#flirtyvibes

[lyn31]

Heeeyyy! Would you write one of where Zayne gets jealous over reader? They are married ofc and let’s say another handsome man flirts with reader who is oblivious to it cuz ofc she only has her heart on Zayne. Zayne gets protective and jealous like in that card with Dr. Carter who gave mc flowers. Zayne takes reader to a quieter spot or home. Reader ask if he’s ok and he denies he was jealous. It makes reader sappy and blushing cuz zayne loves her a lot she teases him and he kisses her passionately to shut her up and says he was worried. OFC reader reassures him she only loves her snowman. You can write the location and event however you want. Thanks.

I took quite a different angle for this one, hopefully it still hit the vibes you're looking for! I play it off more, so it come off more playful the rest is a bit more subtle 👀 too subtle perhaps? 😭 Let me know what you think! 💕

Actually yk what, I'll make another one later per asks order! But let's say this is a treat also from the req before! 🥳 (But still let me know what you think ahaha)

I already rant about Dr. Carter before so I won't do it again here ahahahaha and yes this is the merge prompt with In Sickness and In Health!

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Jealousy, Revisited

Summary

A teasing spiral of jealousy, hormones, and chaos leads to one very pregnant woman and her maddeningly patient husband bantering their way back to soft, steady love.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Mutual jealous, flashbacks, silly, banter, flirty, married couple!

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By the time Rose and Caleb leave your home, it’s already late—well past the kids’ bedtime. Serena's been asleep in her room for hours now, worn out from playing with Willow and Jace until her little legs could barely carry her.

The dishes are done, toys picked up, and you're finally curled up on the couch, legs tucked awkwardly under you the best they can with your belly in the way. The twins have been making their presence known all evening, kicking and shifting, and you’re sure at least one of them is practicing acrobatics.

Your hand rests absently on the curve of your stomach, and your hair still smells faintly of garlic from the stir-fry you made earlier, and the scent clings to your sweater like the memory of a full house.

Zayne joins you a moment later, easing down beside you with his usual quiet grace. He drapes a blanket over you, then slides an arm behind your back, hand settling low at your waist and gently curving to support the slight swell of your belly—something he does without thinking, as if his touch belongs there.

“That was quite a gathering, huh?” you murmur, leaning into him.

“Four adults with three kids,” he says. “Felt like a ten-person gathering.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Speaking of kids, I still can’t believe what Rose told us.”

“I definitely can,” he replies, voice still neutral.

You shoot him a look and pinch at his side, but he only catches your hand in his, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “It’s an expression, darling.” Your roll your 'r' a bit more, smiling but still glaring at him. He hums at you, a quiet nudge to keep going.

“Well, I was gonna bring up how Caleb got all jealous when someone complimented Rose’s scarf, but now that we’re talking about this... it reminded me of a certain someone at a certain photo shoot.”

He blinks at you slowly, composed as ever. “That was a normal reaction.”

“Normal, huh?” You raise an eyebrow, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

And yeah—you can feel the memory blooming between you again, ridiculous and fond. Back when you’d just started dating—Tara’s dramatic plea, that chaotic photo shoot, the poor student photographer caught in the silent wrath of a very composed, very territorial Zayne Li—

You’re barely halfway through reheating leftovers at Zayne’s apartment—still standing in front of the stove with one socked foot tapping the floor—when your phone lights up with Tara’s name.

You answer with a suspicious, “What did you do?”

“Emergency!” she bursts out.

You blink, already pulling the phone slightly away from your ear. “Didn’t you just get home like... twenty minutes ago?”

“Yeah, but I need you. Come to this studio downtown—my friend’s doing a shoot and one of his models bailed last minute.”

“…Why me?”

“Because you’re symmetrical and mildly photogenic,” she says with the smug confidence of someone who knows you can’t say no. “And also because there’s no way Rose or Lara would agree to this. Come on, I’ll owe you forever. Pleaseeeeee?”

You sigh with all the drama you can muster. “Fine. But you’re buying my coffee tomorrow. And I’m talking fancy coffee. Foam art and ethically sourced beans.”

“Deal!”

You hang up, shutting off the stove with a grumble, then wander down the hall to Zayne’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, posture relaxed, typing something you know is probably more important than it looks.

He glances up the second you knock at the open door.

“Hey, so... change of plan. I’ll be back in an hour. Tara needs help with something.”

He tilts his head, curious. “And that is?”

“I’ve been conscripted into a photography crisis.”

He raises one brow. “Do you need backup?”

You give a small laugh. “Well, if you’re up for it.”

“I am.” He powers off his computer without hesitation, standing smoothly. “Let’s go.”

When you both arrive at the studio, it is a cozy mess, full of soft lighting rigs and mismatched props piled in corners. Fabric-draped chairs, vintage suitcases, fake plants that look real until you touch them. Tara waves you in like she owns the place, already halfway through a neon-pink drink and wielding a clipboard like a sword.

You breeze through the solo shots first—casual poses, exaggerated laughter, dramatic hair flips Tara keeps coaching you through with, “More joy! Less corporate headshot!” She takes a few turns in front of the lens herself, striking mock-model poses with a loud “Yasss” every time the shutter clicks.

It’s not half bad. Honestly? It’s kind of fun.

Until the photographer—a lanky guy with a lemon wedge tattoo on his wrist and a camera lens that looks older than the building—decides the set needs couple shots to balance out the gallery.

He gestures to a standby model. Someone tall, cologne-heavy, and definitely overconfident. He steps forward like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial, eyes flicking to you, then down to your waist. His hand starts to hover in that awkward, polite way—unsure if he’s supposed to touch.

Then, from behind the lights, Zayne’s voice cuts in.

“Actually, she’s not free.”

The room freezes. The photographer pauses. The cologne guy blinks.

Zayne steps into frame with that quiet, composed stride, like this is just a meeting he’s joining. “I mean—I’m free. She’s dating me. So… using both of us would be better.”

You try to keep the smile off your face. No use. It spreads before you can stop it. “You’re volunteering for photos?”

Zayne meets your eyes without missing a beat. “They’ll look more authentic this way.”

Tara lets out a muffled snrrk from behind her clipboard, clearly thrilled.

The photographer looks between the two of you, then nods. “Right. Yeah, sure. Chemistry’s important, right?”

Zayne’s hand finds your waist with ease, fingers come to rest at your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The first shot is stiff. The second, a little more natural. But the third—when he leans in and brushes his lips against your temple—you feel your whole expression soften without even trying.

Because he’s not acting. Not for a second.

The shutter clicks.

And clicks again.

By the time you’re back in the car, the night folding quiet around you, you can’t help poking at him.

“So… I’m not free, huh?”

He glances at you, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. “You’re still going on about that?”

“You practically growled at that poor guy,” you tease. “I think Tara’s friend was seconds away from reaching for a fire extinguisher.”

“I was being practical.”

“Oh, sure,” you say, leaning your head back against the seat with a grin. “Territorial and practical. Must be a doctor thing.”

He huffs softly, but you catch the way his mouth lifts at the corner. “You’re exaggerating.”

You’re really not—but you let him have that one.

Because that look he gave you when he stepped into the frame? You’ll be thinking about that for days.

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You wiggle your eyebrows at him, feeling the slow, aimless motion of his fingers brushing along the curve of your stomach—familiar and gentle, like he’s memorizing it again for the hundredth time. “So practical of you, dear.”

He snorts softly, voice close against your temple. “It was practical. I was already present.”

“Mmhmm. Definitely not territorial at all,” you murmur, letting your tone drip with sarcasm.

Zayne leans in just enough for his breath to cool your ear. “If you’re talking about what we did after we got home… then yes. That was territorial.”

You laugh and squish his cheeks with both hands, tilting his face toward you before giving him a deliberately exaggerated, wet kiss that leaves him blinking. “Mmm. You’ve come a long way, husband.”

He chuckles, the sound deep in his chest. “Come a long way,” he echoes, then tilts his head, thoughtful. “That reminds me—the lab assistant.”

You raise a brow instantly, suspicious. “Yeah? What about her? Are you finally admitting that you explained things slower because she’s special?”

Zayne’s arm shifts behind you, and he leans into your side with effort, trying to wrap himself around you as much as the baby bump between you will allow. It takes some maneuvering, but eventually, his hand curves gently beneath yours over the swell of your belly.

“Look who’s being territorial now,” he murmurs, far too pleased.

“Mine is justified!” you protest, jabbing a finger lightly into his chest. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t notice how close she was leaning. I’ve seen microbe samples that maintained more personal space.”

He hums like he’s genuinely considering your words, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling in mock thought. “Why do you think I was leaning away from my computer?”

And just like that, the memory sparks back into clarity—sharp, ridiculous, and so vivid that both of you can’t help snorting aloud—

You stop by the hospital one late afternoon—your day off, the weather too nice to waste holed up in your apartment, Rose of course visiting Caleb at Skyhaven—so you think, why not drop by to see Zayne?

You’re still in your casual clothes, hair a little wind-tossed, lunch bag in hand—though let’s be real, it’s mostly dessert. You round the familiar hallway corner, smiling without thinking.

And then you see it.

There’s someone new standing beside Zayne’s desk, angled just enough to invade what should be neutral ground. You’ve never seen her before—probably an intern, maybe new staff—but what gets you isn’t her badge or the tablet in her hand. It’s the way she’s leaning in just a bit too close, blinking up at the screen like she’s never seen a rib cage in her life.

