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[kistnlads]

𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Zayne x FemReader | Short Fic, 2.7k Words | Anonymous Fic Request

Hintofthescene/Moans/Groans | Likes and reblogs are appreciated

⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆

You are his greatest distraction, the one thing he can never tune out. He’s memorized the rhythm of your heartbeat, sketched its shape in the margins of his reports, felt its pulse beneath his fingertips more times than he should. And when you remind him that he is tending to his patient, he loses another piece of his restraint.

He wants you.

Zayne exhales slowly, pressing his fingers into his temple. His mind should be focused on the neatly written reports before him, but instead…

Your heart.

Not metaphorically, not in some poetic, lovesick way. No, it’s your actual, anatomical heart. The one he’s listened to countless times, the one that flutters when you’re nervous, steadies when you’re at ease. The one that once faltered after an injury, forcing him to fight to keep it beating. He remembers the sound, the rhythm, the pulse beneath his fingertips.

And so he draws it.

Over and over. In the margins of reports, between scrawled medical notes, on the edges of prescription pads. It’s not just muscle and vessels to him. It’s yours. He knows it, could sketch it from memory, engraved into his mind like something sacred.

His pen scratches against the paper, outlining the delicate chambers, the intricate arteries, the pulse points where life surges through your body. But as his hand moves, the lines shift, detailing not just a perfect textbook heart, but something softer. 

A heart entwined with his own.

The thought sends a heat curling in his chest, but before he can tear the page out, a voice shatters the quiet.

“Still working this late, Dr. Zayne?”

His fingers tighten around the pen. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you.

But he couldn't help but wonder how you slipped in so silently—no creak of the door, no knock to announce your presence. Not that it mattered now. 

You stood by the closed door, arms crossed, a teasing smile playing on your lips. You’re tired, he can see it in the way you shift your weight, the faint haze of sleepiness clinging to your eyes, yet you’re here. And suddenly, his focus on the medical reports feels utterly pointless.

“Should you not be resting?” he counters, voice steady despite the warmth creeping into his collar.

You huff, stepping inside. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

You step closer, gaze flicking down to his open journal. Before he can close it, your fingers dart out, flipping the pages back to reveal his sketches.

And then—silence.

You start to take in the countless drawings. Some clinical, detailed, precise. But others… others are different. It was a secret he never meant to reveal.

“What’s this?” Your fingers brush the edge of the page, tracing the inked lines. “You seem to have drawn this a lot.”

Zayne swallows. Deny it. Say it’s just a medical habit.

Your gaze lifts, locking onto his, searching. And he sees it, the slight hitch in your breath, the same racing pulse he’s memorized.

“Zayne…” Your voice is different now as his pulse thrums in his ears.

He exhales.

“I find myself thinking about it more often than I should.” His voice is low, edged. “Your heart. The way it beats. The way it—” 

His jaw tightens. He should take the journal back. Should laugh it off, tell you it’s nothing. But he doesn’t move. 

“How long?” Your question sends a bolt of panic through him. “How long have you been drawing my heart?” 

He can’t answer. He thought he shouldn’t. Because if he does, if he gives even the slightest inch then you’ll know everything.

“When you check my pulse, when you listen to my heartbeat, do you picture this?”

Zayne clenches his teeth, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His instinct is to pull away, to put distance between you and him before he does something reckless.

But then—

You take his hand. Press it flat against your chest, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of your white dress, right over where your heart beats for him.

Your fingers tighten around his wrist, keeping his hand right where it is. “Tell me… what do you feel?”

His breath is slow, measured, but he can feel it. Your pulse beneath his palm, the delicate but insistent rhythm of you. It would be so easy to pretend this is just another examination. Just another routine check.

But it isn’t.

He spoke your name, his voice was strained, barely holding together, and you tilt your head, lips curving in the faintest ghost of a smile. 

“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”

Damn you.

Zayne could lie. He could tell you he hears nothing unusual, that your vitals are fine, that this is meaningless.

But the way you’re looking at him—curious, knowing, waiting—he knows you won’t let him get away with it.

And then… he pulls away.

The loss of contact is abrupt, but he doesn’t let himself hesitate as he tries his best in ignoring the way his fingers still burn from touching you.

“This is inappropriate.” His voice is clipped, controlled. 

You didn’t move.

Instead, you study him, slow and careful, as if trying to piece him together.

“Why do you always do that?”

His brow furrows. “Do what?”

“Run.”

The word hangs between the two of you, heavy and unrelenting. Zayne’s lips press into a thin line. His shoulders square, arms crossing over his chest in a practiced display of distance.

“I do not.”

You huff, shaking your head. “You’re doing it right now.”

You take a step forward, and Zayne forces himself to hold his ground. He won’t retreat again. 

“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at me when you think I won’t see? The way you touch me just a little longer than necessary? And now this—” You gesture to the journal still open on the desk, the evidence of his obsession laid bare.

His heart slams against his ribs.

“I want you to say it.”

He knows what you mean. And you want him to admit it. To say the words he’s kept locked behind clenched teeth and medical reports and foolish sketches in the margins of his notes.

