Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing you feel is his arm, heavy and familiar around your waist. Then the warmth of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder. You shift slightly, testing the morning light that peeks through the curtains—and immediately, Zayne tightens his hold on you with all the intent of someone who has no plans of letting you escape.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile before your eyes are even fully open. "Good morning, husband."

The views aren’t new anymore. You’ve lived together long before vows were exchanged, before rings slipped into place. But now—now they taste sweeter, weightier. Even when said half-teasing, neither of you seem eager to stop.

You stretch your leg over his, limbs tangled beneath the covers, and he exhales softly like that was exactly what he wanted. For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the quiet of the room, the drowsy comfort of not needing to be anywhere yet.

"I had a weird dream," you mumble into his collarbone. "You were trying to fight a sentient loaf of bread."

Zayne hums. "Did I win?"

"Only after giving it a heartfelt speech about forgiveness."

"I see." A beat. "Sounds accurate."

You laugh under your breath. He kisses the back of your neck, absently, like it’s muscle memory. You reach behind you, fingertips brushing his chest until they find that familiar, faint heartbeat under your touch—calm and certain, just like him.

"What should we eat?" you ask after a pause, not moving an inch.

"You're asking me that while still in bed?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"No dirty thoughts! I’m manifesting brunch."

"You’re manifesting it from the arms of your husband, who is also very comfortable."

You twist slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. "Fine, I guess we’ll starve together."

Zayne’s smile is small but unmistakable, the kind that barely lifts the corner of his lips and still somehow makes your stomach flutter. He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours—slow, warm, and just the right side of lazy. It deepens as your fingers slip into his hair, and for a moment, you both seem to forget everything else. His touch drifts lower, and the kiss turns languid, coaxing.

But then, your stomach lets out a loud, undeniable growl.

You freeze. Zayne stills. And then, against your neck, you feel his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

"Okay, okay," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Rude."

He kisses your temple, still grinning. "Brunch it is."

You pad into the kitchen behind him, still barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of his oversized shirts like you always do on mornings like this. Zayne rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sets his tablet on the counter, and already you can see that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s taking this way too seriously.

"Let me help," you say, even though you both know what that usually means.

Zayne glances over his shoulder with that soft, amused expression he reserves just for you. "You sure?"

"Of course! It’s brunch. It’s meant to be spontaneous and unhinged."

He blinks but nods all the same. "Alright. But no cinnamon in the eggs again."

"One time," you mutter, grabbing a pan anyway.

It’s controlled chaos from there. Zayne measures ingredients with military precision, he stirs with careful, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, you’re humming whatever’s stuck in your head, tossing in seasonings by instinct, ignoring every suggestion he tries to gently offer.

"That’s not two teaspoons," he points out mildly, watching you sprinkle something into your pan with reckless abandon.

"It’s two teaspoons in spirit."

He shakes his head, reaching around you to grab a cutting board, only for your elbow to bump his side. You dodge in front of him, stealing his spatula just to flip your own food. He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just the usual dance of coexisting in a space too small for both your styles.

At some point, you flick flour at him.

It catches him clean on the nose, dusting his face like powdered sugar. He doesn’t react at first—just stares at you, completely deadpan, as if deciding whether to reprimand you or kiss you senseless.

You burst into laughter.

"You have flour—" you wheeze, pointing, "on your—"

Zayne calmly wipes his nose with a dish towel. "I’m married to a gremlin."

"Excuse you, I’m a culinary genius."

"You’re a hazard."

Still, when everything’s finally cooked and plated, the result is... actually edible. Good, even. The eggs are a little crisped on one side, the toast slightly uneven, but the flavors are warm and comforting and somehow perfectly them. You both slide onto the counter, plates balanced on your laps, legs swinging lazily.

The window’s open. The breeze smells like spring. He hands you a fork, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips again as he watches you take your first bite.

"...Not bad, right?" you ask, mouth full.

"Brilliant," he says dryly. "I might survive after all."

You nudge your foot against his, eyes catching his in that soft, slow moment that doesn’t need anything more than just being here.

The shower is—miraculously—efficient. Warm water, quiet kisses, just enough lingering touches to feel indulgent without dragging the hours into full-blown distraction. You both dry off in sync, navigating the shared space like muscle memory, and by the time you're dressed and slipping on your shoes, it's afternoon.

