they’re going. Then they spill out anyway.

“My mother didn’t like it. Said sports were unladylike. Said it was time I focused on more ‘useful’ pursuits. She took everything. My trophies. My medals. Said I didn’t need reminders of childish glory.”

You inhale sharply, but it shakes like a sob.

“This racket was the only thing I managed to save. And now it’s gone, too.”

Zayne shifts, but you still don’t look at him. You’re scared. If you meet his eyes, you’ll shatter again. And you’re tired of breaking.

“Am I a bad daughter?” you ask, barely audible. “Am I bad for hating my dead mother?”

He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, tears blurring your vision.

“No, be honest with me. Am I a bad wife too? Did our marriage fail because of me?”

That gets him.

He stands abruptly, turns to face you fully, and crouches in front of you, hands reaching his palms on your cheeks, cradling you with a kind of reverence that feels too tender to bear.

“My love,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something too big for language. “You have not failed in anything.”

You shake your head. “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Look at me.”

You do. And the look in his eyes is devastating. Like you hung the stars, like you built the sky, like you are a map he’s spent his whole life memorizing.

“You are not bad,” he says. “You are not broken. You have fought for everything you have. Even when the world wanted you smaller. Quiet. More manageable.”

His eyes—a storm of hazel-green and unflinching—hold yours.

“And yes, maybe we failed. But you are not the reason we are hurting. We’re both lost in this. It wasn't because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to reach you.”

You let out a choked sound. A half-sob, half-laugh. “But I’m such a mess, Zayne. I—I can’t even—”

“You are not a mess,” he whispers. “You are grieving. You are healing. You are trying. And I see you.”

That breaks something in you.

You collapse forward, and he catches you, arms wrapping around your shuddering frame. He rocks you like he’s done it a thousand times in his dreams. You bury your face in his chest and cry—ugly, painful sobs that claw out of your throat like they’ve been trapped for years.

He holds you through all of it.

His hand finds your hair, his lips brush your temple, and he whispers, over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Maybe this is where you begin again.

Together.

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orphicmeliora · 7 days ago

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tags: @velvtcherie @kithyyy @minniestarmj @lishenfanaccplshelpme @raendarkfaerie @christianacj27 @sickeddyville @mcdepressed290 @aweebs @jeonjenny @silver--47 @mikasaredscarf1 @shinreiplays @nanamiina @aboobie @floatinginaer @whatever-fanfics @castellandiangelo

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 3

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

NOTES: warning! this user has found the "I told you things x sign of the times mashup" in under extreme distress and this is the result, proceed with caution. lol

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part 2 | MASTERLIST | part 4

Zayne remembered the wedding day a little too well for his own good.

This wasn’t what they had agreed to.

This wasn’t what you had wanted.

But Zayne had held his tongue. Bit down on every scathing remark that burned behind his teeth. For decorum. For diplomacy. And most of all—for you.

Only because she was your mother.

He’d told himself that—repeatedly, like a prayer.

Only because she was your mother.

And then the music had shifted.

A hush rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back, and the world slowed on its axis as you appeared—poised, back straight, bouquet clenched too tightly in your trembling hands.

Zayne had always imagined what it might feel like, watching you walk toward him.

He had foolishly thought it would be a moment filled with light, with heart-pounding anticipation and a reckless sort of hope.

But all he felt was dread. Guilt. A hollow ache he couldn’t name.

Because when he saw you, he felt the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

Even that god-awful dress—clearly not your choice, all lace and shine and suffocating tradition—couldn’t disguise the truth of you. You looked like a doll dressed for display.

And still.

Still, nothing could dare to compromise the beauty of your visage.

Your presence cut through the garish backdrop like a moon through polluted skies. Something pure. Sacred.

When you drew nearer to him. He froze.

Your face.

Your makeup had been done with flawless precision, not a speck out of place. But Zayne's gaze, honed by years of clinical observation, saw beneath the foundation. Saw through it.

A foreboding shape of a handprint—subtle but unmistakable—was ghosted across your cheekbone. A bruise that hadn’t had time to fully bloom, but hadn’t been entirely erased either.

Even though your smile was wide enough to please the lenses pointed your way. But your eyes—

Your eyes were dull.

Dull in that way a candle is dull when someone cups it with both hands and suffocates the flame.

You looked like you were walking toward your funeral, not your wedding.

And something in him cracked open.

He wanted to pull you out of that aisle and into the nearest cab. He wanted to ask you:

What happened?

What do you truly want?

Why do you keep quiet?

Who did this to you?

But he already knew the answer to the last one.

And he knew he couldn’t act on any of it.

Not there. Not in front of the crowd. Not while your mother sat in the front row with her regal, poisoned smile and her power held tight in fists gloved in silk.

You would’ve lost face.

And he couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t suffer because of him—that, at least, he could promise.

So he swallowed it all.

And as he whispered the two ceremonial words, slid the ring onto your shaking finger, Zayne’s heart was not present in that moment. It was elsewhere.

Running.

Raging.

Screaming silently behind his ribs.

But he said nothing.

He kissed you the way one kisses a photograph etched in fond memories—gentle, reverent, already grieving.

And the only thought that pulsed through his mind, louder than the music, louder than the applause, louder than the cameras clicking, was this:

Some people really don’t deserve to be parents.

And Zayne... he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

That fact alone sits in your throat harder than the food.

“I was thinking,” Zayne begins, his voice startling in the hush, “maybe we could repaint the hallway.”

You blink. Swallow.

“The color’s starting to chip,” he adds, shrugging like it's no big deal. Like it’s not the first suggestion he’s made in weeks that begins with “we” and ends with the future.

Your spoon hovers mid-air.

“Sure,” you say. You don’t sound convincing, but you don’t sound hostile either. And maybe that’s enough for him today.

You miss that without wanting to.

“I can call someone to do it,” he adds. “Or we could pick out the color together. If you’d like.”

He’s looking at you with that cautious spark again—like you’re something delicate he’s trying to coax out of hiding. And it should feel sweet, hopeful even.

But instead it makes your chest tighten with an unbearable grief.

Because it’s too late.

You put your fork down slowly. The ceramic click it makes, sounds like a decision.

He notices right away. That sharp, intuitive stillness in him returns.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t mean to ruin the moment.

So you say it. Gently, but clearly.

“I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes.”

The words land like a thunderclap across the table.

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The shift is invisible but seismic. A drop in barometric pressure you feel in your bones. The air sharpens. The room shrinks.

He looks at you like you just said something blasphemous. Like you’ve just stabbed a knife through the script he’s been quietly rewriting for the two of you.

“What?” he asks. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief, wrapped in glass.

You look down at your plate.

“You wouldn’t be staying,” he says, his voice suddenly taut. “You’d be living. In your house. With your—”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband?”

The words taste bitter. You hate how cruel they sound. You didn’t mean to twist the knife. You just wanted to say the truth. Clean. Simple. Without all this wreckage.

Zayne pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape.

He stands, but not like he usually does—graceful, precise, self-contained. No, this is different. There’s tension in his limbs. Unspent energy. His fists clench and release at his sides.

He takes one breath.

Then another.

You don’t dare look at him.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops. His voice is too calm. It’s the kind of calm you only hear right before the ice beneath your feet cracks. “I thought we were doing better.”

You wince. You can’t help it.

“We’ve had lunch together twice in three years,” you say, too quietly. “That doesn’t mean we’re better. It just means… I’m tired of this.”

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’ve already decided?”

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

Across from you, Zayne’s whole body stiffened.

You force yourself to meet it. And regret it instantly.

The weight of his eyes is unbearable. Not for what they accuse, but for what they offer. No anger. No reproach. Only that soul-baring stillness you’ve been running from for years.

He tilts his head ever so slightly. A sigh curls beneath his breath.

And then—

He leaves them in the sink.

The dishes sit in the sink, unattended, like he couldn’t care less what breaks anymore.

You swallow down the unease rising in your throat.

He turns slowly, the words trailing into silence until they settle between you like dust.

“…your husband.”

You say nothing. You don’t move. The only sound is the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows. A world still spinning outside the implosion of yours.

He crosses the room in measured steps—each one a declaration, a breach, a reclaiming.

And then suddenly—he’s in front of you.

His arms come down to either side, hands braced on the table, trapping you in. Not violently. Not even aggressively. But in a way that commands. That says: I am done being polite about wanting you.

You drop your gaze, too suddenly, to the middle button of his shirt.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

“Look at me.”

His voice carries a command now. Not loud, but low and unwavering, wrapped in something that has long outgrown patience.

Your jaw tightens. You feel it all the way to your molars.

And so—just to spite him—you let your eyes drop further. Past his shirt, past the belt at his waist, all the way down to his shoes.

Pristine, polished shoes. Of course they’re polished.

You want to scream.

He says your name again, quieter this time. But it lands with the weight of a hammer. You feel him watching your every breath like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your defiance.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time the restraint in his tone is fraying at the edges. “I will not ask again.”

How dare he?

You glare harder at his shoes. Furious. Silent. Glued to your stubbornness.

And then—

It steals the breath from your throat.

Your pulse is a war drum now, thrashing against your ribs.

You lean back slightly, resisting the pull of him, but he follows. His hands find the base of your back, the curve of your neck, drawing you into his gravity.

There is no room left for distance now.

His breath fans against your lips.

You close your eyes—not in surrender, but in defense. The tension is unbearable. Too much. Too close. Too late.

When you open them again—

“There you go,” he whispers, and the way he says it—gentle, reverent—makes your stomach twist.

“If I don’t want to look at you, then I won’t!” Your voice comes out shaky, but you manage to push the words out like a threat. “You can’t force me to do otherwise.”

He exhales, but not with frustration. It sounds almost hurt. And that makes you even angrier.

“Don’t steal your eyes away from me, then,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Not when they’re the only truth I get out of you these days.”

That does it.

“Who do you think you are?!” You demand, voice rising with every beat of your heart.

“Your husband,” he says, without hesitation.

The words knock the wind from you. Not because he’s wrong—but because he says it like he never stopped being yours.

Each word is a wound. And still, he takes them.

You wait for him to defend himself. To retreat. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a map.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. You feel the tremble in his breath, the warmth of his promise bleeding into your skin.

“I vow no part of you will go unloved. Just… give this another chance.”

The silence crackled.

You didn’t mean for any of this to matter again.

You want to hate him.

You miss him.

You want him to let you go.

You want him to fight for you.

Zayne’s eyes are searching yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your head and gather all the pieces you’ve left behind.

His voice is soft now. The way you used to imagine in your dreams. The way it never was during the marriage except—

“Tell me what you really want,” he says, not quite breathing.

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s you, you want to scream.

Because when I’m near you, I forget everything.

Because I swore I’d walk away this time.

Your hand twitches against the table.

He doesn’t move. But his stillness has always been dangerous. It invites you in. It lures you closer. It makes you think maybe—maybe if you leaned just a little—

You’re already kissing him.

Zayne gasps into your mouth like he’s been underwater for years.

You arch against him and he groans. It's ragged. Aggravating. You’ve never heard him sound like that. Like he's unraveling.

You hate yourself for it.

You want more of it.

His hands move down your spine, sliding under your shirt, burning cold, and your fingers bury into his hair, yanking, tugging—needing.

More. More. More.

He shifts again, this time straddling your thighs, and for one perfect second, your noses brush. His breath is hot against your cheek. His hands tremble where they hold your hips.

It feels like the edge of something.

Then—

He pulls away.

Violently.

His body rips from yours like a fault line cracking.

You’re left gasping, lips tingling, every nerve ending exposed like a live wire. You stare at him, blinking, dazed, feral in your confusion.

Zayne’s breath is heavy. Unsteady. His fingers dig into his thighs like he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.

You reach for him again, not even thinking.

He flinches back.

“Don’t.”

His voice is like shrapnel.

You freeze.

And that’s when you see it—he’s hurt.

Not just frustrated. Not just angry. Hurt.

Your brows pull together. “Zayne…?”

His eyes are glassy, but hard. Like ice melting too slowly to be useful. He stares at you, and he doesn’t hide the pain in his face this time.

“You're deflecting.”

“What?”

He laughs, but it sounds broken. Like gravel ground beneath tired wheels. He leans back, still panting. Runs a hand through his hair. Won’t look at you now.

“You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

“That’s not true.”

He doesn’t reply.

You try again, sitting up straighter, your shirt sliding back into place. “Zayne, I—”

“No.” His voice is quiet now. Flat. “Don’t try to make excuses.”

Your heart seizes.

“I’m not trying to make excuses, I just—”

“Then what?” he demands. His eyes whip back to yours, wild with betrayal. “What was that? Was it closure? One last kiss before you pack your bags?”

You swallow.

Because you don’t know.

It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a strategy. It was you. Wanting. Hurting. Reaching for the only thing that’s ever felt remotely like home—even when it didn’t feel yours.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say softly.

Zayne nods. Once. Slow. His eyes close. “That, I believe.”

You stare at him.

And he looks away, hands braced on the table now like he’s trying not to collapse.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then:

“I told myself... if I gave you time... if I kept my distance... you’d come to me when you were ready.”

He lifts his gaze.

“But now I’m starting to wonder if you ever intended to come back.”

The truth sits heavy in the room.

You try to speak.

But stop.

Because anything you say now will sound like an apology. And apologies feel too fragile for the storm you’ve just unleashed.

So instead you sit there, breath shallow, lips bitten, body still aching from the loss of his weight.

Zayne walks away.

Far enough to hurt.