Zayne’s voice is even, professional, explaining some patient form or scan, pointing something out with his pen. But your eyes narrow immediately the moment her shoulder brushes against his.

From the way she’s deferring to him, she’s likely assigned to assist Greyson. Which raises the real question: where the hell is Greyson?

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Instead, you stroll in like you belong—which you do—and round the desk casually, then lean in from the other side. Your arm wraps lazily around Zayne’s shoulders, lightly nudging the woman’s shoulder—which is barely there to begin with, your chin nearly brushing his temple.

“Do you always explain things this slowly,” you say, voice all sugar and silk, “or is she special?”

Zayne pauses—not startled, not flustered. He simply glances toward you, reading the humor beneath your tone. Then he exhales the faintest breath of a laugh.

“She was asking about patient chart formatting,” he says mildly. “I assumed she wanted the complete explanation.”

You raise a brow at him, just a touch dramatic. “You assumed wrong.”

The assistant stiffens. “Oh—I didn’t know you had a—”

“Girlfriend,” Zayne finishes, calm as anything—like it’s just another line in a report. “She brings me lunch.”

You can feel the ripple of awkwardness roll through the intern, and your smile only grows as you set the bag on his desk. “That’s right,” you say brightly. “I also pick him up sometimes. So he doesn’t get hit on by interns with no sense of personal space.”

The poor girl looks utterly mortified. “I—I just thought… um. He should eat first! I can ask Dr. Greyson later—sorry—”

And then she’s gone, heels clicking as she practically speed-walks toward the hallway.

You glance back at Zayne, who watches her leave with a perfectly neutral expression, then reaches for your hand.

“She was new,” he says after a beat. “I think this was her third day.”

“Mmm-hmm,” you murmur, leaning in to press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of your gloss. “Be honest. You liked me jealous.”

His hand turns in yours, lacing your fingers together. “I like that you showed up.”

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“Damn Greyson! Why is he eating lunch at that time?” you grumble, gesturing vaguely like your words could summon the man to defend himself.

Beside you, Zayne lets out a quiet chuckle, the kind that makes your chest warm. He doesn’t argue—though from the look on his face, he probably knows Greyson wasn’t even on break yet at the time. But because Serena adores Greyson and you’re currently on a blame-streak, Zayne lets it go. Probably even enjoying it.

His thumb grazing gently along your side. You glance over at him, narrowing your eyes. “You did like me jealous.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, his lips press softly to the crown of your head, a quiet affection in the gesture. “You’re more expressive than I am,” he murmurs. “It was… reassuring.”

You snort. “You mean hot.”

“Also that.” His fingers trace a lazy circle against the curve of your stomach—

When both of you feel it. A sudden, firm kick.

You both still.

Zayne’s eyes go wide for half a second, a startled laugh escaping him before he glances at you, equal parts amazed and amused.

“They're definitely on your side,” you mutter, hand instinctively covering his like you’re both trying to catch the moment again.

He smiles, quieter now, thumb brushing just beneath your navel. “They got your timing.”

There’s a beat. A shared breath. Then he shifts, his voice going warm with that teasing clarity that always finds the softest spots.

“Well, what I was gonna say before… you get this look when you’re jealous. Composed, but pointed. Like you’re sharpening your words before you even speak.”

Your head lifts slowly, just enough to give him a look. “You find that hot?”

He meets your eyes, deadpan, not even a flicker of hesitation. “Decidedly.”

You groan, flopping your very pregnant self down onto the couch in what you intend to be a dramatic collapse, except… it’s more like a slow-motion descent. Your body is doing its best. “Ugh. I enable you.”

“You encourage me,” Zayne says smoothly.

“Same thing,” you mutter, slumped sideways now, rubbing a palm along your belly like you’re checking whose side the twins are still on.

He hums again, hands adjusting the cushion behind you. And then, like it just came to him. “Like that time with the nurse.”

You gasp. “Oh my god. The one with the laugh?”

Zayne shakes his head, mouth flattening. “She laughed at everything. Even when I told her someone coded last shift.”

You sit up again—well, technically you haven’t fully hit the cushions yet, so it’s not as hard as it could’ve been. But you do it with a triumphant kind of energy, grinning like it’s still fresh. “Okay, that one was definitely your fault. You were not leaving.”

“I was trying,” he says, completely sincere, “and being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

He gives you a look, calm as ever. “I pulled back right away.”

You raise a brow, mimicking his deadpan tone. “You pulled back politely.”

His fingers slide up to brush under your chin, tilting your face toward his with ridiculous delicacy. “Would you have preferred impolite?”

And your brain suddenly time-warps. The smell of antiseptic. The low drone of machines. The memory hits fast—

You arrive at the hospital to pick Zayne up—technically early, but that is half the fun. His shift has an hour left, and sure, he hasn’t texted yet, but he won’t mind

You like talking to Yvonne while you wait anyway. She runs the front desk for the cardiology wing like it is her personal kingdom—knows every patient by name and every doctor’s bad habit. She spots you walking in and greets you with a wink. “He’s not out yet, but I bet you’ll lure him off the floor like usual.”

That’s the plan. Until you hear it.

Laughter. Not Yvonne’s signature cackle, and obviously you just passed her—not Greyson’s chaotic snort. No, this one is… breathy. Too polished. Too practiced.

You slow your pace, following the sound down the corridor, heels echoing soft clicks on the linoleum. The nurse’s laugh rings again, light and almost sing-song, followed by Zayne’s voice. Calm. Polite. Controlled, like always. He’s probably responding to whatever she said with a quiet nod or an actual answer, depending on how much patience he has left today.

You find them near the nurse’s station, bent over the same file. She stands too close—one manicured hand on the back of his chair, the other drumming polished nails against the counter like she couldn’t wait for an excuse to lean in again.

Your jaw twitches. But you smile.

Two more steps and you are there. No words, just a hand on Zayne’s shoulder, a slow kiss to his cheek—sweet, theatrical, and clearly. This seat’s taken.

“Can’t believe I have to share you with this whole building,” you murmur, voice dipped in velvet steel.

Your gaze slid to her. Brief. Pointed. Like a scalpel left out on the tray.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be off shift in an hour.”

You smile at him like he hangs the moon. “Make it thirty minutes.”

The nurse falters. “Oh—I… I should check the supply cart.”

Of course you should, you think.

She vanishes faster than she showed up, file in hand and laugh tucked away like it is never there.

You don’t even get the chance to figure out what is supposedly so hilarious in the paperwork.

Zayne glances up at you, expression unreadable as ever, but his hand finds yours under the desk. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“I noticed,” you say, your tone softer now as you squeeze his fingers. “But she was practically hanging off your stethoscope.”

He tilts his head like he’s about to argue, but just then, Yvonne calls from the receptionist's desk. “You chasing off nurses again, sweetheart?”

You turn toward her, unapologetic. “Just the persistent ones.”

She grins. “Might want to give Greyson a warning. One of the surgical interns has been asking if he’s single.”

Behind you, Zayne exhales a quiet sigh, and you feel him tug your hand a little closer.

“Make it twenty minutes,” you murmur—because honestly, you’re already more than halfway to dragging him out yourself.

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Your voice is smug. “You liked that one too, didn’t you?”

Zayne exhales through a quiet laugh, his hand still tracing easy, lazy circles against your side. “I liked knowing you wanted me visibly.”

You bump his knee gently, playful. “You act so calm, but you eat it up.”

He tilts his head just slightly, eyes glinting. “It’s mutual, isn’t it?”

“…Maybe.” You say it like it’s not obvious—like you’re not halfway ready to start a fight over a giggle. Then you pause. Something clicks.

Your body shifts in his arms, careful but suddenly full of energy, and you sit up straighter, barely suppressing your grin. “Wait—wait. Oh my god, that reminds me.”

Zayne hums, patient, amused. “There’s too much, if we list them all tonight.”

“Not mine!” You jab a finger lightly at his chest. “Your moment. Like—okay. Remember when we were dating and you were always too polite to admit you were jealous? All that, ‘she’s allowed to have friends’ nonsense?”

“It wasn’t nonsense,” he says, dry as ever.

You wave that away like it's air. “But then the moment we got married? Subtlety? Gone. Evaporated. Poof. Like with that barista.”

Zayne goes still. And you know he remembers.

You do too.

The memory hits in color and taste. Warm light, the smell of croissants, and the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter—

It’s a lazy mid-morning on your day off—the kind that feels rare lately, with both of you back in rotation, juggling reports, late calls, and the unpredictability of your jobs.

But today clicks into place. No emergencies, no shift swaps. Just you, Zayne, and your favorite little café tucked between buildings like a secret.

The place is quiet at this hour, filled with the soft hiss of espresso machines and low conversation. The usual barista isn’t there, though. Instead, a new guy stands behind the counter, fresh-faced and clearly too eager. He straightens up the moment you step forward.

“Good morning,” he said, grinning wide. “What can I get for you?”

You give your usual order, tone polite but relaxed. Before you can even pull out your card, he’s already waving it off.

“On the house,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking to the name you’ve given. “For someone with such a lovely name.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, um… thanks?”

He leaned slightly over the counter. “Do you come here often?”

And that’s when you feel it—the familiar presence at your side, quiet but solid. Zayne steps up beside you, the move casual but practiced, like his body knows exactly where to be. One arm slid around your waist, anchoring you against him in a way that didn’t look aggressive but definitely sent a message.

“We’re married,” he said, voice even. “And we’d like to eat before the lunchtime passes.. Please get our order ready.”

No inflection. No visible emotion. But somehow, it had the same weight as a slammed door.