Sunday means errands, but it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not when it’s the two of you.

You stop by the dry cleaners first, where Zayne handles the transaction with his usual quiet grace and you eye the mystery stain on one of his button-downs like it personally offended you. Then it’s light bulbs, of all things, which somehow turns into a debate over wattage because Zayne is, of course, reading the box like it’s a research paper.

"I swear you overthink these," you mutter, nudging his arm with your elbow.

"And you under think everything," he replies, without even looking up.

Fair.

But the best part of the afternoon is the plant shop. It’s a cozy little place that smells like soil and citrus, and you make a beeline for the corner where the leafy, drooping misfits live. One in particular catches your eye—a slightly crooked snake plant with a tilted pot and far too much charm for Zayne to ignore.

"We just re-potted three last month," he says, arms crossed.

"He’s different. Look at him," you coo, lifting the little guy carefully. "He’s got personality."

Zayne gives the plant a long, assessing look, then you. Then the plant again. "...You’re going to forget to water it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, but takes the pot from you anyway, one hand cradling the base like it’s fragile. The way he does it makes you grin—he’s already accepted the adoption, whether he admits it or not.

Outside the store, an elderly woman fumbles with her bags, and before either of you even speak, you step forward to help. Zayne’s hand settles briefly at the small of your back as you assist her, steady and quiet. She thanks you both sweetly, eyes crinkling, and you flash her a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

Zayne watches that smile with a softness he doesn’t say out loud.

The rest of the outing passes in that same easy rhythm. You hand him your drink without a word, and he takes a sip like it’s routine—no need to ask. You lean into him while waiting at a crosswalk, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder. At some point, you bicker about whether taking 3rd Avenue or looping around through the back road is faster—Zayne with logic, you with stubborn gut feeling. He humors you and takes your route anyway.

By the time you hit the grocery store, you’re both ready to knock out dinner prep. But the snack aisle derails everything. Zayne sneaks bags of cookies into the cart like you can’t see it or something. You remove one, replacing it with the lower-sugar version, only for him to sneak another one in from behind your back.

"You know we came here for, like, eggs and rice, right?" You say, grinning, crossing your arms.

"And chocolate," he adds, tossing in a novelty-flavored candy bar. He casually looks at his phone that has the grocery list like he didn’t just add sweet into it.

You scan the nutritional label like it just betrayed your trust. Seriously—if you didn’t stop this man, all his teeth would rot and he wouldn’t even regret it.

Eventually, you give up pretending to be responsible and accept that your cart now contains enough snacks for a week. Maybe two.

On the way home, you both realize brunch wore off faster than expected. Zayne’s stomach growls first. You don’t say anything—just raise an eyebrow and gesture toward a café at the corner.

Ten minutes later, you're inside, warm and cozy, sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s reading the menu with that familiar furrow between his brows, like choosing between a croissant and a danish is a life-altering decision.

"You look so serious right now," you tease, sipping your drink. "Like you’re solving a medical mystery. For pastries."

"I like to be thorough."

"You're adorable."

He lowers the menu slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "...You’re not getting out of deciding the movie tonight." But despite how steady his tone is, the tips of his ears are turning red.

You grin around the rim of your cup. "I’ll let you pick—if you get the strawberry tart and let me steal half."

"...Deal."

You end up splitting three pastries anyway. Conversation drifts from movies to work, to the idea of maybe cooking something light for dinner, to whether or not that plant is actually going to survive under your care. It’s nothing flashy. Just the rhythm of being you and Zayne—shared smiles, knees bumping beneath the table, the world soft around the edges.

And for a lazy Sunday? It’s perfect.

Monday morning hits different after a slow weekend. There’s a light chill in the air, one that creeps in through the kitchen windows despite the soft warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains. You pad across the tile floor, barefoot, still slightly sleepy, wearing nothing but one of Zayne’s button-downs—loose, wrinkled from the laundry basket, and hanging just enough to tease.

You’re not really trying to make a statement.

...But you're also not not trying.

You're mid-pour with the kettle when you hear the bathroom door open and soft footsteps cross the hall. Zayne steps into the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing his usual morning expression—composed, alert, too calm for someone who just walked in on his wife looking like that.

Except for the smallest shift in his gaze, the stillness in his steps as he takes you in.