Far enough to make sure you know he’s not chasing this time.

Zayne doesn’t remember walking out of the room.

Doesn’t remember what his hands were doing—whether they were shaking, whether they were clenching, whether they were still warmed by the feel of your hips beneath his palms.

All he remembers is the kiss.

The kiss and the shame and the haunting suspicion that it hadn’t meant anything to you.

No—no, that wasn’t fair.

It had meant something.

But not what he’d wanted it to.

It hadn’t been a promise.

It had been a distraction.

And that’s what undid him.

That’s what left him standing in the middle of the living room, alone, the shadows of the room cold around him. His breath still caught in his chest like a secret he couldn’t say out loud.

He lifts trembling fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips.

They're still swollen. Still damp. Still yours.

“Good lord,” he whispers.

The walls say nothing back.

You asked for a divorce.

You told him you were leaving.

Then you kissed him like it killed you to want him.

Was that guilt? Pity? One last mercy before you walked away?

He presses his eyes shut. The pressure makes sparks dance behind his eyelids.

He’s so damn tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

Tired of watching you build walls while he stands outside in the cold.

Tired of loving you in silence, in shadows, in the corners of rooms where you won’t look at him.

For one selfish second, he let himself believe the worst was behind them.

But then—

"I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes."

Like you’d already made peace with the idea of a world without him.

He sinks down onto the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands laced over his mouth.

His heart beats unevenly. His evol flickers—small cold pulses at his fingertips.

He hates this.

He breathes in deep, once. Twice. Tries to settle the roaring thing in his chest. The ache. The ache that started years ago and has never really stopped.

And then—

He stands up.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

But he knows he can’t stay still.

The silence after Zayne leaves is almost unbearable. The room feels colder. Emptier. Like he took the warmth with him.

You bring your fingers to your lips, stunned.

What have you done?

You kissed him.

You kissed your husband—the man you served divorce papers to—the man you told you’d be leaving soon.

And it hadn’t felt like regret.

It had felt like hunger. Like madness. Like reaching for the edge of a cliff and being glad when you started to fall.

Your hands are still shaking.

God.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to erase it—but it’s carved into you now. It’s a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

What the hell were you thinking?

You’re the one who keeps saying this isn’t sustainable. That the marriage was a farce. That your mother orchestrated your future like a cruel puppeteer and left you dancing in a cage.

But the way you kissed him—

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even lust. It was worse than that.

It was longing.

You bite your lip hard, trying to push down the heat rising in your chest. You feel stupid. Ungrateful. Traitorous to your own cause.

You’d be the woman who finally chooses herself.

So why—why did you pull him in?

Why did it feel like sucking in air after almost drowning?

You stand too quickly. The world tilts. You steady yourself on the table, staring down at the half-finished lunch. The chair across from yours, empty.

Was he disappointed?

Of course he was. You saw it. The way he stepped back. The way his voice cracked when he said, you’re deflecting.

He wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t right either.

You didn’t kiss him to distract him.

You kissed him because—for just a second—you forgot how to not want him near.

You press your forehead to the wall and let yourself cry, just once. Quiet. Fierce. Into the walls that’s held your worst secrets for three long years.

Zayne has always made you feel like you’re on fire and underwater at the same time.

You don't know if this was the beginning of the end.

Or the start of something far more dangerous.

He’s been here less than two hours and already he’s running on autopilot—clipboard in hand, white coat crisp, hair shoved back in a way that makes him look more polished than he feels.

There’s a buzz in the air: nurses rushing in and out of triage, residents scrambling over their notes, someone shouting down the hallway for a portable EKG. It should energize him.

Instead, it grates.

He walks his rounds with a practiced rhythm, checking vitals, reviewing charts, murmuring soft reassurances to anxious patients with lines under their eyes and oxygen tubes in their noses.

He knows how to do this. He likes doing this.

It’s people who are easy to help. Their pain is visible. Their injuries are diagnosable. They bleed in measurable units and respond to treatment.

You though;

You bleed in silence.

You hurt in corners he couldn’t reach.

And now he’s standing in the middle of a ward full of wounded people, and all he can think about is how badly he failed to treat the most important person in his life.

“Someone’s grumpy today,” comes a teasing voice from behind.

Zayne turns, just in time to catch a chart tossed his way. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it to the floor.

Greyson grins at him.

Yvonne stands beside him, watching Zayne like he’s a puzzle she’s just realized she wants to solve.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, too casual.

“Not now,” Zayne mutters, brushing past them both toward the elevators.

But Greyson just follows, unfazed. “Come now, Dr. Zayne. We’re your emotional support package. That’s what friends are for.”

Zayne jabs the elevator button too hard. “I'm fine.”

Yvonne raises a brow. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be composed but you’re blinking like you want to scream.”

“I’m. Fine.”

The elevator dings. Zayne walks in alone.

Greyson leans forward and says through the doors as they close: “Fine means ‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional’—just saying.”

Zayne exhales sharply as the elevator ascends.

He doesn’t want to talk to them. Not today. Not when his thoughts are still steeped in your scent, your mouth, your voice cracking as you said, “I’m thinking about moving out—”

The doors open on his floor. He walks to his office with practiced detachment.

It isn’t until he’s behind the door—closed off from the world, just him and the dull grey sky through the open window—that the tension starts to thaw.

He rests his head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Then it rang. Persistent. He glances at it.

Mom.

He let it ring out.

Then it rang again.

Zayne sighed and finally answered.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”

“That’s the exact voice you used when you lied about breaking your arm at eight.”

Zayne huffed a soft laugh, weak at the edges. “I didn’t break it. It was a sprain.”

“Because you thought you could ice-skate down the driveway on your boots.”

“You told me it was physics in action.”

“I told you friction was important,” she teased. “And that you were not, in fact, a penguin.”

Another silence stretched between them. Then, her tone gentled.

“Zayne,” she said, carefully. “What happened?”

His hand curled into a loose fist against the counter. He could feel it then—the tight band around his chest that had been there since you uttered those words.

He’d felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said quietly.

Her voice came through steady, no pressure, just presence. “Start where it hurts.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead like he could will the ache away.

“She wants a divorce,” he swallowed hard. “She wants to leave me.”

A pause. Just long enough for the truth to settle into the Arctic air.

“Oh.”

One word. Soft. Sympathetic. Full of layered understanding only mothers seemed capable of. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask for details. Just accepted it. Let it land.

He was grateful for that.

He exhaled through his nose, his voice gaining traction like an avalanche starting to slide.

“I didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting her come to me when she was ready.”

His mother exhales softly through the speaker.

“I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

He lets his head fall.

“No.”

“And you hoped that meant she was healing.”

He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but feeling seen anyway.

“I thought I had time,” he whispered. “Time to make it right.”

“What?”

“You forgot to protect your marriage, too.”

That hit like a stone to the chest. He turned away from the window, one hand dragging through his hair.

“She told me she never wanted a wedding like the one we had,” he murmured.

“Did you?”

He hesitated. “No. I hated it.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“I thought it would sound like I was complaining. I didn’t want her to feel guilty for something her mother planned.”

“Oh, baby,” she said with a tender laugh. “Your love language is martyrdom, and hers is probably honesty. You two are going to need a damn translator.”

A breath of amusement slipped out of him, bitter-edged.

“I didn’t mean for things to get like this,” he said.

“No one ever does. But love doesn’t live in intention, Zayne. It lives in the messy, stupid, everyday execution of it.”

She paused, then said more gently, “Have you told her what she means to you?”

Zayne opened his mouth, then closed it.

The silence was answer enough.

“I thought I had time,” he said again.

His mother was quiet for a moment.

Then, “You do. But only if you stop assuming she already knows.”

Zayne swallowed hard. Blinked rapidly. He could feel it now—that burning behind his eyes, the ache of everything unsaid and all the ways he had failed to translate the language of his love.

“And sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t just fight for her when she’s pulling away. Love her loud, even when she’s close. Especially then.”

“I’ll try,” he said, quietly.

“Good. That’s all you can do.”

But then he stood.

His fingers were trembling. But his feet moved forward.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe love, when wielded like truth, could still be enough.

You don’t remember walking here.

And then you saw them. Nestled under a heap of old scarves, like a secret you didn’t mean to find.

The tennis rackets.

You didn’t warm up. You didn’t stretch. You just served.

Eventually, the racket gave up before you did.

The strings snapped mid-swing. It all collapsed—the ball, the breath caught in your lungs, your knees. The frame splintered, the sound of it cracking through the still air like a shot.

The broken racket lies beside you like a corpse. The last piece of a version of you that had almost been brave.

You feel hollow. Carved out. Nothing left to give, not even rage.

Only silence.

You keep telling yourself that.

You want to believe that. God, you do.

You want to believe you are whole enough. Self-sufficient enough. Sharp enough to protect yourself from ever needing something so messy and warm and inconsistent. Love. Comfort. Him.

But it’s not true.

Because you want.And you want.

And you want and you want and you want and you want and you want—

It’s not a feeling anymore.

It’s a condition.

A disease.

A howl inside your ribcage.

A fist pounding on a locked door.

You ruined the one good thing you had in life. But what else could you do? You had to.

Because what were you doing in that marriage, really?

Zayne is a good man. Too good, even. You know that.

And you love that about him.

You love him.

You love him so much it has become something shameful, something dangerous. Because you can’t look at him without seeing everything he deserves and everything you will never be.

And it’s precisely why you have to let him go.

He deserves to be seen.

So you did.

It’s almost sundown when he finds you.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate. The hesitant tread of a man trying not to startle something fragile.

Zayne.

You don’t turn your head, but your breath hitches just a little.

You wonder how it must’ve looked when he came home. The silence must’ve hit him first. Then the mess.

Drawers half-open. A jacket missing. A book out of place. Your favorite coffee mug, gone from the rack. Your slippers, gone from beside the bed.

He must’ve assumed the worst. Yet he still looked for you.

His eyes fall on the racket, the frayed strings, the bruises on your hand.

He says nothing.

You whisper, “It’s broken.”

Your voice cracks like the racket had.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “We can always buy new ones.”

You swallow. “But it was a gift. From my high school coach. She gave it to me after we won regionals. She was so proud of me.”

You let the words hang there for a second, like you’re afraid of where they’re going. Then they spill out anyway.

You inhale sharply, but it shakes like a sob.

“This racket was the only thing I managed to save. And now it’s gone, too.”

Zayne shifts, but you still don’t look at him. You’re scared. If you meet his eyes, you’ll shatter again. And you’re tired of breaking.

“Am I a bad daughter?” you ask, barely audible. “Am I bad for hating my dead mother?”

He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, tears blurring your vision.

“No, be honest with me. Am I a bad wife too? Did our marriage fail because of me?”

That gets him.

He stands abruptly, turns to face you fully, and crouches in front of you, hands reaching his palms on your cheeks, cradling you with a kind of reverence that feels too tender to bear.

“My love,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something too big for language. “You have not failed in anything.”

You shake your head. “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Look at me.”

You do. And the look in his eyes is devastating. Like you hung the stars, like you built the sky, like you are a map he’s spent his whole life memorizing.

“You are not bad,” he says. “You are not broken. You have fought for everything you have. Even when the world wanted you smaller. Quiet. More manageable.”

His eyes—a storm of hazel-green and unflinching—hold yours.

“And yes, maybe we failed. But you are not the reason we are hurting. We’re both lost in this. It wasn't because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to reach you.”

You let out a choked sound. A half-sob, half-laugh. “But I’m such a mess, Zayne. I—I can’t even—”

“You are not a mess,” he whispers. “You are grieving. You are healing. You are trying. And I see you.”

That breaks something in you.

He holds you through all of it.

His hand finds your hair, his lips brush your temple, and he whispers, over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Maybe this is where you begin again.

Together.

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orphicmeliora · 7 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 3

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

NOTES: warning! this user has found the "I told you things x sign of the times mashup" in under extreme distress and this is the result, proceed with caution. lol

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part 2 | MASTERLIST | part 4

Zayne remembered the wedding day a little too well for his own good.

This wasn’t what they had agreed to.

This wasn’t what you had wanted.

But Zayne had held his tongue. Bit down on every scathing remark that burned behind his teeth. For decorum. For diplomacy. And most of all—for you.

Only because she was your mother.

He’d told himself that—repeatedly, like a prayer.

Only because she was your mother.

And then the music had shifted.

A hush rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back, and the world slowed on its axis as you appeared—poised, back straight, bouquet clenched too tightly in your trembling hands.

Zayne had always imagined what it might feel like, watching you walk toward him.

He had foolishly thought it would be a moment filled with light, with heart-pounding anticipation and a reckless sort of hope.

But all he felt was dread. Guilt. A hollow ache he couldn’t name.

Because when he saw you, he felt the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

Even that god-awful dress—clearly not your choice, all lace and shine and suffocating tradition—couldn’t disguise the truth of you. You looked like a doll dressed for display.

And still.

Still, nothing could dare to compromise the beauty of your visage.

Your presence cut through the garish backdrop like a moon through polluted skies. Something pure. Sacred.

When you drew nearer to him. He froze.

Your face.

Your makeup had been done with flawless precision, not a speck out of place. But Zayne's gaze, honed by years of clinical observation, saw beneath the foundation. Saw through it.

A foreboding shape of a handprint—subtle but unmistakable—was ghosted across your cheekbone. A bruise that hadn’t had time to fully bloom, but hadn’t been entirely erased either.

Even though your smile was wide enough to please the lenses pointed your way. But your eyes—

Your eyes were dull.