The barista blinked, his confidence faltering. “R-right. Uh, coming right up.”

Zayne didn’t look away until the guy turned to prep your drinks. Only then does he guide you toward your favorite spot by the window, his hand still resting on your back.

You sit down, trying to suppress the laugh that’s already building. The second the croissant touches your lips, it slips out anyway.

“Someone’s jealous,” you teased, nudging his knee under the table.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re my wife. It’s my right.”

You nearly choke. You stare at him, stunned, then snort-laugh with half a croissant still in your mouth. “Oh my god—Zayne.”

He lifts his cup, sipping without so much as a flicker of amusement. “I was polite.”

You are grinning despite yourself. “You were terrifying.”

He arches an eyebrow, finally meeting your gaze. “He was about to pay for you.”

“Which I didn’t even ask for.”

Zayne doesn’t respond, but the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays him. Just a little.

You reach across the table, brushing your fingers over his. “You know you don’t have to get territorial, right?” And wiggling your finger that clearly has your wedding ring on.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

That made you pause.

There was something almost reverent in his tone—not possessive in the shallow sense, but protective in a way that made your chest ache a little. Like he was always just waiting for the chance to stake his quiet claim.

You squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky I like it.”

He gives you a look that says that’s another reason why he did it. He laces his fingers through yours, as if he never planned on letting go.

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You’re laughing into his shoulder again, your voice muffled and warm against the fabric of his shirt. “You really said that. Zero hesitation.”

Zayne doesn’t even pretend to deny it. He just shrugs, utterly composed. “We are married.”

You pull back enough to look at him, amusement still bubbling under your breath. “Oh, so now it’s legalized jealousy?”

“I call it efficient communication.”

You snort, threading your fingers through his, letting your thumb trace absent circles over his knuckles. His hand is cool, like always, but familiar. Grounding. “You used to pretend you didn’t care.”

He shifts, just enough to tilt his head your way, lips curving ever so faintly. “I still don’t,” he says smoothly. “Unless I do.”

You give him a flat look, stifling a snort. “That’s not a real sentence.”

“It is if you understand me.”

And the worst part is—you do.

You sigh, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder again. “You’re so smug with your logic.”

“I’m consistent.”

“That’s the same thing,” you grumble.

His fingers tighten gently around yours, silent in his agreement.

You nudge his leg, casual and easy, but your grin is sly now. “Well, since we’re already deep in the jealousy chronicles, might as well air everything, right?”

Zayne lifts a brow, just slightly. “Yours or mine?”

You tap your chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Yours, of course.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his grip on your hand shifts just slightly—like he already knows which story you’re about to bring up.

And he’s bracing for it—

It’s some formal alumni gathering—an evening reception at a rented hall near your old high school, complete with dim lighting, hors d'oeuvres, and a lot of people pretending not to be comparing paychecks and hairlines.

Rose and Caleb guilt-trip you into going, insisting it’ll be fun, a reunion, just a quick drop-in before dinner. Of course, they disappear into the crowd the second you arrive, catching up with old teammates and classmates like they’d never left.

You wouldn't be here at all if Zayne weren’t with you right now. He doesn’t know anyone here except the three of you, but he shows up in a tailored black suit and lets you lead the way in, no complaints. Just quiet presence, fingers brushing the small of your back as you moved through the crowd.

You’re not even halfway through the evening when you run into him.

That classmate—the one who used to flirt with you in that annoying way that always bordered on too much. He hadn’t changed. Same cocky smile, same over-familiar tone, like the years since high school were just a brief intermission. He spots you across the room and makes a beeline over, arms already open before you can brace for it.

His hug lasted a second too long. The kind that wasn’t exactly inappropriate, but lingered. Like he thought he still had some unspoken claim.

And when he pulled back, his eyes did a slow sweep down your dress with a grin that said he liked what he saw—and he didn’t care how obvious he was being about it.

“Wow,” he said, all teeth. “You look amazing. Didn’t think I’d get lucky running into you tonight.”

Zayne is at your side the whole time, calm and unreadable. You introduce them, a little stiffly. The classmate offered his hand, and Zayne took it without hesitation, his grip polite, firm. Nothing dramatic. No cold stare. Just the picture of poised indifference.

But partway through the guy’s rambling attempt at flirtation disguised as nostalgia, Zayne’s hand finds yours. Effortless. Natural. His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, like he’d been planning it all evening.

And then, without breaking eye contact with the guy, his thumb started brushing slowly across the surface of your wedding ring—over and over, like he was rediscovering the shine, polishing it just so.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The guy keeps talking a little longer, but there is a shift. His smile dims a shade, that false confidence faltering. And eventually—finally—he made some excuse about needing another drink and walked off with a tighter jaw than before.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. He just stands there for a moment, looking in the direction the guy disappeared.

Then, quiet as ever, he murmured, “Interesting choice of cologne.”

You glanced up at him, trying not to smile.

“Pity about the attitude,” he added, like it was an afterthought. Like he was reviewing wine.

You snorted. “Zayne.”

“He was being presumptuous.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t need to.”

You kissed him later that night. Half-laughing, half-pressed-up-against-the-door, telling him how annoyingly hot he was when he got like that. The way he didn’t need to raise his voice to make a point. The way his thumb moved over your ring like he could remind the world it existed without ever having to say the words.

He only said, “I know,” before kissing you again—slow, deep, deliberate.

And the thing was, he did know.

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You sigh with dramatic satisfaction as you sink deeper into his chest. “What a night.”

Zayne raises an eyebrow without turning his head. “The reunion?”

You tug gently at his cheek, just enough to make him glance down at you. “You know I’m talking about after the reunion. The reunion itself was… fine. Would’ve been better if we hadn’t run into that guy, but hey—the ending? Flawless.”

You wink at him. His mouth doesn’t curve, but his arm shifts around your waist, pulling you just a little closer—like a quiet confirmation that, yes, he remembers exactly how the night ended too.

“Marriage definitely has its advantages,” he says, voice low, almost amused. He lifts your hand with ease and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the band on your ring finger. Slow. Purposeful. Like he’s sealing something.

Heat flickers up your neck—ridiculous, really, considering how long you’ve been together. But when he acts like this, all calm devotion wrapped in subtle possessiveness? Yeah, it still does things to you.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, which only earns you a second kiss against your palm to your fingers, as if to say he knows.

Which reminds you—another story, another memory you’re still not over. “And ohhh, remember that nurse?”

Zayne’s brows pinch slightly, thoughtful. “Which one?”

“There’s too many nurses,” you snort, already laughing. You’re about to tease him for being smug when another memory slips in—uninvited, but impossible to forget.

You remember white coats, antiseptic lighting, and a nurse with a clipboard and too much charm—

You tell yourself you’re just dropping by the hospital. Totally normal thing to do. Casual, innocent. Maybe you even threw in a “since I’m already in the area” excuse just to make yourself feel more justified. Not that anyone was buying it—including yourself. But hey, you missed him. Sue you. He’s your husband. You’re allowed to.

Zayne texts that he’s finishing up a case and will meet you in a few minutes, so you linger near the nurses’ station, catching up with Yvonne until she’s paged away.

Left to your own devices, you lean against the counter, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. A few familiar faces pass by, waving or stopping to say hi. At this point, you’re basically a regular—if not by role, then by reputation. Everyone in the cardiology wing knows exactly who you are.

Which is probably why it catches you a little off guard when a nurse you don’t recognize sidles up beside you, clipboard tucked to her chest and a mischievous spark in her eye.

She gives you a once-over—not unfriendly, just… curious. Measuring. “You must be Mrs. Doctor Li,” she says, with the kind of grin that suggests she’s been waiting to use that line.

You blink, smiling politely. “That’s me.”

She sighs dramatically. “Well, now I’m jealous. Visiting your husband again? You sure you don’t wanna switch places for the day?” Her tone is playful, but there’s a tilt to her voice, a nudge to the clipboard, that gives it a little edge. Half-joking, half… not.

You open your mouth to offer some equally light reply, maybe something about how he didn’t do the dishes this morning, so really she’s dodging a bullet—but you don’t get the chance.

Zayne’s presence slides into the scene without warning. He appears at your side with the kind of quiet precision that makes you wonder just how long he’s been standing there. No irritation on his face. No tension in his posture. Just calm, composed Zayne, standing like he’d always been there.

“There’s only one Mrs. Li,” he says, voice smooth and steady. Not sharp. Not cold. Just final.

Then, after a deliberate pause, he added, “No substitutions accepted.”

The nurse’s laugh comes a second too late. “Right, right. Just teasing,” she says as she politely excuses herself.

Zayne didn’t acknowledge that part. His gaze had already shifted fully to you, and though his expression barely changed, there was a slight lift at the corner of his mouth—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it immediately.

You bit back your grin, elbowing him lightly. “Smooth.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his knuckles against your back like it was just another ordinary motion. “I’m married,” he said again, quieter this time.

Like it explained everything.

And the thing was—it did. Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip. God, he was good at this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why are you so popular?” you complain, settling into the couch with a dramatic flop that your current state of pregnancy doesn’t fully allow. This time, Zayne actually helps you lay down slowly, so you successfully lay down.

After that, he’s right back again, still leaning toward you, currently rubbing slow circles into your lower back, glancing down at you with a patient look.

“Actually, don’t answer that,” you add before he can say anything, waving a hand in the air. “Of course my husband’s popular. But.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh. “It’s hard work out here. I’m trying, okay? Being subtle.”