He says nothing at first, only moves toward the counter like he always does. Pours himself a mug of coffee. But you catch the flicker. That very specific pause as he lifts the cup to his lips and doesn't drink—just watches you over the rim, quiet, assessing.

And yeah. You know exactly what you're doing.

"Morning, husband," you say sweetly, voice innocent as you stretch just slightly to reach the sugar jar.

His eyes trail the motion, linger a second too long. "...Good morning, wife."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink. That’s all. No teasing, no smirking. But you feel the tension in the air anyway, coiling subtle and slow between your bare thighs and his calm restraint. This man, composed even now, does nothing by accident.

"You're going to be late," he says, finally turning back to his coffee.

"So are you," you reply, sipping yours, perfectly unfazed.

But his gaze dips once more as he walks past you, deliberately brushing the edge of his hand along the curve of your waist, kissing you slowly before going on his way out of the kitchen, as if staying any longer would mean neither of you would get out of the house today.

A few hours into work, you’re back on base, half-distracted during reports when something ridiculous happens—Tara gets her coat stuck in the door and tries to play it off like it didn’t happen. You manage a sneaky photo just before she notices.

You send it to Zayne with no caption.

A minute later, your screen lights up.

Mine💕: Is this why you were wearing my shirt and nothing else this morning? To not get attack by door?

You grin and fire back.

You: Well, I had to arm myself with something. Your shirt felt appropriate. Has… sentimental value.

Mine💕: It had strategic value this morning too.

You almost laugh out loud.

You: Are you suggesting I distracted you?

Mine💕: You walked into the kitchen half-dressed. On a Monday. After a weekend where we barely left bed. So, yes.

You: Oh no. What will I wear tomorrow?

Mine💕: Nothing, if you’re trying to get me to skip work.

Your cheeks heat—part laughter, part memory, part anticipation. The texts keep going, drifting more playful, more suggestive, until you're both balancing professionalism with escalating tension.

Eventually, somewhere between paperwork and lunch, he sends one last message.

Mine💕 : I’m picking up dinner tonight. So you can go straight to not wearing anything when I get home.

You don’t reply immediately. Just stare at your screen, biting back a smile.

But oh yeah—you’re both very much looking forward to tonight.

You get home before him. The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to hum to yourself while moving through it. Zayne said he’d bring dinner, so technically you didn’t have to do anything—but a sudden idea takes hold somewhere between opening the fridge and spotting the unused chocolate in the cupboard.

Dessert.

You’ll make dessert.

Well… a dessert.

You tie on the apron—his apron, naturally. It's one of those neutral-toned ones with deep pockets and a tie that loops around your waist twice. The only thing beneath it is skin and a whole lot of mischief. It’s half a joke—just the apron, no clothes—but it doesn’t stop you from fluffing your hair and checking the mirror before you start.

You’re not just teasing. You want to see what that calm, steady husband of yours does when he walks in and finds his wife waiting with nothing but his apron.

The baking part goes better than expected. It helps that you’ve done this before, and that you know exactly how he likes his sweets, although he’ll eat any sweet you give him and this is just talking about actual food.

You’re plating them when you hear the lock click.

The door swings open. Zayne steps in, dinner in hand, something warm and likely perfectly portioned. His eyes lift—routine, casual—until they register what they’re seeing.

He stops mid-step.

You’re standing there at the kitchen counter, apron tied neatly, dessert on display. The light catches your skin, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the air seems to still for a moment.

He blinks.

“Welcome home, husband,” you say, voice light, innocent.

He sets the takeout bag down on the nearest surface. Doesn’t even glance at it. Just walks straight toward you, loosing up the tie on his shirt, walking slow and with controlled, like he's handling something fragile. Or dangerous.

His hands slide to your waist—cool, sure. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I thought we agree on nothing.”

“Isn’t this more exciting?” you murmur, tipping your head up just slightly, pulling at his tie.

He kisses you like he has no intention of stopping. And for a long, breathless stretch, he doesn’t.

By the time you actually sit down to eat, the food is lukewarm and the desserts are nearly forgotten. You both laugh about it, halfway through your second bites, a little dazed, your hair mussed, his neck full of kiss marks. Both of you barely dress.

The kitchen still smells like sugar and vanilla.

And Zayne? He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

It’s just past midnight when he wakes up.

No gasp, no cry—just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth and the sudden tension of his body beside you. You feel it immediately, even through sleep. The shift in the bed. The way his hand curls slightly, like he's still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

You roll toward him, reaching out before your eyes are fully open.
“Zayne?”

He blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. His breath is still uneven. There’s sweat at his hairline, his shirt sticking to his chest, his jaw tight.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don't reply at first. Just press your forehead to his shoulder, your arm slipping around his middle.

“Was it… another nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the nod. It's small. Heavy.

It doesn't happen often—not anymore. But every now and then, something cracks through that carefully maintained calm. Close calls. An impossible case. A moment when the scalpel trembled, or worse, when it nearly slipped. Or sometimes... sometimes it's you. A memory he tries not to relive, no matter how old or how faint.

“You’re here,” you whisper, voice soft against his skin. “We’re safe.”

His arms come around you after that. Slow, a little hesitant—like he still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be comforted—but when he exhales, it’s shakier than he means it to be.

“You were…” he trails off. “In the OR. I—”

He stops again. Shakes his head.

You don't need the rest. You've heard enough versions of this dream to know where it leads. And you know exactly how deeply it sinks into him, even hours after it ends.

So you pull him closer, shifting until you’re almost on top of him, fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him. “You made vows,” you say, quiet but steady. “So did I.”

His hands press against your back, anchoring. He doesn’t reply, but you feel the moment he lets go of the dream. Not entirely—but enough. Enough to stay here. With you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love.”

You press a kiss just below his ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

And finally, finally, he breathes like he believes it.

He falls asleep not long after, arms still around you, the warmth of your body pulling him back to steadiness. And you stay like that, wide awake, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You know he’ll be okay in the morning.

He always is.

But you stay anyway—because that’s what you promised.

Chapter Text

The event is held in one of the hospital’s private conference halls—high ceilings, too-bright lighting, waitstaff weaving between clusters of formally dressed doctors and researchers. There’s soft music playing in the background, more ambiance than melody, and a spread of hors d’oeuvres on white-clothed tables no one quite dares to touch.

Zayne stands beside you, tailored suit perfect down to the pressed collar. He blends in seamlessly with the rest of them—composed, unbothered, clipboard conversations flowing around him like water. But you can feel it in the way his hand rests at the small of your back. Gentle. Protective. Anchored.

He leans in slightly when someone approaches. “This is my wife,” he says simply, voice calm but warm.

You hear the words more than once tonight—always offhand, always soft. But every time, they catch you a little off guard. My wife. It shouldn’t feel so new anymore, but somehow, coming from him, in this polished, clinical space where everything is usually professional and precise… it does.

It feels like a tiny rebellion.

You smile, offer your hand, try to keep your voice steady as you greet whoever he introduces you to—department heads, residents, researchers you only know by surname on articles he's sent you. And you do well enough, even as you notice the subtle double takes. The way eyes flick between the two of you. Like no one expected this pairing. Or maybe they just didn’t expect you.

“She’s even prettier than you described,” one of the cardiologists from another hospital murmurs with a smile, a little in awe.

Before you can react—before you can wave it off or stammer something awkward—Zayne’s already answering.

“She always is.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. Doesn’t smirk or make a show of it. He just says it like it’s fact. Like gravity. And suddenly you’re the one left flustered, heat blooming in your face.

Zayne offers you a drink then—water, always observant—and you accept it more for the distraction than anything else. His fingers brush yours briefly. Steady. Sure.

Later, during a lull in the presentations, you find yourself pressed shoulder to shoulder with him by the tall windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t say much, just watches the traffic below. But his fingers curl around yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.

You lean into him a little.
“You know you’re going to make it hard for me to show my face around here again,” you murmur.

“Why?” he asks mildly, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You just… announced me like I was the highlight of the year.”

“You are.”

You laugh, bury your face briefly against his arm, cheeks still warm. He says nothing else, just lets you stay close, thumb still moving in slow circles. The rest of the evening passes in the blur of names and speeches, but you hold on to that moment.

To the quiet certainty in his voice.

To being his wife—not just on paper, but here. Beside him. In his world.

Chapter Text

You sit in the very back row of the lecture hall—hair in a tight bun, hoodie slouched around your shoulders, oversized glasses, surgical mask tugged high. You technically don’t belong here. Not as a student, anyway. Just as an extremely nosy spouse.

But to anyone else, you just look like an overworked med student trying to survive the day. Which is exactly the goal.