Dull in that way a candle is dull when someone cups it with both hands and suffocates the flame.

You looked like you were walking toward your funeral, not your wedding.

And something in him cracked open.

He wanted to pull you out of that aisle and into the nearest cab. He wanted to ask you:

What happened?

What do you truly want?

Why do you keep quiet?

Who did this to you?

But he already knew the answer to the last one.

And he knew he couldn’t act on any of it.

Not there. Not in front of the crowd. Not while your mother sat in the front row with her regal, poisoned smile and her power held tight in fists gloved in silk.

You would’ve lost face.

And he couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t suffer because of him—that, at least, he could promise.

So he swallowed it all.

And as he whispered the two ceremonial words, slid the ring onto your shaking finger, Zayne’s heart was not present in that moment. It was elsewhere.

Running.

Raging.

Screaming silently behind his ribs.

But he said nothing.

He kissed you the way one kisses a photograph etched in fond memories—gentle, reverent, already grieving.

And the only thought that pulsed through his mind, louder than the music, louder than the applause, louder than the cameras clicking, was this:

Some people really don’t deserve to be parents.

And Zayne... he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

That fact alone sits in your throat harder than the food.

“I was thinking,” Zayne begins, his voice startling in the hush, “maybe we could repaint the hallway.”

You blink. Swallow.

“The color’s starting to chip,” he adds, shrugging like it's no big deal. Like it’s not the first suggestion he’s made in weeks that begins with “we” and ends with the future.

Your spoon hovers mid-air.

“Sure,” you say. You don’t sound convincing, but you don’t sound hostile either. And maybe that’s enough for him today.

You miss that without wanting to.

“I can call someone to do it,” he adds. “Or we could pick out the color together. If you’d like.”

He’s looking at you with that cautious spark again—like you’re something delicate he’s trying to coax out of hiding. And it should feel sweet, hopeful even.

But instead it makes your chest tighten with an unbearable grief.

Because it’s too late.

You put your fork down slowly. The ceramic click it makes, sounds like a decision.

He notices right away. That sharp, intuitive stillness in him returns.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t mean to ruin the moment.

So you say it. Gently, but clearly.

“I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes.”

The words land like a thunderclap across the table.

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The shift is invisible but seismic. A drop in barometric pressure you feel in your bones. The air sharpens. The room shrinks.

He looks at you like you just said something blasphemous. Like you’ve just stabbed a knife through the script he’s been quietly rewriting for the two of you.

“What?” he asks. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief, wrapped in glass.

You look down at your plate.

“You wouldn’t be staying,” he says, his voice suddenly taut. “You’d be living. In your house. With your—”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband?”

The words taste bitter. You hate how cruel they sound. You didn’t mean to twist the knife. You just wanted to say the truth. Clean. Simple. Without all this wreckage.

Zayne pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape.

He stands, but not like he usually does—graceful, precise, self-contained. No, this is different. There’s tension in his limbs. Unspent energy. His fists clench and release at his sides.

He takes one breath.

Then another.

You don’t dare look at him.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops. His voice is too calm. It’s the kind of calm you only hear right before the ice beneath your feet cracks. “I thought we were doing better.”

You wince. You can’t help it.

“We’ve had lunch together twice in three years,” you say, too quietly. “That doesn’t mean we’re better. It just means… I’m tired of this.”

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’ve already decided?”

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

Across from you, Zayne’s whole body stiffened.

You force yourself to meet it. And regret it instantly.

The weight of his eyes is unbearable. Not for what they accuse, but for what they offer. No anger. No reproach. Only that soul-baring stillness you’ve been running from for years.

He tilts his head ever so slightly. A sigh curls beneath his breath.

And then—

He leaves them in the sink.

The dishes sit in the sink, unattended, like he couldn’t care less what breaks anymore.

You swallow down the unease rising in your throat.

He turns slowly, the words trailing into silence until they settle between you like dust.

“…your husband.”

You say nothing. You don’t move. The only sound is the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows. A world still spinning outside the implosion of yours.

He crosses the room in measured steps—each one a declaration, a breach, a reclaiming.

And then suddenly—he’s in front of you.

His arms come down to either side, hands braced on the table, trapping you in. Not violently. Not even aggressively. But in a way that commands. That says: I am done being polite about wanting you.

You drop your gaze, too suddenly, to the middle button of his shirt.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

“Look at me.”

His voice carries a command now. Not loud, but low and unwavering, wrapped in something that has long outgrown patience.

Your jaw tightens. You feel it all the way to your molars.

And so—just to spite him—you let your eyes drop further. Past his shirt, past the belt at his waist, all the way down to his shoes.

Pristine, polished shoes. Of course they’re polished.

You want to scream.

He says your name again, quieter this time. But it lands with the weight of a hammer. You feel him watching your every breath like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your defiance.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time the restraint in his tone is fraying at the edges. “I will not ask again.”

How dare he?

You glare harder at his shoes. Furious. Silent. Glued to your stubbornness.

And then—

It steals the breath from your throat.

Your pulse is a war drum now, thrashing against your ribs.

You lean back slightly, resisting the pull of him, but he follows. His hands find the base of your back, the curve of your neck, drawing you into his gravity.

There is no room left for distance now.

His breath fans against your lips.

You close your eyes—not in surrender, but in defense. The tension is unbearable. Too much. Too close. Too late.

When you open them again—

“There you go,” he whispers, and the way he says it—gentle, reverent—makes your stomach twist.

“If I don’t want to look at you, then I won’t!” Your voice comes out shaky, but you manage to push the words out like a threat. “You can’t force me to do otherwise.”

He exhales, but not with frustration. It sounds almost hurt. And that makes you even angrier.

“Don’t steal your eyes away from me, then,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Not when they’re the only truth I get out of you these days.”

That does it.

“Who do you think you are?!” You demand, voice rising with every beat of your heart.

“Your husband,” he says, without hesitation.

The words knock the wind from you. Not because he’s wrong—but because he says it like he never stopped being yours.

Each word is a wound. And still, he takes them.

You wait for him to defend himself. To retreat. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a map.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. You feel the tremble in his breath, the warmth of his promise bleeding into your skin.

“I vow no part of you will go unloved. Just… give this another chance.”

The silence crackled.

You didn’t mean for any of this to matter again.

You want to hate him.

You miss him.

You want him to let you go.

You want him to fight for you.

Zayne’s eyes are searching yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your head and gather all the pieces you’ve left behind.

His voice is soft now. The way you used to imagine in your dreams. The way it never was during the marriage except—

“Tell me what you really want,” he says, not quite breathing.

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s you, you want to scream.

Because when I’m near you, I forget everything.

Because I swore I’d walk away this time.

Your hand twitches against the table.

He doesn’t move. But his stillness has always been dangerous. It invites you in. It lures you closer. It makes you think maybe—maybe if you leaned just a little—

You’re already kissing him.

Zayne gasps into your mouth like he’s been underwater for years.

You arch against him and he groans. It's ragged. Aggravating. You’ve never heard him sound like that. Like he's unraveling.

You hate yourself for it.

You want more of it.

His hands move down your spine, sliding under your shirt, burning cold, and your fingers bury into his hair, yanking, tugging—needing.

More. More. More.

He shifts again, this time straddling your thighs, and for one perfect second, your noses brush. His breath is hot against your cheek. His hands tremble where they hold your hips.

It feels like the edge of something.

Then—

He pulls away.

Violently.

His body rips from yours like a fault line cracking.

You’re left gasping, lips tingling, every nerve ending exposed like a live wire. You stare at him, blinking, dazed, feral in your confusion.

Zayne’s breath is heavy. Unsteady. His fingers dig into his thighs like he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.

You reach for him again, not even thinking.

He flinches back.

“Don’t.”

His voice is like shrapnel.

You freeze.

And that’s when you see it—he’s hurt.

Not just frustrated. Not just angry. Hurt.

Your brows pull together. “Zayne…?”

His eyes are glassy, but hard. Like ice melting too slowly to be useful. He stares at you, and he doesn’t hide the pain in his face this time.

“You're deflecting.”

“What?”

He laughs, but it sounds broken. Like gravel ground beneath tired wheels. He leans back, still panting. Runs a hand through his hair. Won’t look at you now.

“You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

“That’s not true.”

He doesn’t reply.

You try again, sitting up straighter, your shirt sliding back into place. “Zayne, I—”

“No.” His voice is quiet now. Flat. “Don’t try to make excuses.”

Your heart seizes.

“I’m not trying to make excuses, I just—”

“Then what?” he demands. His eyes whip back to yours, wild with betrayal. “What was that? Was it closure? One last kiss before you pack your bags?”

You swallow.

Because you don’t know.

It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a strategy. It was you. Wanting. Hurting. Reaching for the only thing that’s ever felt remotely like home—even when it didn’t feel yours.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say softly.

Zayne nods. Once. Slow. His eyes close. “That, I believe.”

You stare at him.

And he looks away, hands braced on the table now like he’s trying not to collapse.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then:

“I told myself... if I gave you time... if I kept my distance... you’d come to me when you were ready.”

He lifts his gaze.

“But now I’m starting to wonder if you ever intended to come back.”

The truth sits heavy in the room.

You try to speak.

But stop.

Because anything you say now will sound like an apology. And apologies feel too fragile for the storm you’ve just unleashed.

So instead you sit there, breath shallow, lips bitten, body still aching from the loss of his weight.

Zayne walks away.

Far enough to hurt.

Far enough to make sure you know he’s not chasing this time.

Zayne doesn’t remember walking out of the room.

Doesn’t remember what his hands were doing—whether they were shaking, whether they were clenching, whether they were still warmed by the feel of your hips beneath his palms.

All he remembers is the kiss.

The kiss and the shame and the haunting suspicion that it hadn’t meant anything to you.

No—no, that wasn’t fair.

It had meant something.

But not what he’d wanted it to.

It hadn’t been a promise.

It had been a distraction.

And that’s what undid him.

That’s what left him standing in the middle of the living room, alone, the shadows of the room cold around him. His breath still caught in his chest like a secret he couldn’t say out loud.

He lifts trembling fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips.

They're still swollen. Still damp. Still yours.

“Good lord,” he whispers.

The walls say nothing back.

You asked for a divorce.

You told him you were leaving.

Then you kissed him like it killed you to want him.

Was that guilt? Pity? One last mercy before you walked away?

He presses his eyes shut. The pressure makes sparks dance behind his eyelids.

He’s so damn tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

Tired of watching you build walls while he stands outside in the cold.

Tired of loving you in silence, in shadows, in the corners of rooms where you won’t look at him.

For one selfish second, he let himself believe the worst was behind them.

But then—

"I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes."

Like you’d already made peace with the idea of a world without him.

He sinks down onto the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands laced over his mouth.

His heart beats unevenly. His evol flickers—small cold pulses at his fingertips.

He hates this.

He breathes in deep, once. Twice. Tries to settle the roaring thing in his chest. The ache. The ache that started years ago and has never really stopped.

And then—

He stands up.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

But he knows he can’t stay still.

The silence after Zayne leaves is almost unbearable. The room feels colder. Emptier. Like he took the warmth with him.

You bring your fingers to your lips, stunned.

What have you done?

You kissed him.

You kissed your husband—the man you served divorce papers to—the man you told you’d be leaving soon.

And it hadn’t felt like regret.

It had felt like hunger. Like madness. Like reaching for the edge of a cliff and being glad when you started to fall.

Your hands are still shaking.

God.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to erase it—but it’s carved into you now. It’s a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

What the hell were you thinking?

You’re the one who keeps saying this isn’t sustainable. That the marriage was a farce. That your mother orchestrated your future like a cruel puppeteer and left you dancing in a cage.

But the way you kissed him—

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even lust. It was worse than that.

It was longing.

You bite your lip hard, trying to push down the heat rising in your chest. You feel stupid. Ungrateful. Traitorous to your own cause.

You’d be the woman who finally chooses herself.

So why—why did you pull him in?

Why did it feel like sucking in air after almost drowning?

You stand too quickly. The world tilts. You steady yourself on the table, staring down at the half-finished lunch. The chair across from yours, empty.

Was he disappointed?

Of course he was. You saw it. The way he stepped back. The way his voice cracked when he said, you’re deflecting.

He wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t right either.

You didn’t kiss him to distract him.

You kissed him because—for just a second—you forgot how to not want him near.

You press your forehead to the wall and let yourself cry, just once. Quiet. Fierce. Into the walls that’s held your worst secrets for three long years.

Zayne has always made you feel like you’re on fire and underwater at the same time.

You don't know if this was the beginning of the end.

Or the start of something far more dangerous.

He’s been here less than two hours and already he’s running on autopilot—clipboard in hand, white coat crisp, hair shoved back in a way that makes him look more polished than he feels.

There’s a buzz in the air: nurses rushing in and out of triage, residents scrambling over their notes, someone shouting down the hallway for a portable EKG. It should energize him.

Instead, it grates.

He walks his rounds with a practiced rhythm, checking vitals, reviewing charts, murmuring soft reassurances to anxious patients with lines under their eyes and oxygen tubes in their noses.

He knows how to do this. He likes doing this.

It’s people who are easy to help. Their pain is visible. Their injuries are diagnosable. They bleed in measurable units and respond to treatment.

You though;

You bleed in silence.

You hurt in corners he couldn’t reach.

And now he’s standing in the middle of a ward full of wounded people, and all he can think about is how badly he failed to treat the most important person in his life.

“Someone’s grumpy today,” comes a teasing voice from behind.