Zayne shifts a little, adjusting the throw blanket over your lap. “You,” he says evenly, “and subtle is not really…”

He tilts his head slightly, searching for the right word, then settles on a diplomatic. “Correct.”

You gasp, swatting weakly at his chest. “Hey! I can be subtle. I’ve done subtle.”

The way he looks at you makes it clear he’s flipping through his internal memory log and finding no evidence to support your claim.

You squint at him. “I have! I think having Serena definitely helped increasing my subtlety.”

Zayne’s hand stills against your back. He gives you a very specific look. A knowing look. One that makes you narrow your eyes right back.

“What?” you say, suspicious.

“The hospital event,” he says, voice smooth. “Not long after Serena was born.”

You blink. “Ah…” you murmur, sinking further into the cushions as the memory catches up—

It’s supposed to be one of those harmless little holiday things—string lights hung too high for anyone to fix properly, half-hearted holiday music looping from a speaker no one could find, and tables covered in everything from fruitcake to suspiciously undercooked mini quiches. The pediatric wing outdoes itself in decorations, and someone even sticks paper antlers on the automatic doors.

You arrive with Serena balanced comfortably on your hip, her winter hat already sliding sideways. Zayne’s fingers lace with yours, his free hand tugging the tiny hat back into place with the same quiet precision he uses for stitching incisions. You’re not technically invited, but no one ever questions you showing up anymore—not when most of the cardiology staff knows Serena by name and you by association.

It’s cozy. Festive. Fine.

Until it isn’t.

She’s young. Polished. One of the newer nurses you haven’t seen before. The kind who probably brings her own hand-poured coffee in every morning and keeps pens organized by color. She drifts over just as Zayne finishes recounting how Serena discovers snow for the first time—specifically by licking a half-buried garden light.

“Oh my God,” she laughs, lightly tapping his arm like she’s known him forever. “You’re such a natural. I mean—look at her.”

You stiffen, just slightly. Zayne, as always, remains composed. Serena stares back at the nurse with the unimpressed expression of a child who’s recently tried to eat a pinecone and been stopped.

The nurse crouches, eyes on Serena, her voice taking on that high-pitched baby-talk edge. “You’re such a daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”

Your smile is immediate. Controlled. Just a little too sharp around the edges. “She is,” you say, your tone smooth as silk.

Then, sweetly—just a beat too slow—

“Just like I am.”

The pause hits like a dropped ornament.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His fingers tighten around yours—not harsh, not even particularly firm. Just a subtle squeeze. A silent, not here. Not in front of the inflatable Santa.

The nurse blinks. Straightens. Her smile doesn’t falter, but the light behind it dims a notch. “Right,” she says with a laugh, already half-stepping away. “Well—happy Holidays!”

Zayne offers a polite nod.

You watch her walk off with a sip of your lukewarm cocoa, pretending you didn’t just drop a bomb in front of the holiday trees.

Zayne leans in, brushing a kiss to Serena’s temple. Then, quietly, near your ear. “You’re subtle like a sledgehammer.”

You hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That is subtle.”

He gives a small chuckle, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Subtle or not, you do have a way of clearing a room.”

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. “And yet you’re always the one standing next to me when the dust settles.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—barely a breath of a smile, but unmistakably fond. His hand finds your back again, calm and warm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I mean—that was subtle!” you insist, gesturing dramatically like you’re presenting undeniable evidence.

Zayne’s gaze drifts to you with that same unreadable calm, one brow ticking upward—just enough to make his opinion known without a word. The exact same look he gets when you insist that cookies count as a balanced breakfast.

You narrow your eyes at him, already seeing through his silence. “Don’t give me that face.”

His lips press together in that polite, I’m not saying anything expression, which only makes you groan.

“She deserved it!” you declare, throwing your hands up.

“I didn’t say she didn’t,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Exactly!” You jab a finger at him, triumphant. “Just like that preschool teacher!”

That earns you a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes—subtle, but you catch it. "Now that you mention it, the one before is definitely subtle."

Just like you both remember it—

It happens the first week of Serena’s new preschool.

Zayne has been picking up Serena for the whole week. He’s been getting night shifts, and he says he likes being the one she sees first when class lets out, as long as he can for now.

You haven’t argued—why would you? Seeing your husband so excited is very cute. So today, you tagged along, half for the company, half to see for yourself where your daughter’s been spending her days.

The building itself is warm and cheerful, the kind of place with sunlight filtering through paper cutout leaves and tiny rain boots lined up like soldiers beneath name-tagged cubbies. You find Serena’s cubby easily—her name spelled in glitter glue above what looks like a drawing of a rabbit. Or a potato. Possibly both.

Then the teacher approaches.

Young. Bright-eyed. The kind of person who always sounds like she’s narrating a children’s book. Which is probably good for preschool, but you’ve been in a mood lately, so you try to rein it in. Try.

“Oh! You must be Serena’s parents,” she chirps, clasping her hands in front of her chest like she’s been waiting all day to greet you. “She’s an absolute sweetheart—so independent! And Dr. Li, we just love when you stop by. It’s so refreshing to see a dad who’s so involved.”

Your smile curls automatically. “He’s very involved.”

She giggles, like that’s the best news she’s heard all week. “You’d be surprised how rare that is. He even helped her get her shoes on last time! I thought that was just the cutest—”

You tilt your head, letting your smile widen by a millimeter. Just enough to shift the air between you.

“Yes,” you say, syrup-thick. “He’s the best. Hands-on dad, great cook, folds laundry without being asked. Fantastic memory. Always remembers everything.”

The teacher blinks, her expression still sunny—but maybe a little confused by the turn of the conversation.

“And,” you add, voice still as warm as a cup of freshly brewed tea, “he’s mine.”

You let that hang a beat before tacking on, casually.

“Want me to say it slower?”

The smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. You can see her trying to figure out whether you’re joking—and more importantly, whether it’s safe to laugh.

Zayne clears his throat beside you. “I’ll just… get Serena’s bag.”

And off he goes, calm as ever, not even pretending to hurry.

You watch him go with the slow, deliberate blink of a woman who knows exactly what she just did—and would do it again without hesitation.

The teacher stands there, fingers twisting slightly in the hem of her cardigan. “He’s, um. Very lucky.”

You nod, voice breezy. “He is.”

She moves on—quickly.

And that’s the end of that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I know when someone’s being nice and when they’re being flirty, alright!”

“Yes, darling.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

Zayne raises both hands in a show of innocence, his voice all polite calm as usual. “Me? Making fun my pregnant wife? That’s just harsh.”

You shove him lightly with a scoff, which really only makes him lean into it more. When you push yourself up from the couch, it’s slow going—your hand pressing to the small of your back, a little grunt escaping before you can stop it.

Zayne’s hand is already there to steady you. Of course it is.

You swat him off with a fussy flick of your wrist. “I’m fine.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“I want to sleep,” you grumble, shuffling toward the hallway. “You can leave your pregnant wife alone.”

Behind you, you hear the slight panic in his voice. “Love—”

You turn around, walking backward now with one hand cradling your belly. “Don’t ‘love’ me. You’re popular. Go flirt with someone else.”

His lips twitches—just slightly. “You started this.”

“Oh, please. You got weirdly quiet about that nurse.”

“I was being polite,” he says smoothly. “And strategic. Unlike some people, I don’t threaten strangers in front of the holiday trees.”

You stop your walk and narrow your eyes at him.

Slowly he says, “I mean… I should’ve told them first.”

You huff, “Don’t patronize me!”

Zayne’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to think of a way to reply to his very pregnant, very hormonal wife. You just cross your arms waiting for his reply.

Then finally he settles with. “I’m not patronizing. I’m… negotiating.”

“With who?” Raising your eyebrow at him.

He gestures vaguely between you. “The situation.”

You snort. “Oh, so now I’m a situation?”

“You’re always a situation.”

“You take that back.” You gape at him, half-offended, half-delighted.

He leans in a little. “Make me.”

Your mouth opens again—primed for another dramatic comeback—but instead you let out a laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it. You hate that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious. You love that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious.

“Ugh,” you mutter, defeated, and turn to waddle away again. “I should make you go sleep with that inflatable Santa.”

Zayne catches your wrist gently before you can get too far, and this time he doesn’t say anything right away. Just pulls you in with that quiet, careful steadiness of his until your foreheads bump softly together.

His voice is low when it comes. “You know it’s only ever you, right?”

You try—really try—not to melt at that. You fail.

You stare at him, unblinking. “That’s cheating. You can’t just go soft and sweet after arguing your case.”

Zayne’s mouth curves—barely. “I thought you liked it when I went soft and sweet.”

You squint. “Not when it makes me lose.”

He hums, the sound low and amused as he brushes his thumb lightly along your wrist. “You never lose.”

You open your mouth. Pause. Then close it again with a huff because… yeah, okay. That was good. And unfair.

Closing your eyes for a second. Just a second. you finally murmur, “And yeah,” softer now. “I know, it’s the same for me—you’re the only one, too. Then and now.”

He leans in, brushing a kiss just under your brow, the barest hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “Even when you’re being ridiculous.”

You sigh dramatically. “That’s your favorite version of me.”

“It’s the only one I get.”

You try not to smile. Fail again. With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite hide your fondness, you mutter, “You’re lucky I’m too much in a need of cuddles to make you sleep on the couch.”

“My wife does say I give best cuddles,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to your temple again—soft and steady, like the kind of promise that doesn't need to be spoken out loud.

You lean into it without meaning to. Maybe you’re a little tired. Maybe you're just too in love to keep pretending you're mad.