You even brought a notebook. It's blank, but it's there for the aesthetic.

He walks in precisely on time. Not a second early, not a second late. White coat crisp, hair immaculately styled, tablet in hand, posture straight. Your heart flutters stupidly in your chest like you didn’t just see him this morning. Like you didn’t kiss him before he left and tell him "good luck" with that soft smugness only a freshly married woman can manage.

The students fall quiet the moment he steps onto the platform. It’s not fear. It’s something quieter—respect, focus, that particular stillness Zayne carries with him into every room. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. He speaks evenly, gestures only when necessary, and every word lands sharp.

You’re only mildly obsessed.

And then, halfway through a breakdown of a complex cardiac case, his gaze sweeps over the hall—and catches on you.

It’s just a second. Maybe less. But it hits like a spotlight.

You panic.

Eyes shoot down to your blank notebook. You start pretending to write—anything important. Anything at all.

You end up doodling his face instead and snicker at it.

He says nothing. Keeps talking. Doesn’t miss a beat.

But you know he knows.

When the lecture ends, students begin packing up, some already crowding the front to ask follow-up questions. You slip out of your seat and make a calculated dash toward the exit, head down, steps quiet—

“Mrs. Li.”

The name echoes strangely in the academic silence.

You freeze.

You turn, slowly, like you’re in a crime drama and the detective just called you out by name. And sure enough—Zayne stands at the front, tablet in one hand, brow slightly raised. His voice is calm. Polite. But now he looks like he’s questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

You tug your mask down and give a small, sheepish wave. “Hi.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then someone near the front squints. “Wait… Mrs. Li?”

Another student leans forward. “No way—that’s the Hunter from last year, right?”

“Miss Hunter Rookie of the Year?!”

And that’s it.

Suddenly you’re surrounded—students spilling from their seats, phones out, energy sparking like someone dropped a live wire in the middle of the lecture hall. Questions fly from every direction.

“Wait—weren’t your squad the one who led the flank in Sector 10?”

“You trained with your twin sister, right? What’s it like being on the same squad?”

“Can I get a photo—?”

Zayne appears at your side within seconds.

He stays silent. Just... stands there. A guardian statue in a white coat and stethoscope. You can feel the heat of his presence, cool and steady beside you, but his face is unreadable.

One student glances nervously between the two of you. “Uh—Doctor Zayne, is it okay if we...?”

Zayne blinks. Just once.

Then he says. “She’s off duty.”

You elbow him lightly. “It’s fine.”

More flashes. More excited murmurs. One student’s already sending a picture to their group chat, captioned I thought she was a myth.

You answer what you can, deflect what you can’t. Zayne remains next to you the entire time, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the students like he’s still in professor mode—but now with the added burden of everyone realizing he’s married to a Hunter squad celebrity.

At one point, a student nudges their friend and whispers, “Okay but, like... how did he pull her?”

Zayne tilts his head ever so slightly. His lips curve in the way that you only notice.

You hear the whisper.

He definitely hears it too.

But he says nothing.

Eventually, the crowd thins. Students disperse, still chattering excitedly, still glancing back like they might’ve imagined the whole thing.

You even catch someone whisper, “I still remember when Dr. Zayne brought those magazines to Akso last year. They were so cute.”

One student waves as they head out. “Bye, Doctor Zayne and Miss Hunter!”

Once the doors close behind the last one, Zayne finally exhales.

You glance up at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “I just didn’t expect my lecture to turn into a press conference.”

You grin. “In my defense, you know you married a menace.”

His eyes flick down to you, quiet and fond. “Next time, let me know before you disguise yourself and infiltrate my lecture.”

“No fun in that. Besides, it’s not like you do lectures often.”

He hums, low in his throat. “Remind me not to let you anywhere near the residency interviews.”

You slip your hand into his. “But I’d make a great mole.”

He shakes his head. But he doesn’t let go.

In fact, he gives your hand the smallest tug. You take the cue, stepping closer until your shoulders touch.

“You left this.”

You blink as he lifts your notebook from under his arm—your fake aesthetic prop, the one you abandoned in your rush to escape.

He flips it open with clinical precision.

“You took... exactly zero notes.”

You groan. “Don’t judge me. I was emotionally compromised.”

He turns the page. Raises a brow.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

You snatch it from him. “It’s artistic interpretation.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t argue. But you catch the barest twitch of amusement—just a little.