Zayne turns, just in time to catch a chart tossed his way. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it to the floor.

Greyson grins at him.

Yvonne stands beside him, watching Zayne like he’s a puzzle she’s just realized she wants to solve.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, too casual.

“Not now,” Zayne mutters, brushing past them both toward the elevators.

But Greyson just follows, unfazed. “Come now, Dr. Zayne. We’re your emotional support package. That’s what friends are for.”

Zayne jabs the elevator button too hard. “I'm fine.”

Yvonne raises a brow. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be composed but you’re blinking like you want to scream.”

“I’m. Fine.”

The elevator dings. Zayne walks in alone.

Greyson leans forward and says through the doors as they close: “Fine means ‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional’—just saying.”

Zayne exhales sharply as the elevator ascends.

He doesn’t want to talk to them. Not today. Not when his thoughts are still steeped in your scent, your mouth, your voice cracking as you said, “I’m thinking about moving out—”

The doors open on his floor. He walks to his office with practiced detachment.

It isn’t until he’s behind the door—closed off from the world, just him and the dull grey sky through the open window—that the tension starts to thaw.

He rests his head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Then it rang. Persistent. He glances at it.

Mom.

He let it ring out.

Then it rang again.

Zayne sighed and finally answered.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”

“That’s the exact voice you used when you lied about breaking your arm at eight.”

Zayne huffed a soft laugh, weak at the edges. “I didn’t break it. It was a sprain.”

“Because you thought you could ice-skate down the driveway on your boots.”

“You told me it was physics in action.”

“I told you friction was important,” she teased. “And that you were not, in fact, a penguin.”

Another silence stretched between them. Then, her tone gentled.

“Zayne,” she said, carefully. “What happened?”

His hand curled into a loose fist against the counter. He could feel it then—the tight band around his chest that had been there since you uttered those words.

He’d felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said quietly.

Her voice came through steady, no pressure, just presence. “Start where it hurts.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead like he could will the ache away.

“She wants a divorce,” he swallowed hard. “She wants to leave me.”

A pause. Just long enough for the truth to settle into the Arctic air.

“Oh.”

One word. Soft. Sympathetic. Full of layered understanding only mothers seemed capable of. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask for details. Just accepted it. Let it land.

He was grateful for that.

He exhaled through his nose, his voice gaining traction like an avalanche starting to slide.

“I didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting her come to me when she was ready.”

His mother exhales softly through the speaker.

“I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

He lets his head fall.

“No.”

“And you hoped that meant she was healing.”

He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but feeling seen anyway.

“I thought I had time,” he whispered. “Time to make it right.”

“What?”

“You forgot to protect your marriage, too.”

That hit like a stone to the chest. He turned away from the window, one hand dragging through his hair.

“She told me she never wanted a wedding like the one we had,” he murmured.

“Did you?”

He hesitated. “No. I hated it.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“I thought it would sound like I was complaining. I didn’t want her to feel guilty for something her mother planned.”

“Oh, baby,” she said with a tender laugh. “Your love language is martyrdom, and hers is probably honesty. You two are going to need a damn translator.”

A breath of amusement slipped out of him, bitter-edged.

“I didn’t mean for things to get like this,” he said.

“No one ever does. But love doesn’t live in intention, Zayne. It lives in the messy, stupid, everyday execution of it.”

She paused, then said more gently, “Have you told her what she means to you?”

Zayne opened his mouth, then closed it.

The silence was answer enough.

“I thought I had time,” he said again.

His mother was quiet for a moment.

Then, “You do. But only if you stop assuming she already knows.”

Zayne swallowed hard. Blinked rapidly. He could feel it now—that burning behind his eyes, the ache of everything unsaid and all the ways he had failed to translate the language of his love.

“And sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t just fight for her when she’s pulling away. Love her loud, even when she’s close. Especially then.”

“I’ll try,” he said, quietly.

“Good. That’s all you can do.”

But then he stood.

His fingers were trembling. But his feet moved forward.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe love, when wielded like truth, could still be enough.

You don’t remember walking here.

And then you saw them. Nestled under a heap of old scarves, like a secret you didn’t mean to find.

The tennis rackets.

You didn’t warm up. You didn’t stretch. You just served.

Eventually, the racket gave up before you did.

The strings snapped mid-swing. It all collapsed—the ball, the breath caught in your lungs, your knees. The frame splintered, the sound of it cracking through the still air like a shot.

The broken racket lies beside you like a corpse. The last piece of a version of you that had almost been brave.

You feel hollow. Carved out. Nothing left to give, not even rage.

Only silence.

You keep telling yourself that.

You want to believe that. God, you do.

You want to believe you are whole enough. Self-sufficient enough. Sharp enough to protect yourself from ever needing something so messy and warm and inconsistent. Love. Comfort. Him.

But it’s not true.

Because you want.And you want.

And you want and you want and you want and you want and you want—

It’s not a feeling anymore.

It’s a condition.

A disease.

A howl inside your ribcage.

A fist pounding on a locked door.

You ruined the one good thing you had in life. But what else could you do? You had to.

Because what were you doing in that marriage, really?

Zayne is a good man. Too good, even. You know that.

And you love that about him.

You love him.

You love him so much it has become something shameful, something dangerous. Because you can’t look at him without seeing everything he deserves and everything you will never be.

And it’s precisely why you have to let him go.

He deserves to be seen.

So you did.

It’s almost sundown when he finds you.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate. The hesitant tread of a man trying not to startle something fragile.

Zayne.

You don’t turn your head, but your breath hitches just a little.

You wonder how it must’ve looked when he came home. The silence must’ve hit him first. Then the mess.

Drawers half-open. A jacket missing. A book out of place. Your favorite coffee mug, gone from the rack. Your slippers, gone from beside the bed.

He must’ve assumed the worst. Yet he still looked for you.

His eyes fall on the racket, the frayed strings, the bruises on your hand.

He says nothing.

You whisper, “It’s broken.”

Your voice cracks like the racket had.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “We can always buy new ones.”

You swallow. “But it was a gift. From my high school coach. She gave it to me after we won regionals. She was so proud of me.”

You let the words hang there for a second, like you’re afraid of where they’re going. Then they spill out anyway.

You inhale sharply, but it shakes like a sob.

“This racket was the only thing I managed to save. And now it’s gone, too.”

Zayne shifts, but you still don’t look at him. You’re scared. If you meet his eyes, you’ll shatter again. And you’re tired of breaking.

“Am I a bad daughter?” you ask, barely audible. “Am I bad for hating my dead mother?”

He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, tears blurring your vision.

“No, be honest with me. Am I a bad wife too? Did our marriage fail because of me?”

That gets him.

He stands abruptly, turns to face you fully, and crouches in front of you, hands reaching his palms on your cheeks, cradling you with a kind of reverence that feels too tender to bear.

“My love,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something too big for language. “You have not failed in anything.”

You shake your head. “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Look at me.”

You do. And the look in his eyes is devastating. Like you hung the stars, like you built the sky, like you are a map he’s spent his whole life memorizing.

“You are not bad,” he says. “You are not broken. You have fought for everything you have. Even when the world wanted you smaller. Quiet. More manageable.”

His eyes—a storm of hazel-green and unflinching—hold yours.

“And yes, maybe we failed. But you are not the reason we are hurting. We’re both lost in this. It wasn't because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to reach you.”

You let out a choked sound. A half-sob, half-laugh. “But I’m such a mess, Zayne. I—I can’t even—”

“You are not a mess,” he whispers. “You are grieving. You are healing. You are trying. And I see you.”

That breaks something in you.

He holds you through all of it.

His hand finds your hair, his lips brush your temple, and he whispers, over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Maybe this is where you begin again.

Together.

1K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 7 days ago

Text

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 3

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

NOTES: warning! this user has found the "I told you things x sign of the times mashup" in under extreme distress and this is the result, proceed with caution. lol

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part 2 | MASTERLIST | part 4

Zayne remembered the wedding day a little too well for his own good.

This wasn’t what they had agreed to.

This wasn’t what you had wanted.

But Zayne had held his tongue. Bit down on every scathing remark that burned behind his teeth. For decorum. For diplomacy. And most of all—for you.

Only because she was your mother.

He’d told himself that—repeatedly, like a prayer.

Only because she was your mother.

And then the music had shifted.

A hush rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back, and the world slowed on its axis as you appeared—poised, back straight, bouquet clenched too tightly in your trembling hands.

Zayne had always imagined what it might feel like, watching you walk toward him.

He had foolishly thought it would be a moment filled with light, with heart-pounding anticipation and a reckless sort of hope.

But all he felt was dread. Guilt. A hollow ache he couldn’t name.

Because when he saw you, he felt the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

Even that god-awful dress—clearly not your choice, all lace and shine and suffocating tradition—couldn’t disguise the truth of you. You looked like a doll dressed for display.

And still.

Still, nothing could dare to compromise the beauty of your visage.

Your presence cut through the garish backdrop like a moon through polluted skies. Something pure. Sacred.

When you drew nearer to him. He froze.

Your face.

Your makeup had been done with flawless precision, not a speck out of place. But Zayne's gaze, honed by years of clinical observation, saw beneath the foundation. Saw through it.

A foreboding shape of a handprint—subtle but unmistakable—was ghosted across your cheekbone. A bruise that hadn’t had time to fully bloom, but hadn’t been entirely erased either.

Even though your smile was wide enough to please the lenses pointed your way. But your eyes—

Your eyes were dull.

Dull in that way a candle is dull when someone cups it with both hands and suffocates the flame.

You looked like you were walking toward your funeral, not your wedding.

And something in him cracked open.

He wanted to pull you out of that aisle and into the nearest cab. He wanted to ask you:

What happened?

What do you truly want?

Why do you keep quiet?

Who did this to you?

But he already knew the answer to the last one.

And he knew he couldn’t act on any of it.

Not there. Not in front of the crowd. Not while your mother sat in the front row with her regal, poisoned smile and her power held tight in fists gloved in silk.

You would’ve lost face.

And he couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t suffer because of him—that, at least, he could promise.

So he swallowed it all.

And as he whispered the two ceremonial words, slid the ring onto your shaking finger, Zayne’s heart was not present in that moment. It was elsewhere.

Running.

Raging.

Screaming silently behind his ribs.

But he said nothing.

He kissed you the way one kisses a photograph etched in fond memories—gentle, reverent, already grieving.

And the only thought that pulsed through his mind, louder than the music, louder than the applause, louder than the cameras clicking, was this:

Some people really don’t deserve to be parents.

And Zayne... he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

That fact alone sits in your throat harder than the food.

“I was thinking,” Zayne begins, his voice startling in the hush, “maybe we could repaint the hallway.”

You blink. Swallow.

“The color’s starting to chip,” he adds, shrugging like it's no big deal. Like it’s not the first suggestion he’s made in weeks that begins with “we” and ends with the future.

Your spoon hovers mid-air.

“Sure,” you say. You don’t sound convincing, but you don’t sound hostile either. And maybe that’s enough for him today.

You miss that without wanting to.

“I can call someone to do it,” he adds. “Or we could pick out the color together. If you’d like.”

He’s looking at you with that cautious spark again—like you’re something delicate he’s trying to coax out of hiding. And it should feel sweet, hopeful even.

But instead it makes your chest tighten with an unbearable grief.

Because it’s too late.

You put your fork down slowly. The ceramic click it makes, sounds like a decision.

He notices right away. That sharp, intuitive stillness in him returns.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t mean to ruin the moment.

So you say it. Gently, but clearly.

“I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes.”

The words land like a thunderclap across the table.

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The shift is invisible but seismic. A drop in barometric pressure you feel in your bones. The air sharpens. The room shrinks.

He looks at you like you just said something blasphemous. Like you’ve just stabbed a knife through the script he’s been quietly rewriting for the two of you.

“What?” he asks. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief, wrapped in glass.

You look down at your plate.

“You wouldn’t be staying,” he says, his voice suddenly taut. “You’d be living. In your house. With your—”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband?”

The words taste bitter. You hate how cruel they sound. You didn’t mean to twist the knife. You just wanted to say the truth. Clean. Simple. Without all this wreckage.

Zayne pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape.

He stands, but not like he usually does—graceful, precise, self-contained. No, this is different. There’s tension in his limbs. Unspent energy. His fists clench and release at his sides.

He takes one breath.

Then another.

You don’t dare look at him.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops. His voice is too calm. It’s the kind of calm you only hear right before the ice beneath your feet cracks. “I thought we were doing better.”

You wince. You can’t help it.

“We’ve had lunch together twice in three years,” you say, too quietly. “That doesn’t mean we’re better. It just means… I’m tired of this.”

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’ve already decided?”

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

Across from you, Zayne’s whole body stiffened.

You force yourself to meet it. And regret it instantly.

The weight of his eyes is unbearable. Not for what they accuse, but for what they offer. No anger. No reproach. Only that soul-baring stillness you’ve been running from for years.

He tilts his head ever so slightly. A sigh curls beneath his breath.

And then—

He leaves them in the sink.

The dishes sit in the sink, unattended, like he couldn’t care less what breaks anymore.

You swallow down the unease rising in your throat.

He turns slowly, the words trailing into silence until they settle between you like dust.

“…your husband.”

You say nothing. You don’t move. The only sound is the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows. A world still spinning outside the implosion of yours.

He crosses the room in measured steps—each one a declaration, a breach, a reclaiming.

And then suddenly—he’s in front of you.