Zayne swallows hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. It would be easy—so damn easy—to close this distance. To grab your wrist, to pull you against him, to press his lips to yours just to see if you’d melt against him the way he’s imagined too many times.

So instead, he exhales through his nose, and responds, “You are asking for something dangerous.”

“I can handle danger.”

Of course you can. That’s what terrifies him the most. You’re not someone fragile, someone he can keep at arm’s length forever. You’re relentless, unyielding, just as stubborn as he is. And if you made up your mind about something—about him—then there’s no stopping you.

Your lips curl, amusement flickering in your eyes. “How about you, Dr. Zayne?”

“This is a mistake. You do not know what you are asking for—”

“Then tell me to leave.”

Zayne’s teeth grind together. You’re giving him another out, a way to escape before he ruins everything. But you don't realize—he’s already ruined.

His control is slipping, unraveling piece by piece, and the more you look at him like that, like you’re his, the more he feels himself cracking.

He spoke your name again, but you cut him off.

“Tell me to leave, Zayne.” Your voice is steady. “And I will leave—”

Just like that—he snaps.

His fingers curl around your wrist, flipping your positions in a single, fluid motion. In a breath, you’re against the desk, and he’s in your space now—caging you in, pressing your back until there’s nowhere left to run.

His other hand comes up, gripping the edge of the desk beside you, effectively trapping you between his body and the cold surface.

Your breath catches, eyes wide, but you didn’t pull away. You don’t want to. And that—that—is what breaks him most of all.

“Do you truly believe that I do not want you?” His voice is low, rough, and dangerous. His grip tightens slightly, his pulse a wild, erratic thing in his throat. “Do you think I do not—” 

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. Your lips part, breath uneven.

You’re everything—too close, too warm—and Zayne has spent too long pretending he could live without this. Without you.

Your gaze searches for him. “What are you so afraid of?”

His throat works, his entire body burning from the inside out. Then, slowly and painfully, he brings his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling in the sliver of space that remains between the two of you.

“You.”

Zayne’s lips crash against yours, fierce and unrelenting, as he presses you against the desk. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, but you’re not going anywhere. Not when his body is flush against yours, not when heat coils between you like a live wire.

You push off his lab coat, letting it slide to the floor, and your fingers work at his tie, loosening it with impatient tugs. He groans against your mouth as you make quick work of his buttons, exposing the warmth of his skin beneath your touch.

His breath is uneven, his restraint fraying at the edges. Then, without hesitation, his hands slide down, parting your legs as he steps between them. But you barely notice, not when he’s kissing you like this, like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Zayne’s grip tightens on your thighs as he presses in closer, his breath hot against your lips. His half-unbuttoned shirt hangs open, the tie loosely draped around his neck, forgotten. 

He’s never been like this before—never let himself want like this. Yet, your body is so damn willing beneath his hands, and he knows there’s no turning back.

“You drive me insane,” he rasps against your skin, his lips trailing down the curve of your jaw, nipping, tasting.

You shudder, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him down to you again. “Zayne—”

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and then his hands slide up your thighs, gripping firmly as he tilts your hips toward him, his body slotting between yours in a way that sends heat pulsing through every inch of you. His lips find yours again, demanding, greedy, and swallowing every gasp.

The desk creaks beneath you as he presses you down against it, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against heated skin. You arch against him, pulling at his shirt with desperate fingers.

Zayne, for the first time, curses against your skin. His mind is clouding with need. He should take you. Right here. Right now. And he almost does.

But then—

Reality slams back into him.

This isn’t some dark alley, some hidden corner of the world where he can abandon every rule that’s been drilled into him. This is a place of work. A place meant for professionalism. 

This is an office. His damn office.

And here he is, about to take you on his desk like some reckless fool.

Zayne was a man of control. He had to be. 

A doctor who let his emotions interfere with his work was a liability. A mistake waiting to happen. 

And yet, he almost lost about any of that now. Not when you’re right in front of him, lips parted, skin burning against his touch.

Zayne stills. 

His muscles tense, his hands freezing where they rest against your body while your brows furrowed in frustration, lips kiss-swollen and tempting, so tempting.

“Why are you stopping?” You murmur, voice thick with want, fingers still buried in his hair.

His grip on your waist tightened for just a second before he forced himself to step back, though every fiber of his being protested. His shirt was open, his coat discarded somewhere on the floor, and you—you were still sitting on his desk, legs parted just enough to make him ache.

“Because this—” He exhaled sharply. “We cannot proceed with this here. It is unethical. This—this is not the appropriate place for such matters.”

He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

“I must have some self-control.”

“Self-control?” You push off the desk slowly, purposefully, closing the space between the two of you in a way that makes his heart stutter. “You’ve been doing so well, haven’t you?”

You are testing him. And God help him, it was working.

Your fingers brushed over his collarbone, trailing lower, slipping beneath the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt.

Shit.

“We—” He exhales sharply, trying to ignore the way you’re still clinging to him.

“It’s late.” Your voice is light, breath fanning against his lips. “No one’s going to walk in.”

“I… I have patients,” he grits out, hands twitching where they rest on your waist.