“I see you gave me sparkles. And hearts. And very dramatic eyelashes.”

You’re burying your face in his shoulder at this point. “You were doing so well at being dignified.”

He leans in just enough for you to feel his breath near your ear. “I would’ve preferred a seat beside you. Even if it meant enduring the sparkles in real time.”

“Ohhh, is Prof. Zayne flirting with his student?”

He lifts an eyebrow, gaze cool and dry. “I’m flirting with my wife. Not my student. Unless my student is you... then I suppose I’m doing both.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Doctor Zayne!” You tilt your head up, eyes narrowing. “So the professional mask drops the second no one’s here?”

“Only for you.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. Your heart stutters—because damn, he’s good at this. You try to play it cool, but the corners of your mouth betray you with a slow, rising smile.

He watches you—his gaze softens, something warm and teasing flickering and you can almost feel the moment he shifts gears.

He straightens slightly, expression unreadable. “Though now that I think about it...” A beat. “Should I report you for academic misconduct?”

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me?!”

“You impersonated a student. Sat through a full lecture without registering. Brought no notes. Left behind compromising sketches of the lecturer.” A pause. “I believe that qualifies as a violation of protocol.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m going to sue.”

“For what?”

“Emotional damage.”

He leans in like he might actually kiss you right there, one hand still holding yours, the other brushing lightly at your hip. Close enough to steal your breath. Close enough that you nearly let him—

B R R R R N G—!

The dismissal bell blares through the hall like a spiteful punchline.

You both freeze.

Then you laugh—sharp and loud and unexpected. Zayne exhales like he’s been personally slighted by the scheduling office.

You clutch his arm, giggling helplessly. “Your timing is awful.”

“I wasn’t the one who infiltrated a lecture in disguise.”

“But you were the one about to kiss your ‘student’ on school grounds.”

He closes his eyes, shaking his head. But doesn’t argue.

Instead, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles—innocent, but just barely.

“Come on, husband,” you say, tugging him toward the door, your grin still wide. “Let’s get out of here before anyone comes in and you'll ruin your image.”

He lets you lead him, his fingers laced with yours, voice low behind you. “Too late.”

You slip out into the corridor—hand in hand, heart in sync, and the possibility of Zayne’s reputation only slightly singed.

Chapter Text

Zayne sits on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling through a report on his tablet. The warm evening quiet wraps around the living room. Dinner’s long done, the dishes tucked away, and the air smells faintly of whatever candle you left burning in the corner.

You emerge from the bedroom with a suspicious glint in your eye and plop down beside him—far too purposeful for someone pretending to relax.

He doesn’t look up right away, but you catch the flicker of suspicion in his brow.

You lean in with a dashing smile. “Darling, think fast—I’m a random girl!”

Before he can say anything, you grab his face and kiss him. It’s firm, a little dramatic, and you feel him instinctively lean into it, his hand resting against your waist. Then you pull back with an exaggerated gasp, frowning.

“Zayne! I’m a random girl! You’re not supposed to kiss me back!”

He blinks. “But you’re my wife.”

“It’s hypothetical!”

Now he looks thoughtful, as if genuinely trying to parse the rules of this absurd little game. “Ah. I see.”

You squint at him, not letting go. “I’m a random girl,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes as you give his arm a little squeeze.

Zayne pauses, then very slowly tries to pull his arm free, his expression going carefully blank. “Miss, I’m married.”

Your grin widens. “Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because,” he says, with the perfect rhythm of someone about to drop an overly formal declaration, “I’m married.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, biting your lip dramatically.

He raises an eyebrow. “You should.”

You scoff. “Why? You’re hot.”

“I’m already married.”

You lean in further, eyes sparkling. “That just makes you even hotter.”

Zayne looks at you evenly. “You’re forward. But my wife is irreplaceable.”

Then—clearly unsure of how to actually push you away—he starts edging back stiffly, like someone doing a dramatic stage exit in slow motion. It’s so unconvincing that you can’t help but reach for him again, smiling.

Which in turn only makes him scoot farther back along the couch like you’ve just threatened national security.

You burst out laughing, flopping against the cushions with a hand to your chest.

He eyes you warily as you sit back up, prop your chin in both palms, and tilt your head, smiling sweetly.

“You’re so cute,” you say, batting your lashes.

That gets him.