His arms come down to either side, hands braced on the table, trapping you in. Not violently. Not even aggressively. But in a way that commands. That says: I am done being polite about wanting you.

You drop your gaze, too suddenly, to the middle button of his shirt.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

“Look at me.”

His voice carries a command now. Not loud, but low and unwavering, wrapped in something that has long outgrown patience.

Your jaw tightens. You feel it all the way to your molars.

And so—just to spite him—you let your eyes drop further. Past his shirt, past the belt at his waist, all the way down to his shoes.

Pristine, polished shoes. Of course they’re polished.

You want to scream.

He says your name again, quieter this time. But it lands with the weight of a hammer. You feel him watching your every breath like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your defiance.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time the restraint in his tone is fraying at the edges. “I will not ask again.”

How dare he?

You glare harder at his shoes. Furious. Silent. Glued to your stubbornness.

And then—

It steals the breath from your throat.

Your pulse is a war drum now, thrashing against your ribs.

You lean back slightly, resisting the pull of him, but he follows. His hands find the base of your back, the curve of your neck, drawing you into his gravity.

There is no room left for distance now.

His breath fans against your lips.

You close your eyes—not in surrender, but in defense. The tension is unbearable. Too much. Too close. Too late.

When you open them again—

“There you go,” he whispers, and the way he says it—gentle, reverent—makes your stomach twist.

“If I don’t want to look at you, then I won’t!” Your voice comes out shaky, but you manage to push the words out like a threat. “You can’t force me to do otherwise.”

He exhales, but not with frustration. It sounds almost hurt. And that makes you even angrier.

“Don’t steal your eyes away from me, then,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Not when they’re the only truth I get out of you these days.”

That does it.

“Who do you think you are?!” You demand, voice rising with every beat of your heart.

“Your husband,” he says, without hesitation.

The words knock the wind from you. Not because he’s wrong—but because he says it like he never stopped being yours.

Each word is a wound. And still, he takes them.

You wait for him to defend himself. To retreat. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a map.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. You feel the tremble in his breath, the warmth of his promise bleeding into your skin.

“I vow no part of you will go unloved. Just… give this another chance.”

The silence crackled.

You didn’t mean for any of this to matter again.

You want to hate him.

You miss him.

You want him to let you go.

You want him to fight for you.

Zayne’s eyes are searching yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your head and gather all the pieces you’ve left behind.

His voice is soft now. The way you used to imagine in your dreams. The way it never was during the marriage except—

“Tell me what you really want,” he says, not quite breathing.

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s you, you want to scream.

Because when I’m near you, I forget everything.

Because I swore I’d walk away this time.

Your hand twitches against the table.

He doesn’t move. But his stillness has always been dangerous. It invites you in. It lures you closer. It makes you think maybe—maybe if you leaned just a little—

You’re already kissing him.

Zayne gasps into your mouth like he’s been underwater for years.

You arch against him and he groans. It's ragged. Aggravating. You’ve never heard him sound like that. Like he's unraveling.

You hate yourself for it.

You want more of it.

His hands move down your spine, sliding under your shirt, burning cold, and your fingers bury into his hair, yanking, tugging—needing.

More. More. More.

He shifts again, this time straddling your thighs, and for one perfect second, your noses brush. His breath is hot against your cheek. His hands tremble where they hold your hips.

It feels like the edge of something.

Then—

He pulls away.

Violently.

His body rips from yours like a fault line cracking.

You’re left gasping, lips tingling, every nerve ending exposed like a live wire. You stare at him, blinking, dazed, feral in your confusion.

Zayne’s breath is heavy. Unsteady. His fingers dig into his thighs like he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.

You reach for him again, not even thinking.

He flinches back.

“Don’t.”

His voice is like shrapnel.

You freeze.

And that’s when you see it—he’s hurt.

Not just frustrated. Not just angry. Hurt.

Your brows pull together. “Zayne…?”

His eyes are glassy, but hard. Like ice melting too slowly to be useful. He stares at you, and he doesn’t hide the pain in his face this time.

“You're deflecting.”

“What?”

He laughs, but it sounds broken. Like gravel ground beneath tired wheels. He leans back, still panting. Runs a hand through his hair. Won’t look at you now.

“You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

“That’s not true.”

He doesn’t reply.

You try again, sitting up straighter, your shirt sliding back into place. “Zayne, I—”

“No.” His voice is quiet now. Flat. “Don’t try to make excuses.”

Your heart seizes.

“I’m not trying to make excuses, I just—”

“Then what?” he demands. His eyes whip back to yours, wild with betrayal. “What was that? Was it closure? One last kiss before you pack your bags?”

You swallow.

Because you don’t know.

It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a strategy. It was you. Wanting. Hurting. Reaching for the only thing that’s ever felt remotely like home—even when it didn’t feel yours.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say softly.

Zayne nods. Once. Slow. His eyes close. “That, I believe.”

You stare at him.

And he looks away, hands braced on the table now like he’s trying not to collapse.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then:

“I told myself... if I gave you time... if I kept my distance... you’d come to me when you were ready.”

He lifts his gaze.

“But now I’m starting to wonder if you ever intended to come back.”

The truth sits heavy in the room.

You try to speak.

But stop.

Because anything you say now will sound like an apology. And apologies feel too fragile for the storm you’ve just unleashed.

So instead you sit there, breath shallow, lips bitten, body still aching from the loss of his weight.

Zayne walks away.

Far enough to hurt.

Far enough to make sure you know he’s not chasing this time.

Zayne doesn’t remember walking out of the room.

Doesn’t remember what his hands were doing—whether they were shaking, whether they were clenching, whether they were still warmed by the feel of your hips beneath his palms.

All he remembers is the kiss.

The kiss and the shame and the haunting suspicion that it hadn’t meant anything to you.

No—no, that wasn’t fair.

It had meant something.

But not what he’d wanted it to.

It hadn’t been a promise.

It had been a distraction.

And that’s what undid him.

That’s what left him standing in the middle of the living room, alone, the shadows of the room cold around him. His breath still caught in his chest like a secret he couldn’t say out loud.

He lifts trembling fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips.

They're still swollen. Still damp. Still yours.

“Good lord,” he whispers.

The walls say nothing back.

You asked for a divorce.

You told him you were leaving.

Then you kissed him like it killed you to want him.

Was that guilt? Pity? One last mercy before you walked away?

He presses his eyes shut. The pressure makes sparks dance behind his eyelids.

He’s so damn tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

Tired of watching you build walls while he stands outside in the cold.

Tired of loving you in silence, in shadows, in the corners of rooms where you won’t look at him.

For one selfish second, he let himself believe the worst was behind them.

But then—

"I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes."

Like you’d already made peace with the idea of a world without him.

He sinks down onto the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands laced over his mouth.

His heart beats unevenly. His evol flickers—small cold pulses at his fingertips.

He hates this.

He breathes in deep, once. Twice. Tries to settle the roaring thing in his chest. The ache. The ache that started years ago and has never really stopped.

And then—

He stands up.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

But he knows he can’t stay still.

The silence after Zayne leaves is almost unbearable. The room feels colder. Emptier. Like he took the warmth with him.

You bring your fingers to your lips, stunned.

What have you done?

You kissed him.

You kissed your husband—the man you served divorce papers to—the man you told you’d be leaving soon.

And it hadn’t felt like regret.

It had felt like hunger. Like madness. Like reaching for the edge of a cliff and being glad when you started to fall.

Your hands are still shaking.

God.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to erase it—but it’s carved into you now. It’s a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

What the hell were you thinking?

You’re the one who keeps saying this isn’t sustainable. That the marriage was a farce. That your mother orchestrated your future like a cruel puppeteer and left you dancing in a cage.

But the way you kissed him—

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even lust. It was worse than that.

It was longing.

You bite your lip hard, trying to push down the heat rising in your chest. You feel stupid. Ungrateful. Traitorous to your own cause.

You’d be the woman who finally chooses herself.

So why—why did you pull him in?

Why did it feel like sucking in air after almost drowning?

You stand too quickly. The world tilts. You steady yourself on the table, staring down at the half-finished lunch. The chair across from yours, empty.

Was he disappointed?

Of course he was. You saw it. The way he stepped back. The way his voice cracked when he said, you’re deflecting.

He wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t right either.

You didn’t kiss him to distract him.

You kissed him because—for just a second—you forgot how to not want him near.

You press your forehead to the wall and let yourself cry, just once. Quiet. Fierce. Into the walls that’s held your worst secrets for three long years.

Zayne has always made you feel like you’re on fire and underwater at the same time.

You don't know if this was the beginning of the end.

Or the start of something far more dangerous.

He’s been here less than two hours and already he’s running on autopilot—clipboard in hand, white coat crisp, hair shoved back in a way that makes him look more polished than he feels.

There’s a buzz in the air: nurses rushing in and out of triage, residents scrambling over their notes, someone shouting down the hallway for a portable EKG. It should energize him.

Instead, it grates.

He walks his rounds with a practiced rhythm, checking vitals, reviewing charts, murmuring soft reassurances to anxious patients with lines under their eyes and oxygen tubes in their noses.

He knows how to do this. He likes doing this.

It’s people who are easy to help. Their pain is visible. Their injuries are diagnosable. They bleed in measurable units and respond to treatment.

You though;

You bleed in silence.

You hurt in corners he couldn’t reach.

And now he’s standing in the middle of a ward full of wounded people, and all he can think about is how badly he failed to treat the most important person in his life.

“Someone’s grumpy today,” comes a teasing voice from behind.

Zayne turns, just in time to catch a chart tossed his way. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it to the floor.

Greyson grins at him.

Yvonne stands beside him, watching Zayne like he’s a puzzle she’s just realized she wants to solve.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, too casual.

“Not now,” Zayne mutters, brushing past them both toward the elevators.

But Greyson just follows, unfazed. “Come now, Dr. Zayne. We’re your emotional support package. That’s what friends are for.”

Zayne jabs the elevator button too hard. “I'm fine.”

Yvonne raises a brow. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be composed but you’re blinking like you want to scream.”

“I’m. Fine.”

The elevator dings. Zayne walks in alone.

Greyson leans forward and says through the doors as they close: “Fine means ‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional’—just saying.”

Zayne exhales sharply as the elevator ascends.

He doesn’t want to talk to them. Not today. Not when his thoughts are still steeped in your scent, your mouth, your voice cracking as you said, “I’m thinking about moving out—”

The doors open on his floor. He walks to his office with practiced detachment.

It isn’t until he’s behind the door—closed off from the world, just him and the dull grey sky through the open window—that the tension starts to thaw.

He rests his head in his hands.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Then it rang. Persistent. He glances at it.

Mom.

He let it ring out.

Then it rang again.

Zayne sighed and finally answered.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”

“That’s the exact voice you used when you lied about breaking your arm at eight.”

Zayne huffed a soft laugh, weak at the edges. “I didn’t break it. It was a sprain.”

“Because you thought you could ice-skate down the driveway on your boots.”

“You told me it was physics in action.”

“I told you friction was important,” she teased. “And that you were not, in fact, a penguin.”

Another silence stretched between them. Then, her tone gentled.

“Zayne,” she said, carefully. “What happened?”

His hand curled into a loose fist against the counter. He could feel it then—the tight band around his chest that had been there since you uttered those words.

He’d felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said quietly.

Her voice came through steady, no pressure, just presence. “Start where it hurts.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead like he could will the ache away.

“She wants a divorce,” he swallowed hard. “She wants to leave me.”

A pause. Just long enough for the truth to settle into the Arctic air.

“Oh.”

One word. Soft. Sympathetic. Full of layered understanding only mothers seemed capable of. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask for details. Just accepted it. Let it land.

He was grateful for that.

He exhaled through his nose, his voice gaining traction like an avalanche starting to slide.

“I didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting her come to me when she was ready.”

His mother exhales softly through the speaker.

“I’m guessing that didn’t work.”

He lets his head fall.

“No.”

“And you hoped that meant she was healing.”

He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but feeling seen anyway.

“I thought I had time,” he whispered. “Time to make it right.”

“What?”

“You forgot to protect your marriage, too.”

That hit like a stone to the chest. He turned away from the window, one hand dragging through his hair.

“She told me she never wanted a wedding like the one we had,” he murmured.

“Did you?”

He hesitated. “No. I hated it.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“I thought it would sound like I was complaining. I didn’t want her to feel guilty for something her mother planned.”

“Oh, baby,” she said with a tender laugh. “Your love language is martyrdom, and hers is probably honesty. You two are going to need a damn translator.”

A breath of amusement slipped out of him, bitter-edged.

“I didn’t mean for things to get like this,” he said.

“No one ever does. But love doesn’t live in intention, Zayne. It lives in the messy, stupid, everyday execution of it.”

She paused, then said more gently, “Have you told her what she means to you?”

Zayne opened his mouth, then closed it.

The silence was answer enough.

“I thought I had time,” he said again.

His mother was quiet for a moment.

Then, “You do. But only if you stop assuming she already knows.”

Zayne swallowed hard. Blinked rapidly. He could feel it now—that burning behind his eyes, the ache of everything unsaid and all the ways he had failed to translate the language of his love.

“And sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t just fight for her when she’s pulling away. Love her loud, even when she’s close. Especially then.”

“I’ll try,” he said, quietly.

“Good. That’s all you can do.”

But then he stood.

His fingers were trembling. But his feet moved forward.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe love, when wielded like truth, could still be enough.

You don’t remember walking here.

And then you saw them. Nestled under a heap of old scarves, like a secret you didn’t mean to find.