“…Fine,” you mutter. “You can come to bed.”

“Thank you for your mercy.”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

He doesn’t. He just smiles—barely there, but warm—and shifts his hand to your back again, that familiar pressure you’ve come to depend on more than you’d ever admit out loud.

And so you let him guide you, quiet and close, down the hallway and into the hush of your shared space. Feet aching. Belly heavy. Heart annoyingly full.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

My stubborn ass make me finish this today even though I should be sleeping, so if there's any typo excuses me and please point it out 😵💕 Also this is way shorter I suppose, I mean in term of snippet it feel shorter, or that might just be me ;-; Anyway! Hope y'all enjoy! Let me know actually, this is also a new angle...

[amandaneighbor]

Amanda viewed your profile and sent a short video 📲

[cirruslush]

1. Repressed Emotions

You’ve had the biggest crush on your brother’s best friend ever since he started coming around. But lately, it’s not just a crush anymore. He’s grown into a man, and what you feel for him now runs deeper—more passionate, more lustful.

You’ve known Hamzah since before you really understood what it meant to want someone. He was your brother’s best friend—the kid who used to steal the last slice of pizza and smirk like it was his right . The boy who used to ruffle your hair like you were some kind of puppy, then laugh when you tried to swat him away. The boy who grew into a man far too quickly, all broad shoulders and low laughs ,eyes that lingered too long when he thought no one was watching.

And now, he was living in your house.

-

-

Your parents had left for Europe, and your brother, had turned your home into a bachelor’s playground.

Hamzah was over every day—scratch that—he was staying over. His duffel bag lived by the couch, his shoes piled next to your brother’s, and every night you’d hear the low murmur of their video games and banter, long past midnight. For a week, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just noise.

But that wasn’t the case.

-

-

⤷ 3:48 AM

The walls were thin. Too thin for whatever chaos was going on behind your brother’s bedroom door. Laughter, thumping bass from some game soundtrack, and that familiar, piney, earthy scent that smoked cannabis leaves behind. A crash—was that a chair?

You threw your blanket off, and started padding down the hallway, barefoot and irritated, your sleep shirt clinging to your thighs. You banged once, sharp and hard, on the wood. Surprisingly, the music volume not even lowering itself.

The door opened almost immediately.

It was Hamzah.

He leaned against the frame, shirtless—of course—and grinning like the devil himself had taught him how.

“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

You crossed your arms. “Are you guys serious right now?”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging down your frame before flicking back up. “What? Missed us already?” he teased

“Hamzah.”

“Ooh..scary look you got on your face. Pretty hot”

Your cheeks heated. He was joking. He had to be. But there was something different in his tone, just beneath the surface.

“Just—keep it down.”

“Will try” he said, but didn’t move. “You know, you could always join us . Just once. Might be fun.”

You gave him a look that screamed absolutely not and turned on your heel. Behind you, he chuckled low, like he knew something you didn’t

-

-

⤷ Two Days Later

You woke up thirsty. Restless. Again.

The apartment was quiet for once, bathed in that eerie stillness that only came late at night.

The laughter coming from your brother’s room was quieter this time—muffled and broken up with long silences, probably another one of those intense games your brother and Hamzah would get sucked into for hours.

You didn’t even bother putting on pants. Just the same oversized t-shirt. You wouldn’t be staying at the kitchen for long anyways.

No lights were on. Just the silver-blue glow of moonlight seeping through the windows.

The hallway was dark, cool.

You dragged yourself through it barefoot, rubbing at your eyes, not expecting—

“Shit—”

You slammed into someone the second you rounded the corner.

Hands grabbing your waist instantly, steadying you. Firm and familiar

You looked up, and there he was again.

Backlit by the silver glow of the moon pouring in through the kitchen window. His hair was messy—tousled from hours on the couch. Shadows kissing his jaw in just the right places and his eyes, even darker than before under the dim moonlight.

He didn’t let go.

“You always this clumsy,” he asked, “or is it just when I’m around?”

You huffed a breath, trying to sound annoyed—but it came out breathless instead. “It was dark.”

He grinned, low and lazy. “Didn’t seem to stop you from finding me.”

You didn’t respond. Suddenly hyperaware of how warm his hands were. How close you were. “Why are you always in the kitchen anyway?”

He shrugged. “that’s the second time I’m running into you here today” His fingers flexing slightly on your waist. Like he forgot they were there—or even better—didn’t care that they still were.

“I wanted water.”

“Mm,” he said, glancing down at your bare legs, the way your shirt stopped far too early. “Sure it’s not the attention?”

You scowled, trying to pull back, but he didn’t move. Just enough resistance to make you feel like you’d need to really try if you wanted to leave.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered.

“I’ve been called worse.”

He finally let go, taking a slow step back, and the absence of his hands was somehow worse than the weight of them.

You went to the counter, trying to focus on the glass in your hand, your breathing, anything.

But you could feel him right behind you. His presence leaving the atmosphere heavy.

He leaned on the other side of the counter, watching you carefully.

“You always walk around like that?” he asked casually. His arm sneakily, wrapping around your waist again.

You paused, crossing your arms, more to cover the way your body betrayed you out of modesty. The glass in your hand nearly slipping.

“Like what?” the saliva in your mouth, nearly flooding. “It’s just a T-shirt” You gulped harshly.

The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe properly. His hands still on your waist, his thumb moving—just slightly—dragging along the hem of your t-shirt like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. A whisper of a touch, but it lit you up from the inside out.

You glanced toward the fridge, like it could grow legs any time now and save you.

“Right,” he said. This time there was something in his voice—mocking. Teasing. He let go of your waist slowly, the drag of his fingers intentional, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“You should go back to sleep,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

“You should stop wearing that shirt,” he replied, eyes dragging over it again, this time slower.

“It’s a problem,” he said under his breath. Almost as if he was talking to himself “but hey, your house, right?”

“You’re so—” You turned to snap something back, but he was closer than you thought. Not touching. Just there, admiring. You had to look up at him.

His face was unreadable now—calm, maybe even bored. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t a big deal.

That made it worse.

He then took a small step forward—closing the small remaining space between you. Letting himself almost sink in your body. Carefully, he put his hand out, placing it next to your thigh, to the counter

“W-what are you doing?” you asked quietly, kind of flustered. Sweat drops forming on your forhead.

Hamzah blinked innocently.

Soon, a nasty smirk forming on his face.

“Just getting water.” he said.

Opening the faucet behind you, letting the water forcefully fill his glass

And just like that. He turned his body away, and walked out—laughing—quietly, slow, dark..Like the air wasn’t still charged, like he hadn’t just lit a fuse and walked away from the fire.

Leaving you in the kitchen with your heart pounding and your whole body, already on fire. Your skin remembering the feeling of his big hands, his voice curling around your spine like smoke and your mouth as dry as a dessert.

Still thirsty—But not for water.

You slipped back to your room in silence, but sleep never came.

It was only you, and your thoughts.

-

-

⤷ The next morning.

You came into the kitchen late, half-hoping he wouldn’t be there.

He was.

Of course he was.

Sitting at the table like he owned it, like this wasn’t your house. Shirtless again—because apparently that was his default now—one leg stretched out, the other bouncing lazily. His phone in hand, head tilted slightly, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the shower. A mug of coffee sat untouched in front of him, steam still rising from his body.

He didn’t look up.

But you felt him notice you.

That awareness. That shift in the air. Like gravity shifted.

You ignored it—or at least—tried to.

You walked past him with studied indifference, reached into the cupboard for cereal like you didn’t still feel the echo of last night—his voice behind you, the nearness, the unspoken heat.

“You sleep okay?” he asked casually, like it was a throwaway question.

“Fine.”

“Dream about me?”

You turned slowly, cereal box in hands, giving him the flattest look you could muster. “Are you ever serious?”

Finally, he looked up.

And there it was—that same look that had been driving you crazy for years. Playful on the surface, but underneath? That lazy, low-burning interest he never voiced.

That challenge.

“Not around you,” he said simply.

You stared at him. The tension tightened.

He tilted his head, eyes trailing deliberately down to your collarbone, where the edge of your sleep shirt gaped. Exposing the fact that you were indeed bra-less.

You swiftly turned back to the counter—after only realizing yourself—hands a little too tight on the coffee mug.

“I need caffeine before this conversation,” you muttered.

“Could’ve asked me to make it for you.”

“You’re not that charming.”

“No?” His voice dipped, low and slow. “You seemed pretty charmed last night.”

Your fingers froze around the handle of the coffee pot.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

You didn’t turn, just stared down at the counter, the silence hanging too thick.

“You like messing with me,” you said finally.

“Not messing.”

His voice was closer now.

Right behind you.

You didn’t even hear him move.

“Just testing limits.”

You turned, and there he was—again. Always there. Close enough that the space between you practically suffocating. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“What kind of limits?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

“You tell me.” he leaned in.

You didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

His hand brushed your hip—just a whisper of contact, but it made your stomach twist. His other hand came up, slow, like he was waiting for you to pull away. To push him off of you.

But you didn’t.

Fingers grazed your jaw, tilted your chin up.

It was soft. Way too soft for how sharp the tension had been.

And then—he kissed you.

Fucking finally.

It was warm and unhurried, but not sweet. There was heat behind it—coiled, restrained. Like he’d been thinking about this just as long as you had. His fingers stayed gentle on your face—his mouth was anything but that. It was possessive. Raw

And you—

You kissed him back.

Harder than you meant to.