You lift a hand, cupping his face with a gentleness that nearly undoes him.

“You’re always looking after everyone else. Always tending to someone. Always taking care of others.” Your fingers then trail down, brushing over the rapid pulse at his throat. “But aren’t you already tending to your patient?”

Zayne stiffens.

“P–Patient?”

You lean in, lips grazing his lower lip, and fuck, you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Dr. Zayne,” you murmur, voice sultry, and taunting. “Are you really going to leave your patient unattended?”

A sharp, amused breath escapes him, somewhere between a chuckle and a curse, then his grip tightens, dragging you back against him.

“You—” His voice is strained, his self-control crumbling all over again. “Are going to be the death of me.”

I smile against his lips. And just like that, the doctor abandons all reason.

OUTSIDE DR. ZAYNE’S OFFICE

Yvonne hummed quietly to herself as she approached Zayne’s office, her steps light. She didn’t knock, she already knew she wouldn’t be getting an answer. Instead, she reached for the sliding status sign on the door, smoothly shifting it from DOCTOR IN to DOCTOR OUT.

Just as she was about to turn away, a voice behind her made her freeze.

“What are you doing?”

Yvonne sucked in a breath, schooling her face into something innocent before turning to face Greyson, Zayne’s ever-diligent assistant. He stood there, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Oh, you know,” she said breezily, clasping her hands behind her back. “Just… helping out. Thought I’d take something off Dr. Zayne’s plate. He’s been so busy, after all.”

Greyson narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. And that required switching his status to ‘Out’ when he’s clearly still inside?”

Yvonne laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe he just wants to be out for a bit, you know? Doctors need breaks too.”

Greyson didn’t budge. “Nurse Yvonne…”

She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “You really ask too many questions, Dr. Greyson.”

“It’s my job,” he deadpanned.

Yvonne opened her mouth, ready to spin another excuse when suddenly, a very distinct sound cut through the quiet hallway.

A muffled thump.

Then another.

Greyson’s brow furrowed. “What was that?”

Yvonne laughed a little too quickly. “Oh, uh… probably just Dr. Zayne knocking over some books. You know how he is. Always juggling too many things at once.”

And then—

“Zayne—ahh—!” A voice rang out, breathless, followed immediately by a low, husky groan.

Yvonne winced.

Greyson blinked.

There was a beat of absolute silence before the sound of the desk creaking again, followed by another deep groan.

Yvonne pressed her lips together, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t hearing this.

Greyson, on the other hand, was frozen. His face was carefully blank, but there was no mistaking the realization dawning in his eyes.

“They’re—” he started.

“Yep.” Yvonne didn’t even let him finish.

“In his office—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right now—?”

“Sounds like it.”

Another moan. Louder. Longer. Breathless. Followed by a muffled whimper.

“Zayne… don’t stop—”

Greyson opened his mouth, then closed it, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

He turned to the door, his hand twitching like he was about to knock. 

“Nope! No, no, no, we do not need to check on that!” Yvonne lunged, grabbing his wrist before he could ruin whatever was happening inside. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, pulling her hand away. “This is highly unprofessional.”

“So is eavesdropping,” Yvonne shot back.

“But, I’m his assistant, and I need to—”

“Yeah? You wanna assist him right now?” Yvonne arched her brow. “Wanna walk in and ask if he needs a goddamn clipboard?”

Greyson opened his mouth, then shut it, looking vaguely horrified. Yvonne smirked. 

“That’s what I thought.” She patted his shoulder. “Now come on, doctor. Let’s go before they finish, and we have to make eye contact later.”

And as they walked away, another muffled moan echoed behind them—loud enough that even Greyson, despite his best efforts, winced.

He groaned. “I’m taking the rest of the night off.”

“Good call,” Yvonne agreed. “You’ll need therapy after this.”

[kistnlads]

hi miss author!

can i request? idk if ur accepting fic requests but im taking my shot!

here goes-

since zayne is a decent artist how many times do u think hes drawn mcs heart in his medical notes or reports? does he picture it beating too? has the image of it stuck in his mind so much that he keeps sketching it without thinking?

if ur up for it id love to see a fic about this! short or long im sure it would be great thanks!

*stares at the anon question*

Oh! Oh… uh, hi there, anon!

*nervous laugh*

Looks like you hit the "give me butterflies" button, and honestly, you gave me some when I saw this notif!

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

I’ll do my best with this one, though I might post a shorter version first since I’ve got a lot of fics in progress.

Not sure if you’re just lurking or already following me, but I wish I could tag you so you’d see it right away! Either way, I’ll post it as soon as I can *fingers crossed*

Thanks for your request!

[kistnlads]

Welcome to my page!

Hi, I'm Kissten! I’m a fanfiction writer with a passion for storytelling, and right now, my focus is on crafting fanfics for 💖Love and Deepspace🪐. Most of my ideas come from the LIs’ memories🎴, but I love adding my own twists and a bit of spiciness to make the stories even more exciting. I also explore alternate universes, and deepening character relationships as I love bringing new dimensions to the world of LaDS.

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