The tennis rackets.

You didn’t warm up. You didn’t stretch. You just served.

Eventually, the racket gave up before you did.

The strings snapped mid-swing. It all collapsed—the ball, the breath caught in your lungs, your knees. The frame splintered, the sound of it cracking through the still air like a shot.

The broken racket lies beside you like a corpse. The last piece of a version of you that had almost been brave.

You feel hollow. Carved out. Nothing left to give, not even rage.

Only silence.

You keep telling yourself that.

You want to believe that. God, you do.

You want to believe you are whole enough. Self-sufficient enough. Sharp enough to protect yourself from ever needing something so messy and warm and inconsistent. Love. Comfort. Him.

But it’s not true.

Because you want.And you want.

And you want and you want and you want and you want and you want—

It’s not a feeling anymore.

It’s a condition.

A disease.

A howl inside your ribcage.

A fist pounding on a locked door.

You ruined the one good thing you had in life. But what else could you do? You had to.

Because what were you doing in that marriage, really?

Zayne is a good man. Too good, even. You know that.

And you love that about him.

You love him.

You love him so much it has become something shameful, something dangerous. Because you can’t look at him without seeing everything he deserves and everything you will never be.

And it’s precisely why you have to let him go.

He deserves to be seen.

So you did.

It’s almost sundown when he finds you.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate. The hesitant tread of a man trying not to startle something fragile.

Zayne.

You don’t turn your head, but your breath hitches just a little.

You wonder how it must’ve looked when he came home. The silence must’ve hit him first. Then the mess.

Drawers half-open. A jacket missing. A book out of place. Your favorite coffee mug, gone from the rack. Your slippers, gone from beside the bed.

He must’ve assumed the worst. Yet he still looked for you.

His eyes fall on the racket, the frayed strings, the bruises on your hand.

He says nothing.

You whisper, “It’s broken.”

Your voice cracks like the racket had.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “We can always buy new ones.”

You swallow. “But it was a gift. From my high school coach. She gave it to me after we won regionals. She was so proud of me.”

You let the words hang there for a second, like you’re afraid of where they’re going. Then they spill out anyway.

You inhale sharply, but it shakes like a sob.

“This racket was the only thing I managed to save. And now it’s gone, too.”

Zayne shifts, but you still don’t look at him. You’re scared. If you meet his eyes, you’ll shatter again. And you’re tired of breaking.

“Am I a bad daughter?” you ask, barely audible. “Am I bad for hating my dead mother?”

He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, tears blurring your vision.

“No, be honest with me. Am I a bad wife too? Did our marriage fail because of me?”

That gets him.

He stands abruptly, turns to face you fully, and crouches in front of you, hands reaching his palms on your cheeks, cradling you with a kind of reverence that feels too tender to bear.

“My love,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something too big for language. “You have not failed in anything.”

You shake your head. “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Look at me.”

You do. And the look in his eyes is devastating. Like you hung the stars, like you built the sky, like you are a map he’s spent his whole life memorizing.

“You are not bad,” he says. “You are not broken. You have fought for everything you have. Even when the world wanted you smaller. Quiet. More manageable.”

His eyes—a storm of hazel-green and unflinching—hold yours.

“And yes, maybe we failed. But you are not the reason we are hurting. We’re both lost in this. It wasn't because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to reach you.”

You let out a choked sound. A half-sob, half-laugh. “But I’m such a mess, Zayne. I—I can’t even—”

“You are not a mess,” he whispers. “You are grieving. You are healing. You are trying. And I see you.”

That breaks something in you.

He holds you through all of it.

His hand finds your hair, his lips brush your temple, and he whispers, over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Maybe this is where you begin again.

Together.

#meliora writes #love and deepspace #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #zayne #lads x non!mc reader #love and deepspace x reader #li shen x you #li shen x reader #lads angst #zayne angst #hurt/comfort #yearning

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orphicmeliora · 9 days ago

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YOU BUILT THIS CAGE! LOST COLOR IN MY FACE! YOU'RE FAIR AND I'M INSANE! HALLUCINATION. SHAME. GUILT. PAIN. MORE PAIN.

guess what I'm gonna write today?

ANGST.

#meliora yaps

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orphicmeliora · 9 days ago

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"Can't get enough of your favorite songs—" Fuck you Spotify I'm not paying you to listen to my favs

#meliora yaps

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orphicmeliora · 10 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.

MASTERLIST | part 2

The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.

A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.

You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.

You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.

That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.

You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.

But the office was empty.

The silence hit first.

Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.

This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.

Zayne wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.

You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.

You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.

Gently. As if it were made of glass.

As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.

Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.

That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.

You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.

You didn’t hate Zayne.

God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.

But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.

And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.

You weren’t completely blameless either.

You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.

Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.

And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.

Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.

He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?

But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.

You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.

His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.

Maybe he wore it when he was alone.

Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.

Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.

Maybe it was.

You didn’t wait to find out.

You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.

Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.

It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.

Or the last thing he expected.

Either way, the decision was made.

You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.

It was born out of surrender.

And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.

You go about your day.

Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.

You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.

You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.

Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.

You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.

You stop at a shop on the way home.

There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.

It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.

By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.

The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.

You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.

But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.

Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.

After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.

You go to bed.

The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.

Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.

And stay there.

Still.

Quiet.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?

You left the papers.

You left him.

But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.

And if he does—

You wonder if he’ll miss you.

Or just the absence.

You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.

Your eyes blink open slowly.

The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.

And then you see him.

Zayne.

Kneeling at your bedside.

His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.

You can’t.

Because you’ve never seen him like this.

Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.

No. This is Zayne—undone.

“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.

The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.

Your breath catches.

You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.

But he looks like he is.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”

You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.

“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”

You swallow.

Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.

Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.

But he’s begging now.

And it breaks something in you.

“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.

“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”

He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”

And then he says it.

“Because I do—”

Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.

“—I do love you.”

You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.

Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.

And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.

Waiting for you.

His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.

And yet—your hands stay in his.

You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.

Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.

You don’t know what to say.

You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.

But now?

You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.

“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”

His brows draw together.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”

You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.

“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”

He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”

Zayne looks like he’s in pain.

Real pain.

The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.

“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”

He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.

“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”

There’s a pause.

A long, trembling pause.

Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.

He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.

“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”

You stare at him.

Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.

But something inside you shifts.

Not healed.

Not certain.

Just—listening.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

He stays kneeling for a long time.

Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.

He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.

Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”

It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.

He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.

So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.

He doesn’t assume.

He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.

The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.

This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.

You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.

Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.

You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.

Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.

And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.

Barely a touch.

Just a presence.

I'm here, it says.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

But you let him stay.

The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You fall asleep like that.

Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.

Just… not alone.

For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.

She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.

And she expected that reflection to obey.

At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.

“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”

“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”

“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”

But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.

It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.

And then Zayne entered the picture.

A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.

He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.

She didn’t ask if you liked him.

She didn’t need to.

She assumed you would be grateful.

And in some ways, you were.

Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.

He left you alone.

There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.

And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.

Autonomy.

Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.

Freedom.

At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.

He didn’t tether you.

And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.

He was distant, yes.

But he was not cruel.

When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”

She said it lightly, like a joke.

Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.

He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.

“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.

And you…

You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.

He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.

But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.

Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.

Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.

And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.

You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.

Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.

You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.

Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.

But he didn’t apologize for defending you.

He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.

And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.

He gave you space.

He gave you a shield.

And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.

He might not have held your hand.

But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.

And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.

But it was protection.

And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.

You wake before the sun.

The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.

There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.

Zayne.

Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.

He's still here.

The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.

You don’t move.

You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.

You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.

You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.

And yet—you stay.

Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.

He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.

The tears come before you can stop them.

Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.

You wish you could hate him.

You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.

Because now there’s a crack.

A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.

And through it, something stirs.

Not hope. Not yet.

Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.

Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.

You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.

It hurts.

Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.

You close your eyes again.

You don’t move.

You don’t wake him.

There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.

And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.

The eggs are overcooked.

Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.

Or maybe he is.

Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.

He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.

And he aches.

Not with longing, though that’s part of it.

No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.

Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.

That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.

He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.

He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.

And then—

Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.

He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.

And then he met you.

He looks up.

You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.

You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.

Zayne doesn’t blame you.

He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.

He wishes he knew how to ask.

He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.

And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.

You glance up.

Your eyes meet.

There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.

Zayne swallows.

He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.

But he doesn’t say any of it.

He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.

He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.

But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.

There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.

He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.

Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.

But he can’t.

So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.

Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:

Burnt breakfast.

Too many silences.

A table full of ghosts.

And you—still here.

Not forgiving.

Not forgetting.

But here.

And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.

His phone vibrates against the table.

He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.

You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.

But it’s a text from Greyson.

"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."

He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.

He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.

He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.

Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.

You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.

Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:

Perhaps not all is lost.

Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.

And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.

He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.

Maybe… maybe he could take you.

The thought startles him with its tenderness.

Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?

Zayne’s thumb lowers.

He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.

You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.

He knows better now.

Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.

He slips the phone screen-down on the table.

Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.

You glance at it.

He meets your eyes again.

And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.

The moment passes too quickly.

Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.

He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.

And now, you.

You, trembling under all that quiet.

He clears his throat.

It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.

Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.

“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.

You set your knife down.

Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.

But this—this is harder.

“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”

You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.

Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.

“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”

There.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.

But then—

“Why?”

Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.

Zayne looks up.

You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.

He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.

“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.

Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.

Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.

“Because I’d like you to be there.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.

You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.

He’s not posturing. Not performing.

He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.

And finally—finally—your lips part.

“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.

Zayne blinks.

Then breathes.

“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”

You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.

“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.

And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.

He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.

Zayne finishes his tea in silence.

And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.

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orphicmeliora · 10 days ago

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ARTIST: @siashere ON TWITTER [ X ]

#zayne girlies just hate happiness don't they?#its me I'm zayne girlies #love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne

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orphicmeliora · 11 days ago

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Sylus edit to Dil Diyan Gallan when???

I wanna write Sylus x Desi reader but I need the visuals damn😔

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus #meliora yaps

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orphicmeliora · 11 days ago

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Thank you for linking the story 🙏🏻

Gurl u ATE ✨ that was so much fun to read. I really love ur writing style.

And Idk why ur unable to tag me 😭 I checked my settings and everything is normal. Well bad luck I guess 🫤

Anyways, thank u once again, have a great week 💌

Thank YOU, pookie!!! I'll look into my settings and see where the problem is 💖

#ask blog

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orphicmeliora · 11 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 2

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

NOTES: people. if you want to be tagged please please please just leave a comment under the masterlist post because it's really hard to keep track of who wants or does not want to be tagged. please it's a request.

part 1 | MASTERLIST | part 3

two years ago

It started, like most things in your marriage, with silence.

Zayne’s back is to you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The navy-blue sheets have slipped low on his hips, leaving the smooth expanse of his back exposed in the soft, amber wash of early morning light.

He looks so peaceful like this. Sleeping. His features are unguarded, carved free of the cool, impassive mask he wears in waking hours. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His lips—so rarely parted in anything but clipped conversation—are slightly parted now, soft and pink and so heartbreakingly human.

Your hand hovers halfway between you.

There’s an itch in your fingers you can’t scratch. A need you can’t name.

You want to touch him.

Brush the dark strands of hair away from his forehead. Trace the strong, elegant line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the stubborn angle of his jaw. You want to learn his face like a map you’ve been handed in the dark.

And his lips.

You wonder if they’d yield beneath your thumb. If they’d part for you, just once. If the same mouth that barely speaks your name could be coaxed into something more.

But your hand doesn’t move. It stays frozen in the space between you. Caught on the edge of an invisible line he never drew aloud but made damn sure you understood.

You lie back down, folding your fingers against your own chest.

There’s a ring on your finger. A symbol of permanence, of intention.

You wonder what it means to him.

Because he sleeps in the same bed as you but never touches you. Wakes up before you do and leaves without a word. Comes home late, eats dinner at the hospital—if at all—and disappears into his study like the thought of sitting across from you might drown him.

You’ve asked yourself a thousand times why he married you.

You know the reasons the rest of the world believes. A good match. A stable alliance. Respectable. Practical.

But you still remember the way your heart had stuttered when he slipped that ring onto your finger. You’d told yourself it meant something. That surely no one would vow themselves to another without hope buried somewhere under all that ceremony.

You were wrong.

And is there anything more cruel than intentional neglect?

Because there are moments—glimpses—that keep you tethered. When he refills your tea without asking. When he checks if your car tires need air. When he walks you to the elevator and presses the button without looking at you.

Care without closeness. Duty without warmth.

It’s not enough.

But still—you stay.

You stay through the quiet dinners you eat alone. Through the long stretches of silence when the only sound in the house is the clock ticking into midnight. You stay because some traitorous part of you believes this is just the prologue. That the story will begin soon.

So instead of leaving, you learn to dream.

And in your dreams, Zayne is different.

In your dreams, he looks at you like you matter. Like you’re something he’s chosen, not inherited.

He speaks your name with weight—like it tastes like honey on his tongue, not obligation. There’s laughter. Real, full-bodied laughter that shakes his shoulders and lights up his eyes. There are inside jokes. Shared looks across rooms. His hand on the small of your back when someone looks at you too long. The brush of his fingers against yours when he passes you tea in the morning.

He listens in those dreams. Not like it’s a chore, but like your voice is a favorite song he’s trying to memorize.

And at night?

Dream Zayne touches you like he’s drowning and you’re the air.