You stepped forward without thinking, backing him into the table. He let out a soft grunt of surprise, smiling against your mouth. His hand dropped from your jaw to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he wanted more, like this was just the start—

CREAK.

You both froze.

The sound was faint, but unmistakable—the creak of a bedroom door upstairs.

Your brother.

Your eyes widened. Hamzah pulled back a fraction of an inch, breathing shallow, eyes still on you.

Neither of you said a word.

You stepped back, fast. Heart racing.

His lips were swollen. His hair was a mess. And he was still looking at you. A look like, you’d just slapped him across the face

You grabbed your coffee mug, turning on your heel without another word.

“Morning,” your brother’s voice called down from the stairs.

You didn’t answer. You just walked off, head high, coffee clutched tight, hoping he couldn’t hear your pulse in your throat.

Behind you, you heard the scrape of a chair, the clink of Hamzah picking up his coffee.

“Yo,” he said to your brother, calm as ever. “You sleep okay?”

But his eyes never left the hallway where you’d disappeared.

Not once.

And the smirk he wore while sipping his coffee?

Smug. Possessive. Like he knew something your brother didn’t.

And he was enjoying it.

-

-

4:16 AM

The house was dead quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your skin.

You’d woken up in a cold sweat again. Your shirt clung to your back, your heart pounding like it was still trying to outrun the nightmare. You blinked into the darkness, disoriented, the weight of the dream still sitting heavy in your chest.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Twice. Muffled against the wood of your door.

You flinched.

Your brother?

Unlikely. He could sleep through a fire alarm.

You sat up slowly, dread giving way to confusion—until you heard it:

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

That voice.

Low, cocky. Half amusement, half challenge.

It was Hamzah.

You stilled. Your heart started a different kind of race now.

Did he wake up because of the noise? Or… was he already awake?

Your mind flashed back to the morning—his mouth, his hands, the heat in his eyes right before your brother’s door creaked and shattered the moment. You hadn’t spoken since. You’d avoided him, like the coward you are.

But now he was here. At your door. At your worst hour. Not being able to escape him.

Something about that made your stomach twist.

Would opening the door be giving in?

Maybe. But was that such a bad thing?

Surrendering didn’t sound half as bad now.

You didn’t give yourself time to hesitate. Fingers curled around the knob, and you pulled.

Hamzah stood there, shirt wrinkled, revealing his happy trail. Sweat drops riding low on his hips and his blonde tips messy, like he’d run a hand through them a thousand times. He looked like he belonged in every bad decision you’d ever made.

Stepping forward, his eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. Down your bare legs, the same oversized shirt hanging off your shoulder, the faint flush on your cheeks—He didn’t bother hiding it.

The door clicked shut behind him

He didn’t say a word.

No smirks. No jokes.

Just a slow, deliberate turn to face you, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

He moved toward you without speaking—silent, intense, like a predator that had finally cornered something it had been hunting for years. Every step felt heavier than the last, until he was standing right in front of you again.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Say something,” you whispered, voice barely there.

“I warned you,” he said. Calm. Even. Dead serious. “Told you I wasn’t messing around tonight.”

Your pulse spiked. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t—not when he was looking at you like that. Like he owned you already and was just giving you a head start before claiming what was his.

He reached for your jaw, fingers tilting your face up—not gently, not rough either. Just enough to remind you that you were his to move. His thumb brushed along your bottom lip, and his gaze dropped there for a second, fixated.

“You opened the door like you were ready” he muttered. “So don’t look at me like that now.”

“I am.” you said—too fast maybe.

Too honest.

His mouth twitched at the corners, forming into a smile—subtly showing off of his sharp canines.

But there was nothing kind in it. Just hunger.

“Then show me.”

You didn’t even get the chance to answer.

His hands were on your waist, dragging you into him, lips crashing onto yours again—harder this time. It was different now. No more teasing, no testing limits. This was full control, no hesitation.

You gasped, and he took that opening like an invitation—tongue claiming your mouth with brutal precision. He kissed like he had something to prove. Like he knew exactly what you wanted and had no plans to let you leave without getting it.

You barely noticed when he started walking you backwards—until the back of your knees hit the bed, and he shoved you down with one hand, still standing above you.

You blinked up at him, dazed, panting, lips red and swollen.

He looked at you like you were the best mistake he’d ever made.

“Stay there.”

You didn’t move.

He reached for the hem of his shirt—like he’d even needed it in the first place—and yanked it off in one motion, tossing it somewhere behind him. Every inch of him was lean, carved muscle and sharp lines. Not too perfect. Just real. Solid. Like he was built to ruin someone.

And right now, that someone was you.

He climbed over you slowly, knees framing your hips, hands planted beside your head.

“You scared?” he murmured, face inches from yours.

“No,” you breathed, even though your heart was pounding like it was trying to escape your chest.

His eyes flicked down to your neck, your chest rising and falling too fast beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw—barely—his voice low. Brutal.

“You should be.”

His mouth finally found your throat, kissing a slow, long, bruising path downward. His hands skimmed along your thighs, parting them with no hesitation, settling between them like he belonged there. You felt his weight press into you, anchoring you in place, and god—it was too much and not enough at the same time.

“Look at you,” he said against your skin. “Acting all shy now. After provoking me all this time.”

You whined, fingers clutching at his shoulders. He caught your wrists, roughly placing them above your head with one hand.

“Hands stay here.”

You obeyed. Instinctively.

He smiled. That same wicked grin, but darker now. More possessive.

“You’re learning.”

His other hand slid under your shirt, dragging upward, slow and torturous. He took his time, watching your reactions the entire time, soaking in every little twitch, every breath you tried—and failed—to steady.

You didn’t know where to look—his eyes, his mouth, the flex of muscle every time he moved, like he was built to do this.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse now, like he was hanging on by a thread.

“I want this,” you whispered, lips parted, flushed.

He hovered just over your mouth, not kissing you yet.

“Say my name.”

You whimpered. “Hamzah…please”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, rough and passionate, like he needed to stamp himself into your memory. Your hands stayed above your head like he told you, even when your whole body was trembling beneath his.

And when he finally let go of your wrist, his hand didn’t leave—it slid down your arm, slowly, deliberately, until his fingers laced with yours.

The softest touch he’d given you all night.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“Too late to change your mind now,” he muttered.

You smiled, “was never gonna.”

His other hand slowly reaching for the waistband of your shorts—not taking them off—only sliding it under, making you go insane, more and more by seconds.

A soft whine escaped your lips—quickly covering them with your hand—as he teasingly rubbed your clothed clit in a slow circular motion.

“Sensitive,” he murmured, tongue brushing over the marks he’d just left. “Didn’t think I’d get you like this so fast.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. “You’re cocky.”

“You love it.”

He was right. You did.

It was maddening.

He slipped your panties to the side, dragging his fingers, painfully slow along the line of your wet folds. Restrained, soft moans leaving your mouth.

Hamzah seemed to get more fascinated by the fact that you were trying so hard to remain calm and silent. He wanted to hear your voice. Even if that meant getting caught

He slid one finger inside you, slowly pumping it in and out, doing that one circular motion every time—searching for your g-spot while also making sure not to hurt you.

“Oh- fuck Hamzah” a moan slipped. Your high forming rapidly. Your head falling deeper onto your pillow as your hands met with his, desperately trying to slow him down

And then he knew.

He knew that was it—your sweet spot.

Purposely picking up the pace, he added another finger. Making a mess out of you as he hit the same. exact. spot. every time

“At this point, you’re going to cut my fingers off.” he teased. Pointing how hard you were wrapping your walls around his fingers.

Instinctively you bit back the noise rising in your throat as the knot on your stomach was sluggishly untying itself. Him teasing you even when you’re about to orgasm definitely was the cherry on top of the cake.

You clenched your fists into the sheets beneath you. Silently moaning—as much as you could. Your whole body shivered, soon enough, your cum dripping on his fingers.

Hamzah let out a soft, low, laugh

He was enjoying this.

Too much.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

He smiled against your cheek. “You’ll hate me more tomorrow.”

He kissed you once more—lazy, lingering, cruel in how good it felt—and then finally pulled away. Slow. Reluctant. Like it physically pained him to stop.

And maybe it did.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, back to you, running a hand through his outgrown buzz, chest rising and falling with restraint. You sat up behind him, dazed, hair a mess, lips bruised, body aching for more.

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“T-shirt looks better off of you than I thought it would.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it without looking.Smirking.

“Get some sleep, princess,” he said as he stood, already backing toward the door, shirt still forgotten somewhere on your floor. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And just like that—

He was gone.

Leaving you hot, breathless, and completely wrecked—without ever taking anything at all.

────୨ৎ────

✎ a/n: gotta love me a power top 😙

Originally this was supposed to be smaller but i just wanted to add more and more tension. Bear with me ❤️ HOPE YOU ENJOYED THAT!

[daisysanddune]

"Just enjoying a little downtime on the ground, feeling flirty and fabulous! Who’s ready to turn up the heat? 🔥💋 #FeelingCute #FlirtyVibes"

[flowerchild-1991]

I think about this clip often. This only proves not just women love this man, but other men do too 🤣 whether they want to admit it or not. And I LOVE how Austin loves love and attention from anyone who will give it to him 😂😏. The eye contact, the smirk, and flirty vibe he is giving 😍🥰. A true Leo man he is😉

[jamieannmason]

If I am flirting back with you, then yes, I am also interested in fucking you.

[huascrimsonpeony]

"Why are you so shameless?"

San Lang stuck out his tongue.