He kisses you like he has something to prove—like he can’t believe you let him touch you, and he’s terrified it might be the last time. His hands are everywhere—possessive, reverent, hungry. He doesn’t just make love to you—he claims you.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Like it hurts to say it, but he can’t help himself.

In dreams, you are his home. His haven. His choice.

But with the inevitable sunrise, morning always comes.

And with it, the rustle of Zayne’s footsteps across hardwood. The quiet zip of his bag. The soft click of the door closing behind him.

When you open your eyes, the bed is cold.

The dent where he slept is already fading.

And so, you lie still, the echo of a kiss you never received still burning on your lips.

The boutique is elegant—marble floors, high ceilings, and racks of designer gowns arranged like works of art. You trail your fingers over silky fabric and shimmery beading, pretending not to notice the way Zayne hovers a few paces behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he has no idea what to do with them.

He’s clearly out of his element, but you catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Does it have to be long?” you ask, turning toward a rack of slinky, floor-length options.

He shrugs. “It’s formal. Wear what you like.”

You hum under your breath. That helps. Not.

Zayne doesn’t offer opinions, just follows you silently, occasionally brushing past you in narrow aisles. Every time he does, there’s a static hum in the air—an awareness of nearness that sits too close to your skin.

You pause by a velvet dress, running your hand over the soft material. When you glance at Zayne, you catch him watching your fingers, his gaze unreadable.

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.

You step away.

And then your eyes land on a display tucked slightly behind a pillar.

It’s not part of the formalwear section.

It’s... lingerie.

Your gaze sticks before you can pull it away. Among the sheer lace and silk, one piece stands out—midnight black, scandalous in its cut, with delicate embroidery tracing along the edges. The kind of nightgown that whispers promises just by existing.

You don’t mean to stare.

You definitely don’t mean to lean in a little.

But you do.

And that’s exactly when you feel him come up behind you.

His presence is quiet, but unmistakable—his breath warm against your temple, the subtle shift in the air as he steps close enough for your senses to latch onto him.

Zayne’s voice is quiet, rough-edged. “Do you... want to get that?”

You flinch, turning so quickly your bag nearly smacks him.

“What?” you choke, mortified. “No! I mean—what would I even need it for?”

Your voice is too high. Your face is on fire.

Zayne’s ears flush pink. He looks slightly stunned that he even asked. His jaw tenses like he’s mentally cursing himself.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts.

“You meant exactly what you said,” you mutter, trying to will the ground to swallow you whole.

“I just... saw you looking at it.”

“And?”

“And I thought maybe... you liked it.”

You do. You do like it. That’s the problem.

But there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that—not when your heart is thundering and your skin is betraying you with every shade of red imaginable.

And then—

As if summoned by the sheer mortifying timing—a saleswoman walks up, bright and chipper. “Oh, that piece is very popular with newlyweds! Especially for honeymoons or staycations,” she says, beaming at the both of you. “It’s from our Moonlight Temptation collection. Very sensual, very soft. Would you like to try it on, dear?”

You make a strangled sound in your throat.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. But his hand rubs the back of his neck, ears still visibly flushed.

You shake your head rapidly. “Nope. No, thank you. That’s—uh—not why we’re here.”

The saleswoman glances between you both, smile widening as if she sees something neither of you wants to admit. “Of course,” she says, brightly. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll pull a few gowns I think will suit you.”

You don’t dare look at Zayne as she walks away.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. That was... awkward.”

You finally meet his gaze, still flustered, but curious despite yourself. “You really thought I’d buy that?”

He doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips—low, honest.

“I thought it would look good on you.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Not flippantly. Not as a joke. But like the truth he’s only just realized himself. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it either.

You say nothing, heart pounding in your ears, because what could you possibly say?

Instead, you turn back toward the rack of gowns, fingers fumbling with the fabric to hide the way they’re shaking.

Eventually, Zayne moves back to the front of the boutique, giving you space. You try on a few options, thankful for the privacy curtain and the moments to catch your breath.

But even as you pull a deep maroon dress over your hips and smooth the fabric down, your mind drifts—

To the warmth of his voice in your ear.

To the way he looked at you—not with clinical indifference, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Something tender.

And you can’t help but wonder...

If he really meant it.

If he wants more than a dress and a date for a night.

If maybe—just maybe—he’s finally beginning to see you.

You tried on four dresses after the maroon one.

The first was too frilly. The second, too stiff. The third had promise until you looked in the mirror and saw someone trying too hard.

But the fourth?

The fourth was different.

It slid over your skin like it belonged there. Heavy but fluid, with a neckline that didn’t scream for attention, just whispered confidence. The sleeves barely brushed your shoulders, and the fabric pooled at your feet in a way that made you stand a little taller without realizing it.

It was green.

A deep, quiet green—rich like the forest after rain.

You weren’t thinking of his eyes when you chose it. You weren’t.

But standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps, you felt it creeping in anyway.

That familiar, impossible shade.

You swallowed.

It didn’t matter. The color didn’t matter. His eyes didn’t matter.

Not when they never looked at you long enough to leave behind anything real.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steel yourself. Then you pulled the curtain aside.

Zayne was seated in the corner, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone. He didn’t notice at first. The saleswoman did. Her eyes widened subtly.

You stepped out fully.

Zayne looked up.

And froze.

His phone slipped slightly in his hand, fingers going lax before curling around it again. He said nothing at first, but his gaze didn’t waver. It dragged over you slowly—shoulders to waist to floor and back again, lingering a fraction too long at the curve of your collarbone.

His lips parted. Just slightly. Like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t have the words for yet.

And then, softly, “That’s the one.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s the dress,” he said, straighter now. More certain. “It’s… perfect. You look beautiful.”

Your mouth went dry.

Zayne wasn’t the kind of man to throw around compliments. Especially not like this—low, reverent, honest.

You wanted to say something light in return. A quip, a brush-off. Anything to defuse the weight of his words.

But you couldn’t.

Not when he was still looking at you like that.

The saleswoman clapped her hands gently. “It’s stunning on you,” she said, stepping closer. “Would you like us to hold it at the counter?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

Back in the fitting room, you rested your hands on the vanity. The dress still clung to you, warm from your skin. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment, unsure of the person looking back.

She looked...hopeful.

You hated that.

When you stepped out again, changed into your regular clothes, Zayne had already paid for the dress. You opened your mouth to protest, but he took your hand and the bag with a firm look.

“Let me do this.”

You exhaled through your nose and didn’t argue.

The walk back to the car was quiet, your steps echoing lightly in the underground parking lot. He opened the passenger door for you, and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

Inside the car, the silence stretched.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

“I didn’t expect today to go like this,” he said quietly, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

You gave a dry laugh. “Neither did I. I came in for a dress and walked out completely humiliated over lingerie.”

He huffed a breath. “You weren’t. Humiliated, I mean.”

You glanced at him. “You turned pink.”

“...I didn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek. “That was just unexpected.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I wasn’t looking at it for any reason. It just caught my eye.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“If you ever did want something like that,” he said, voice slow, deliberate, “I’d want to be the one you wear it for.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

He stared straight ahead, like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

The tension tightened again, dense and warm and impossible to ignore. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So he started the car instead.

And the dress sat quietly in your lap like a secret neither of you were ready to say out loud.

You had no business being this nervous.

You told yourself it was just a hospital gala. A formal evening, full of handshakes and speeches and finger food no one actually liked. You’d show up. You’d smile. You’d leave. Simple.

And yet, here you were, in front of the full-length mirror, heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

The dress lay draped across your body like it had been born for it. Soft and sculpted. Modest but magnetic. The color deepened in the dim light of the bedroom, pooling in folds at your feet and tapering upward to delicate straps that swept across your shoulders.

The only thing between you and perfection?

The zipper.

You grunted under your breath, tugging at the stubborn fabric. It caught just at the middle of your back—too far down to see, too far up to reach properly.

“Need help?”

You turned at the sound of Zayne’s voice.

He was leaning against the doorway, half-dressed in slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. Dark strands of hair still damp from his shower fell over his forehead. The sight punched the air from your lungs in a way you refused to acknowledge.

You hesitated. “It’s stuck.”

He walked in slowly, unhurried. Controlled.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

You did.

His hand found the base of your spine first. Just resting there. Warm. Heavy.

You tried not to react.

Then—deliberately, achingly—he dragged the zipper up.

It was a slow climb. A whispering slide of metal against fabric. His fingers brushed up along the line of your spine with every inch, trailing fire in their wake. You felt his breath fan against your nape. Close. Too close.

You shivered.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he said lowly, “This dress was made for you.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re just saying that.”

He shook his head. His fingers stilled between your shoulder blades, not letting go just yet. “No. I’m saying it because I won’t survive the night if anyone else sees you in it.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears.

His gaze burned. Hungry and unreadable. It made the air feel thick and too tight against your ribs.

“I was supposed to be divorced by now,” you say quietly, breaking the silence, your voice tighter than you want it to be.

He pauses behind you. You don’t have to see his face to know his jaw clenched.

Then, low—measured—unapologetic:

“Not anytime soon.”

You inhale, sharply, ready to fire back, but he steps closer before you can speak. His chest brushes your shoulder blades.

His voice is right beside your ear now, velvet-wrapped steel.

“And I promise you…” he murmurs, “…it’ll be you who tears them up. Willingly.”

Your heart stutters.

You hate how it rattles you. Hate that your pulse trips like a caught rabbit. Hate more that you can’t—don’t—move away.

“You clean up well,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

His eyes flicked to the mirror. “So do you.”

You swallowed.

Neither of you looked away.

The moment drew out too long. His hand still hovered at the middle of your back. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting. Like he couldn’t make himself let go.

Like he was trying to memorize what this felt like.

And then—his voice, softer than silk. “You’re shaking.”

You closed your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” he breathed.

You felt him step closer—so close that the heat of him seeped into your skin. His free hand came up to gently brush a curl from your shoulder. The back of his fingers grazed your collarbone.

You shivered.

He noticed. His eyes darkened.

“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore,” he said quietly, looking at your reflection.

You gripped the vanity edge.

“Zayne…”

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “But don’t lie to me and say you don’t feel it too.”

You turned, barely, enough to face him over your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whispered. “You’re the one who spent all this time acting like I didn’t exist.”

Regret flickered through his features.

“I didn’t know how to have you without losing you,” he murmured.

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.” His voice cracked slightly, his hand finally falling from your back. “Everything I’ve ever cared for has slipped through my fingers. I thought if I wanted you too much—if I reached for you the way I wanted to—I’d ruin it.”

You stared at him.

At the vulnerability he didn’t often show. The grief he tried to carry alone. The love you never saw in words but now finally recognized in his silence.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

He smiled. Not out of amusement. Out of something far more tender.

“You won’t always be. Not if I keep doing this wrong.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

But you did take a breath. One shaky inhale. Then turned fully, letting the dress rustle around you like a secret. You reached up and fixed his collar for him.

“Let’s not be late,” you said gently.

Zayne’s jaw clenched. Not from anger. From restraint.

“Right,” he said, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

You walked out the door together. But neither of you said what hung between your lungs:

You’d never been more dressed up.

And never felt more bare.

The event was exactly what you expected—opulent, polished, and exhausting.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sea of suits and gowns, everyone wearing their best smiles and most neutral opinions. Strings played softly from the corner, the delicate hum of a cello echoing against marble floors. Waiters circled with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked more like abstract art than actual food.

You stood beside Zayne, who looked maddeningly comfortable in his element. Crisp tux, silk tie, not a hair out of place. Calm, unreadable expression. Like this wasn't his seventh sixteen-hour surgery week. Like he hadn’t just confessed things in your bedroom you were still trying to process.

Socialites and colleagues floated by, eager to shake his hand, congratulate him on the recent research breakthrough, ask about future conferences. He handled them all with clinical politeness, his palm resting lightly on the small of your back whenever someone new approached.

You didn’t speak much.

You smiled. Nodded. Sipped water and counted down the minutes until you could leave.

Until he appeared.

You didn’t even catch his name the first time—he spoke it too quickly and too close, leaning in without invitation. Mid-forties, sharp suit, smug confidence of a man too used to hearing yes. An investor, he said. Big donor to the hospital. Enthusiastic about “Dr. Zayne’s innovative direction.”

But none of that interest was on Zayne now.

It was on you.

“You must be the wife,” he said, his smile bordering on a leer. “I’ve heard so little about you. A shame, really.”

You offered a thin, polite smile. “That’s probably because I prefer to keep a low profile.”

“Modesty. I like that.” His eyes scanned the length of your gown. Lingered. “But you shouldn’t hide something so… stunning.”

You took a step back, nearly bumping into another couple. “Thank you, but I—”

“You know, Dr. Zayne’s lucky. If I had someone like you on my arm, I’d never make it out of the house.” A chuckle, like he thought he was charming.

You stiffened.

He didn’t take the hint.

Your eyes darted toward Zayne, but he was deep in conversation with the hospital director across the room, his back to you.

“Do you dance?” the man asked smoothly. “Tell you what—why don’t we give the good doctor a break, and I’ll borrow you for one song? It’s just a dance.”

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, but not from flattery. From sheer, cold discomfort. You didn’t want to cause a scene. Didn’t want to embarrass Zayne in front of his colleagues. So you opened your mouth to decline—diplomatically, gently—

“I believe my wife said no.”

Zayne’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Low. Calm. Terrifyingly sharp.

You blinked.

He was suddenly beside you. Standing too tall. Too still.

The investor turned, surprised. “Ah, Dr. Zayne— I didn’t mean any harm—”

“No,” Zayne said again, with a frosty expression that sent chills down your spine. “You meant to ignore the discomfort on her face and corner her under the guise of a compliment. There’s a word for men like you, but I’m trying to be polite.”

The man’s face turned a mottled red. “I think you’re overreacting—”

“I think you should go find someone who actually wants to talk to you. Which isn’t her.” Zayne stepped forward slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. Protective. Possessive. “And definitely not me.”

The man muttered something under his breath and retreated fast, disappearing into the crowd with his ego tucked between his legs.

The hum of conversation resumed.

You stood frozen.

Zayne turned to you, brows furrowed. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled, jaw still tight. “Good.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “You should’ve signaled me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” you said, voice hushed.

“I don’t care about scenes,” Zayne snapped, more emotionally than you’d ever heard from him. “Not when you’re uncomfortable.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes softened. “Because you’re my wife.”

It wasn’t said with ownership. It was said with reverence. A claim wrapped in vulnerability.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you looked down at your shoes, trying to collect your breath. “Thank you.”

“I should’ve been watching you more closely,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You’re not my bodyguard, Zayne.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I am your husband.”

And for once, he said it like he meant it.

Not like an obligation.

Like a vow.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He offered his arm to you, and after a beat, you took it.

“Come on,” he murmured near your ear, “let’s dance.”

You blinked. “Wait—you dance?”

He smirked. “Not well. But I’d rather you be stepped on by me than leered at by anyone else.”

A laugh escaped you—genuine, light.

And just like that, some part of the ice between you began to thaw.

The music shifted to something slow and sweeping, a soft waltz that melted through the golden lighting of the ballroom. Zayne’s hand rested at your waist, the other curled gently around yours as he led you toward the center of the dance floor. You hesitated only for a breath—then let him pull you close.

Your bodies fell into rhythm surprisingly well. He wasn’t lying—Zayne wasn’t exactly a graceful dancer, but he made up for it with focus. Precision. As if he was memorizing your every movement and adjusting for it. The small crease between his brows deepened when he accidentally stepped slightly to the side. His thumb skimmed over the back of your hand.

“I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on you.

“I know,” you said, unable to keep the smile from your lips. “That’s what makes it endearing.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Endearing. Great. Just what every man wants to hear.”

“Would you prefer infuriatingly hot?” you teased softly.

His fingers tightened just a little at your waist.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The tension coiled between you was no longer just a thread—it was a live wire, vibrating with the kind of electric heat that made your skin flush.

For a moment, the world softened. The music drowned out the buzz of conversation. Zayne looked at you—not through you, not past you. At you. Like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold.

Your heart started to ache with it.

Because just as you let yourself settle into that rare, precious warmth—

“Is that really her?” someone whispered, too loud to ignore.

You didn’t recognize the voice, but the words struck like a slap.

“I mean, she’s pretty, but… for Dr. Zayne?”

“She wasn’t even at the last two galas. Maybe she’s just a placeholder. The family probably wanted someone traditional—quiet.”

A scoff. “Can’t imagine her fitting in here long-term.”

Someone laughed.

Your stomach dropped. Ice flooded your veins. The music dimmed in your ears as white noise took over.

You froze mid-step.

Zayne’s hand on your back tensed. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you slowly turned your head and locked eyes with the pair of women standing near the bar. They immediately looked away—but not before you caught the smirk. The judgment. The quiet condescension.

You couldn’t breathe.

The past few months—your loneliness, the silence, the empty dining table, the aching questions about why he married you—all of it surged back in a single wave.

You pulled your hand from Zayne’s.

“Excuse me,” you said, tightly. “I need some air.”

“Wait—”

You were already walking away. Not fast, but with purpose. Each step burning, each breath harder than the last. You could feel the stares, feel the whispers lingering like perfume in the wake of your departure.

Zayne caught up just outside the building, where the night air bit sharp and cold against your flushed skin.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your arm gently. “Talk to me.”

You turned around, eyes stinging. “Why? So I can pretend to be graceful while your world watches and whispers about how I don’t belong?”

Zayne blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t hear them?” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you do belong here. They all love you. They admire you. No one questions your worth.”

“I don’t give a damn what they have to say.”

“But I do!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended. You saw him stagger.

You lowered your voice. “I do. Because I already feel like a ghost in your life, Zayne. Like I’m always waiting in the background, watching you exist in this perfectly curated orbit that I was never meant to touch. And tonight, when those women looked at me like I was… disposable? It felt true.”

His expression shifted—anger, confusion, something more vulnerable.

“You’re not disposable.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

The wind whispered through the trees lining the parking lot. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your heart slamming against your ribs. Zayne looked at you like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming fast enough.

You shook your head and turned toward the curb. “I’m calling a cab—”

“No.” His voice was low, steady.

You turned back, startled.

“I’ll take you,” he said, already pulling out the car keys from his pocket.

You didn’t argue.

You spent the second anniversary of your marriage burning with a fever.

A cruel twist of irony, really. You'd managed to go your entire life dodging sickness with near supernatural luck, but all it took was one chilly evening, a forgotten shawl, and rain-soaked clothes to send your body spiraling into a fever that left your limbs weak and your head pounding.

At first, you thought you'd sleep it off. Wrapped tightly in all the blankets you could find—you let the fever burn through your skin in silence. You didn’t call out for help. You didn’t expect it. Not from him.

But Zayne noticed.

Of course he did. A man like him didn’t miss details.

When he came home that evening, he found you curled up, shivering beneath layers of blankets, your breathing ragged and uneven. You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't see the flowers, the gifts. You didn’t see the expression on his face when he stood in the doorway, brows pinched, jaw tight.

But you did feel his fingers, cool and clinical, touch your forehead.

"You have a fever," he muttered, more to himself than you.

Your eyes cracked open, lashes damp with sweat. "It’s nothing. It'll pass."

"You're burning up. How long have you been like this?"

His voice wasn’t cold. Not warm either. Neutral, but threaded with something you hadn’t heard from him before: urgency.

"Since last night, maybe. I didn’t think—"

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

You blinked up at him, dazed.

"Because you don’t want me to bother you."

There. The words landed between you like a glass shattering on tile. Zayne went still. For a long beat, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, "That’s not what I meant."

You closed your eyes again, too exhausted to argue. "Didn’t you?"

He stood, his footsteps echoing out the room. You thought that was it. The end of whatever strange moment had bloomed between you.

But then he returned. With a cold compress, a thermometer, and a bottle of medicine that rattled as he uncapped it.

He didn’t say anything as he pressed the cool cloth to your head. As he helped you sit up and pressed the glass to your lips. As he waited, silently, for you to swallow.

You watched him through bleary eyes.

He didn’t have to do any of this.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Zayne looked up from where he sat beside the bed.

His eyes searched your face like he was trying to decipher something written between your freckles. He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like carrying the weight of his silence had cost him something.

"I never wanted this marriage to hurt you."

You flinched. Not from the pain—your head was already screaming—but from the admission itself. A truth, finally. You clung to it like a rope.

"Then why do you act like you’re not in it at all?"

Zayne’s jaw tensed. He looked away. "Because I’ve only ever ruined the people I loved. I thought... if I stayed away, I wouldn't ruin you too."

Your breath caught. That wasn’t an answer you were expecting.

"You think loving someone ruins them?"

His gaze flicked back to you, dark and unreadable. "In my experience, yes."

You let the silence sit for a beat. Then: "That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard."

Zayne didn’t flinch at your honesty. Instead, he sighed, the sound low and tired. He stood then, slowly, his hand hovering at your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. He tucked the blankets around you more securely.

"Rest. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better."

You nodded faintly. But before he turned away, you reached out and caught his wrist.

"Zayne."

He looked down at you, startled.

"Don’t disappear again."

He nodded once.

"I won’t.”

Liar.

Because as soon as you recovered, he returned to work with a vengeance. Longer hours. Empty dinners. More silence.

That night, you saw the man Zayne could be.

But like everything else in your marriage—it was temporary.

Like a pulse.

Here, then gone.

You stepped into the house with your jaw set, your heels clicking a little too sharply against the tile. Zayne followed, quiet as a shadow but twice as heavy.

Your clutch hit the hallway table with a soft thud. Without a glance back, you turned down the hallway toward the guest bedroom.

“Don’t go to bed angry,” Zayne said behind you.

You stopped. Laughed—short, bitter. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Your fingers had barely grazed the handle when it happened.

A thin, crystalline film crept across the surface, shimmering pale blue in the dim light. The doorknob let out a crackle as frost bloomed over it like a warning.

You blinked.

Tried again.

Solid.

Frozen shut.

You turned slowly.

Zayne stood a few feet down the hall, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just weaponized his Evol against you. His expression was infuriatingly unreadable—except for the small, dry quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, like he’d just noticed it himself. “Seems like you’ll have to sleep in our bed after all.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing into your ribs like a wave.

“I’ll take the couch.”

He tilted his head.

A beat.

Then, without a word, he flicked two fingers behind his back. You heard it before you saw it—that same sharp, cold whisper of ice forming.

You darted to the living room, half praying he hadn’t—

The couch was a glistening sculpture now. Icicles hanging off the armrest like smug punctuation marks.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, whipping around.

He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, absolutely nonchalant. “It’s out of service.”

You glared at him. “Now what, then? You’re gonna freeze the floor?”

His brow arched—just a fraction. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

You dropped to the ground in protest, but the second your fingers brushed the hardwood, a shiver shot up your arm.

Ice.

The entire floor was now ice.

You scrambled back to your feet, livid. “Are you going to turn the whole house into a damn ice rink?!”

He shrugged, and you hated how casual he looked. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Our bed is an exception.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

And that—that was what stopped you. Not the ridiculous pettiness of his power trip. Not even the childish escalation of it all.

But the way his eyes softened, just slightly, in the quiet. Like he was hoping you'd see something underneath all the frost. Something unspoken.

You exhaled, sharp.

He didn’t move. Just watched you from across the hall, standing in the middle of a house half-entombed in ice, like this was the only way he knew how to ask.

Not with warmth.

But by freezing every escape.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sigh. “This is psychotic,” you muttered, stalking past him toward the bedroom.

He moved aside, silent.

You stopped at the door. Paused.

Then turned your head, your voice flat. “Touch the blanket with your ice, and I’m adding carrots in every single meal.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile back. “Duly noted.”

You stepped inside.

The room is steeped in silence. Not peaceful silence—weighted silence.

The kind that vibrates in your chest like thunder that never breaks.

The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting golden light against the walls. Shadows flicker gently as the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains. The bedsheets feel too crisp, too heavy. You’ve been lying there, backs to each other, for what feels like hours. Both awake. Both pretending not to be.

You stare at the same patch of wall, your thoughts spiraling. He’s just a breath behind you. Warm. Still.

Too still.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Do you really want us to divorce?”

The question doesn’t come sharp. It’s… soft. Careful. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do if the answer is yes. Like the very act of asking might splinter something already fragile.

You don’t answer. But you breathe—deep, just once. Enough to say: I hear you.

He doesn’t fill the silence. Not yet. And for a moment you almost think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s going to let it drop.

But then he speaks again. This time quieter.

“Do you despise me? Do you hate the very thought of me near you? Is this what I’ve driven you to?”

His words crack at the edges—like he's been rehearsing them in his head for days but saying them aloud costs more than he expected. There’s no accusation in them. Just... damage control. The kind of questions a man only asks when he's already built the worst answers in his head.

You press your eyes shut, your throat tight.

You should speak. You should end the misery. But it’s hard, trying to sort through all the mess in your chest. You want to scream at him some nights. And others, like now, you just want to understand him. To figure out why he’s the way he is—why he disappears behind walls he doesn’t invite you through.

But even when you hated the silence, you never hated him.

You roll over, just slightly, so he can see your face in the lamplight—shadowed, but open.

Your voice doesn’t lash out. It lands soft.

“I don’t hate you.”

You pause. Let it sit between you like a bandage being pressed against a bruise.

“I'd sooner hate a thousand sunsets than ever hate you.”

And the way his breath leaves him—slow and shaky—isn't relief exactly. It's grief. It’s longing. It's all of it.

“But… if there's one thing I hated, it was the wedding. The grand venue, the unfamiliar people, the dress”—you stopped abruptly before your voice could take on an ugly tone. You didn't want to sound ungrateful. Or spoiled.

You could still hear her voice sometimes whispering—at times even screaming in your head.

Men don't like ungrateful women. So don't ever complain to him. A good wife speaks pleasantly—

“Continue.” Zayne turns toward you—no hesitation now. He closes the space between you like a tide claiming the shore.

One arm wraps around your waist. The other threads beneath your neck, pulling you gently, but decisively, into the curve of his chest. You feel the press of his mouth in your hair, the slow inhale like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin.

He breathes you in like you’re medicine. Like you’re salvation.

His fingers splay across your stomach, not possessive, not demanding—just present. Anchoring.

You stay stiff for a second—surprised. Then… your spine softens, your head leans back into the hollow of his throat.

Your fingers—clumsy and unsure—find his where they rest against your waist. You don’t squeeze. You just touch. Lightly.

“...I'd much rather have preferred to elope instead.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you.

But there’s an unspoken agreement in the way he holds you—tighter than usual. Like he knows what he’s done. And maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop hiding behind it.

Your heart beats in quiet rebellion.

You don’t move.

You don’t forgive.

Not yet.

But you stay.

And that’s the first truce you’ve had in a long time.

#icymi <3

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