The two of them laughed.

[freedeluluskzgifs]

Made my first... whatever these are called. What are they called?

[mrsblukola]

The flirting in this interview was the best😋

Nic then saying “how hard do you want me to try” was truly unhinged🤭

[lyn31]

Hiii just finished reading the honeymoon fic, can you write the continuation of the fic? Them going skiing and enjoying their holiday? Just pure fluff and lovey dovey 😘

I gotchuuu, here is the pure fluff honeymoon experience! Chaotic too 😂 Hope you like it! Let me know what you think! 💕

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Warmest Cold Days

Summary

A cozy winter honeymoon for a newlywed couple, where playful teasing, shared memories, and the intimacy of snowed-in nights deepen their connection as they explore both the beauty of their relationship and the quiet, blissful moments of married life.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Married fluff, newlywed couple, honeymoon activities, banter, playful, flirty, skiing, skating, shopping, cozy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning comes with a different kind of quiet.

The snow has stopped, leaving the world outside brushed in soft light and crystalline stillness. You wake to the sound of water boiling in the other room, the clink of a mug being set down, and the faint rustle of winter gear. The bed beside you is empty, still warm — proof Zayne’s already up and moving.

When you sit up and call his name, he answers from the kitchen.

“Stay in bed. It’s still early.”

Naturally, you ignore him.

You shuffle out from beneath the blankets, dragging one around your shoulders like a cape as you pad into the living room. He’s just finishing pouring something into two thermoses—his hair still damp from a shower, ski jacket halfway zipped.

“You didn’t wake me,” you grumble mid-yawn.

“It’s still early,” Zayne replies, handing you one of the mugs. “And I also watched you drool into the pillow for ten minutes and decided to let you rest.”

You give him a flat look, sipping the hot chocolate anyway. “Romantic.”

“Isn’t it?” He leans in, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ll run the bath.”

You nod, eyes still closed, hugging your mug like it’s your last tether to warmth. “Thank you, husband.”

“You’re welcome, wife,” he replies, and you expect the usual soft brush of his lips. What you get is a kiss that’s slow, deep, and far more indulgent than necessary for someone just offering to run a bath.

Your breath catches slightly as he pulls away, and you open your eyes halfway to find him already turning toward the bathroom, like he didn’t just short-circuit your thoughts.

“You could’ve joined me if you didn’t take a bath first,” you mumble, almost accusing, though you don’t even sound convincing to yourself.

“I still can join you.”

You snort, not bothering to hide the amused disbelief curling at the corners of your mouth. Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d mean it. And worse—you know he would.

You shoot him a look over your mug, one brow arched. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to sabotage our plans again.”

He doesn’t answer, just tilts his head slightly like you’re not the first suggesting it. You huff under your breath. You won’t admit he’s right — even if the smile tugging at your lips gives you away.

After a much, much longer bath than planned—with limbs tangled under steaming water and hands that didn’t quite behave like they were supposed to—you finally emerge from the bathroom, warm, flushed, relaxed… and immediately betrayed by the snowsuit waiting on the bed.

You eventually wrangle yourself into it—layers upon layers until your arms, and every step sounds like your clothes are trying to fight each other. You feel like a walking pillow. A very loud walking pillow.

Zayne, of course, is already fully suited up, like this is his normal Saturday routine. Not a wrinkle in sight. His scarf is tucked perfectly, his gloves on without struggle. He looks like a catalog ad. You look like a preschooler who lost a fight with a snowsuit.

“Don’t,” you grumble as he crouches in front of you to fasten your boots.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies, tone far too neutral.

“You thought it.”

His gloved hands are quick and sure, buckling the last strap like you’re about to waddle off to a snowball war zone. There’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. You almost miss it. Almost.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you half-grumble.

“I enjoy many things about being married to you,” he says, standing slowly. “This is just... high on the list.”

You meet his eyes. “Helping me into boots?”

He leans closer, fingers brushing a bit of lint from your scarf. “No. Watching you try to maintain dignity while struggling.”

You smack his chest with a mitten. It makes the dullest thud in existence. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Stop flirting with me while I look like a sentient sleeping bag.”

“Can’t help it.” His eyes flicker with quiet amusement. “You're still my wife. Even in maximum puff.”

You sigh dramatically. “This marriage is a trap.”

“I’m glad you fell into it.”

You want to say something clever back, but then he’s opening the cabin door and the crisp mountain air rushes in, biting your nose and stealing your breath in the best kind of way. Snow glints outside like powdered silver. Your gloved hand slips into his without a second thought. And in the distance, the slopes curve into soft white hills beneath a pale blue sky.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You know that Zayne is annoyingly good at skiing. Graceful, composed, barely a wobble. But you also don’t remembering struggling this much as well, you spend the first fifteen minutes figuring out how to stay upright, arms flailing every time you try to stop.

He’s patient—but not immune to amusement.

“Need any help, wife?” He calls from ahead, coasting to a smooth stop as you nearly eat snow behind him.

“Nope!” You yell back. “I can do this...”

He slides over, catching you around the waist before you tip again. You brace your hands on his shoulders, breathing hard from laughing and sheer survival.

“Okay, maybe I do need help,” you mutter. “I swear I was not this bad the last time we skied.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, brushing snow from your hat. “But I’m still impressed you managed to almost take out that pine tree.”

You shove him, lightly, and he doesn’t budge. But he kisses your cheek before letting you go.

You both fall into rhythm eventually—him showing off a little, you pretending not to notice. There’s a break at the mid-slope lodge, hot cider and cocoa warming your hands as you press close on a bench, your legs brushing beneath the table.

You don’t stay long. There’s more mountain to conquer.

And you do.

Kind of.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By afternoon, you’ve peeled off your gear and found your way into a tiny souvenir shop near the base of the mountain. It smells like pine and cinnamon and faintly burnt coffee, the shelves lined with handmade ornaments and absurd trinkets—a snow globe that plays heavy metal, a taxidermy squirrel in ski goggles.

You find a knit beanie with floppy antlers and immediately force it onto Zayne’s head.

He stares at you silently while you grin and lift your phone.

“I don’t think mocking your husband is a very wife thing to do,” he says.

You snap the photo anyway.

He sighs. But still doesn’t take it off.

You leave with the hat, a wooden keychain shaped like a snowman, and a tiny bottle of peppermint syrup you swear will revolutionize your hot chocolate game.

Speaking of—your next stop is a specialty café just down the road. The menu is a wall of handwritten chalk flavors. Chili spice, salted hazelnut, rose, espresso, lavender-white. You order a tasting flight, side by side on a window bench, your knees knocking beneath the table.

Zayne doesn’t like the lavender there. So you swap it with yours.

He doesn’t try to stop you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun dips low by the time you return to the cabin. The air is colder now, the kind that clings to your lashes and bites your cheeks. You kick off your boots, peeling off layers with exaggerated groans as you both slump into domestic exhaustion.

“I think I bruised muscles I didn’t know I had,” you say, collapsing onto the rug.

Zayne disappears into the kitchen for a moment, then returns with wine, two glasses, and a tray of snacks—cheese, crackers, fruit, some leftover chocolate from earlier.

He sets it by the fire, sits beside you, and tugs a blanket around your shoulders without a word.

The flames crackle. Your socks are mismatched. The playlist you started earlier picks up something soft and slow. It’s not a love song, not exactly—but Zayne sets down his glass, rises to his feet, and extends a hand toward you.

You blink up at him.

“You’re serious?”

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve seen you fall today. This is safer.”

You laugh, let him pull you up.

The dance is slow, quiet, just a sway in the firelight with your arms around his neck and his hands at your waist. The room glows gold around you. His forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speak—not needing to.

Just warmth.

Just stillness.

Just him.

Eventually, you fall asleep wrapped in his arms on the couch, the fire dwindling to embers, your breath soft against his collarbone. He doesn’t move for a long time.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The third morning of your honeymoon starts with a sleepy stretch and Zayne flopped across half the bed like gravity gave up on him.

You stare at his bare shoulder, blink at his hair sticking up in all directions, then poke him in the ribs.

“We’re married,” you whisper dramatically.

Zayne doesn’t move.

You poke him again. “Wake up. You have a wife.”

A muffled noise escapes from where his face is buried in the pillow. “I had a drooling wife yesterday, too.”

You ignore that last comment and crawl over him. “You promised me a snowman.”

“Mmm.” He pulls you in, trapping you against him.

“You at least heavily implied it.” You poke his cheek.

Zayne opens one eye. “You were naked when I said that.”

Still, he gets up. He always does.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The snow is powdery and fresh, soft underfoot as you crunch your way to the flat patch near the trees behind the cabin. You’re bundled up again, but less miserably so. The air feels clearer. Your hands are warmer.

“Okay,” you announce. “We’re building the most anatomically correct snowman in the region.”

Zayne looks at you sideways. “Anatomically correct?”

“He’ll have personality,” you answer like that explain anything. “And pants.”

“...We don’t have pants.”

“I have imagination.”

He exhales through his nose and kneels beside you as you start shaping the base.

You spend the next hour bickering about snowball size, proportion, and whether the snowman should have a tragic backstory.

You say yes. Zayne says that’s too much emotional labor for someone made of ice.

You trade a long look, holding back a laugh and he just stares back deadpan.

When you step back, your creation stands tall and slightly crooked. He has a pinecone for a nose, scarf from your luggage, and Zayne’s gloves because “he looked cold.” His arms stick out like he’s about to embrace death.

Zayne tilts his head, studying it. “So? Have you decided his tragic backstory yet?”

“He’s the husband. Obviously.”

Zayne turns to you. “The husband?”

“Yes. Look at the expression. Dead inside. Haunted. Probably married to some overly enthusiastic woman who drags him out to build snowmen when he’s tired.”

He steps closer until your boots knock gently against his. “That sounds tragic.”

You flash a smile. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

Zayne cups your face with gloved hands, voice dry. “I also signed up for tax benefits.”

He tries to kiss you, but you pull back, take a handful on snow from the ground and swing your hand at him.

Thunk.

A snowball explodes against his shoulder.

Zayne blinks at you.

You don’t look the least bit sorry.

And just when you see a snow start to form in his palm you take cover.

What follows is absolute chaos. Snow flies. You shriek when he ducks behind a tree and nails you square in the back. He slips at one point and eats it, which you declare a personal victory even though you fall right after. You chase him, tackle him into a snowdrift, and end up laughing so hard your stomach hurts while he pins your wrists and kisses you breathless in the cold.

“Wife,” he murmurs against your cheek.

“Husband,” you reply.

It’s chaos and doesn’t make sense, but it’s both of you together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You head into town around lunchtime, cheeks still flushed from the cold. The bookstore sits on the corner of a winding street, its windows fogged up and the sign out front hand-painted in curling letters: The Binding Page.

The inside smells like old paper and cinnamon tea. There’s a fireplace in the back corner and overstuffed chairs, most of them occupied by sleepy couples or bundled-up tourists thumbing through novels.

Zayne disappears into the nonfiction section while you meander, fingers trailing over old spines. You find him twenty minutes later crouched beside a shelf, flipping through a book about winter constellations.

You lean over his shoulder. “Planning to teach our future children how to navigate by starlight?”

“Planning to avoid being mocked when they ask questions.”

You nudge his side. “They’ll love you either way.”

He glances at you. “That’s because I’m their father. You’re the chaotic one.”

“And you married me.”

Zayne closes the book and stands, taller than the shelves and unfairly graceful as he slides it under one arm. “I married you because you’re chaotic.”

You follow him to the counter, arms full of secondhand novels and one ridiculous romance book you pick up solely to embarrass him. You wait until the cashier rings it through.

“Just doing research,” you say.

Zayne doesn’t blink. “For what?”

“For being the best wife.”

He stares at you for a long second.

“You already are.”

Your heart flips in your chest. You nudge him with your elbow, suddenly shy. “Cheesy.”

“Objectively true.”

You walk out into the cold again, hands brushing, bags swinging at your sides.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening falls with a slow hush. The sky outside shifts from lavender to deep blue, and the moon rises pale over the trees.

Back at the cabin, you light a few candles—more for atmosphere than anything else—and Zayne starts the bath.

It takes forever to fill, but it’s worth it. Warm water, steam curling over the edge, soft citrus-scented bubbles because apparently that’s what the honeymoon kit included. You slide in first, sighing, letting the heat undo the day’s soreness.

Zayne joins you after a moment, settling behind you with his arms around your waist.

Neither of you talk much at first. The silence is easy, filled with the sound of water shifting and skin brushing beneath the bubbles.

Eventually, he says, “We should take more baths together.”

You tilt your head. “You mean we should do more honeymoon.”

He hums. “I don’t know. My wife’s kind of a menace.”

“She’s beautiful, though.”

“She is,” he agrees. Then, after a beat. “And she has terrible aim.”

You laugh, flicking water toward his face. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Give me my guns and I’ll show you terrible aim.”

“That’s why I didn’t give you any.”

You splash him one more time, he chuckles before pulling you back to sit comfortably in front of him again.

Your back rests against his chest, your head tilted to the side. His breath moves through your hair, slow and steady.

It’s quiet again, and this time you keep it that way.

You don’t need words to know how much you’re loved.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re not sure what time it is when you finally stir, only that the air smells faintly like pine and your thighs still ache from the night before.

Zayne hasn’t moved.

He’s stretched out beside you, arm slung over your waist, hair a soft mess against the pillow. His breath cools the back of your neck, and his hand has long since migrated beneath your shirt in his sleep—palm resting low on your stomach, fingers just barely curved in possessive laziness.

You sigh into the sheets. “Husband,” you murmur.

A slight hum answers you. His hand tightens.

“We’re definitely sleeping in too much on this trip.”

Another hum. “And?”

“We’re not even snowboarding. We’re just...doing very little. And fooling around a lot.”

Zayne finally speaks, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “It’s almost like we’re on a honeymoon.”

You roll to face him, tucking into the warmth of his chest. “Still feels like I tricked you into marrying me.”

His eyes blink open just enough to meet yours. “I’m the one who took you to the festival and asked you to marry me.”

You smile and try to hide your face, but he catches your jaw, pressing a slow kiss to your cheek. Then your nose. Then your mouth. “Wife,” he adds, lips still brushing yours, “I like waking up like this.”

“Half-naked?”

“Married. Completely yours.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. “That’s terrible. Say it again.”

He does.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You eventually get out of bed around noon—just long enough to pull on warm clothes and venture into the village café, where the lunch menu is full of soups, thick bread, and mulled drinks. You sit across from each other by the window, knee brushing knee, and Zayne steals your roll without blinking.

“You signed a contract,” he says calmly when you glare at him.

“To love, honor, and not let you starve.”

“Exactly.”

“You are so lucky you’re handsome.”

“I know,” he replies, dry as ever. “You always say that’s why you’re keeping me.”

You chuckle. “Don’t get too cocky. I could still trade you in for a snowboard instructor.”

He reach for your drink and takes a slow sip of it, completely unfazed. “You’d miss me before dinner.”

“Maybe,” you say, nudging his knee under the table. “But only because no one else makes hot chocolate like you.”

After lunch, you walk down to the frozen lake where the resort sets up its seasonal skating ring. You rent skates, lace them on with gloved hands, and immediately regret all your life choices as you stand wobbling on the edge of the ice.

“Why does this feel harder than fighting Wanderers?”

"Because Wanderers don't create icy ground," Zayne murmurs, already gliding past like he was born on skates.

You eye him, amused. “Okay. Showoff.”

He circles back toward you, stops neatly, and holds out a hand. “Come on. I’ll catch you.”

“Will you?”

“I always do.”

You roll your eyes, but you take his hand.

The first few minutes are full of swearing under your breath and clinging to him while he guides you forward one slow glide at a time. He keeps his pace steady, never letting go, and never laughing even when you trip into him for the third time and nearly send both of you sprawling.

“Maybe we should have practiced before doing this in public,” you mutter.

Zayne leans down. “You mean practiced at home?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Really?”

He just lifts a brow at you.

You almost fall again—but of course, he catches you.

“They do say men only have one thing on their mind,” you say, shaking your head dramatically—even though Zayne’s still the only thing keeping you upright.

“Yes, only one thing.”

You both laugh, breath fogging in the cold, the sound echoing softly across the ice.

Eventually you find your rhythm—or enough of one to loop around without catastrophe—and when you glance up, you realize he’s been watching you this whole time. Not like he’s monitoring you for falls.

Just…watching. The same way he always does. Like you’re the only thing worth seeing.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Still staring.”

“Still beautiful.”

You want to kiss him. You do, leaning in just enough to bump his nose with yours. He tilts his head slightly, brushing his lips over yours in the middle of the snow-covered rink, and no one else seems to exist for a while.

It’s just a quick kiss—barely anything at all, and somehow everything.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dinner is something easy—roasted vegetables and soup reheated from what you brought back. The cabin is quiet again, warm again, the sound of the wind outside soft against the windows.

After you’ve eaten and changed into comfortable clothes, Zayne makes hot chocolate while you pull every blanket in the cabin onto the couch. You settle against him with your cup in both hands, back pressed to his chest, your legs tangled over his.

It’s peaceful like this. The fireplace glows low. You’re both quiet, drowsy from the day, and it doesn’t feel like anything else needs to happen tonight.

Until he glances out the window behind you and nudges you gently.

“What?”

He just nods. “Look.”

You twist around to look.

Above the trees, the night sky has gone green.

The aurora glides silently across the stars, colors shifting from emerald to violet to blue. It moves like a breath, like a dream just barely held in place.

You turn back to Zayne, who’s still looking up—but you don’t think he’s watching the sky anymore.

“We’ve seen this before,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

“But you’re still staring.”

He meets your gaze. “So are you.”

You lean back into him, your cheek against his shoulder. “This is…kind of perfect.”

He hums softly, arms tightening around you. “Everything’s been perfect.”

You smile against him. “Alright. Husband.”

“Yes?”

“What should we do tomorrow?”

His hand strokes lazily over your arm. “Hm. Hike? A proper souvenir shop? Or stay in and fool around until lunch again?”

You grin. “Are those my only options?”

“No. But they’re the most rewarding.”

You laugh into his chest, and he kisses the top of your head.

Outside, the aurora ripples on, quiet and otherworldly.

Inside, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

Cuteness overload that I feel like pelting them with a snowball 😩😂💕 And here's the proposal and wedding, and the first day of honeymoon (smut)

[amandaneighbor]

i love this pose 🤭🤭

[magnificentqueensage]

If you’re curious, speak up.

If you’re ready, show me.

[kiberartedigital]

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[daisysanddune]

Love the body, love the feeling of the fabric, love the flowers, love the lace. Just love it!

[evelinkabluzovaxtheveryvery]

I’m in the mood for something dangerous… 🐾🌙 Who’s brave enough to join? 😈