For a second, his expression softens—just a flicker—but enough to see it. His brows relax, mouth parting like he’s about to respond. The faintest hint of color touches his ears.

Then he seems to catch himself. “…Is this you again?” he asks, cautious.

You shake your head, all innocence. “Nope. Still the random girl.”

He stands at once, scooping up his tablet in one smooth motion. “I’m a married man.”

Your laughter echoes after him down the hall—until you scramble up and chase your poor, suffering husband.

Chapter Text

The movie ends with a slow fade to black, music swelling over the credits. You’re already sniffling, curled into the couch and wrapped in a blanket that feels about two degrees too warm but still necessary. It wasn’t even a sad movie, not really. Just one of those bittersweet ones that sneaks up on you when your hormones are already rioting.

Zayne’s beside you, seated upright and comfortably poised, one leg crossed loosely over the other. He’s on a call, voice low and even, a familiar rhythm in the background while your emotions puddle all over the place.

You watch him quietly, head tilted, your heart doing that soft ache thing, like it can’t hold everything at once.

So you poke him.

Just your finger pressing against his arm. He glances down briefly but keeps talking. You poke him again—more insistently this time.

Zayne doesn’t even look. He simply catches your finger mid-poke, wraps his long hand around it—and then, still listening to his coworker, pulls it toward his mouth. A soft kiss lands right at your fingertip.

You melt. Unreasonably.

"Do you like me?" you whisper, voice wobbly and uncertain. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because it suddenly matters to hear it again. Right now. Right here.

Zayne blinks at you, still focused on the call. The coworker says something else, and Zayne replies with the same smooth cadence he always has.

Your heart drops. “He didn’t answer,” you mutter dramatically, and flop face-first into the couch cushion, your arm still outstretched and trapped in his hold.

You’re sulking—fully. Blanket over your head, the dramatic slump of someone deeply wounded. Or at least pretending to be.

The call ends a moment later. You barely register the click before—

“Zayne!” you jolt, twisting your hand as he bites your fingertip. Not hard. Just enough pressure to startle you.

He chuckles, low and amused, the sound curling into your spine. You try to turn your face further into the couch but your nose is already squished.

“You didn’t answer me,” you whine.

"I thought my answer was implied." His hand never leaves yours. He doesn’t tug you up or ask you to look at him—instead, he shifts. Walks around to the other side of the couch and leans down so you have to see him.

“I like you so much,” he says, voice quiet, “that I love you. I thought that was pretty obvious, wife.”

You blink at him. “Really?” The word comes out soft, almost fragile—your tone that he never makes fun of, only ever melts for.

His gaze is steady when you peek up.

"Yes," he says simply. No teasing. Just calm, certain. He brushes your hair away where it’s fallen into your eyes.

"Now," he adds, like it’s the most natural next step, "do you want warm tea?"

"...Yes please," you whisper, voice small and wobbly—that soft ache kind, like your heart’s too full but you’re trying to hold it together.

Zayne leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, light and unhurried. Then he turns and walks to the kitchen, quiet footsteps fading down the hall.

You stay where you are, buried in the couch, eyes half-closed. Your hand still tingles from his touch, and your chest feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the blanket.

You hear the kettle click on.

And then some rustling.

And then a suspicious clink followed by silence, which probably means he’s debating which mug is your favorite again even though you insist they’re all fine.

You peek out from under the blanket just as he returns, mug in one hand and the other casually tucked into his pocket. He hands it over without ceremony, but you notice the mug he picked—the one with the two snowmen that look slightly lopsided because you made them in a pottery class and insisted they were modeled after the little snow couple Zayne keeps on the car dashboard.

“You picked Sir Nimbus and Lady Frost,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the warm mug.

“It seemed appropriate.” His tone is entirely too neutral for someone who definitely did it on purpose.

You take a sip, and the steam fogs your vision a little, adding to the whole fragile mood. Zayne sits beside you again, this time angled slightly so his knee presses against yours.

"Feel better?" he asks.

You nod slowly. “Mm-hmm. I still feel a little… blobby. Emotionally.”

“Blobby,” he repeats, like he’s storing the word for future medical use.

You glare over your mug. “It’s a valid emotional state.”

Zayne inclines his head. “Of course.”

A pause.

“…Do you like me today?” you ask again, just to test the waters, as if what you did can shift his feeling anytime.

He gives you a long-suffering look, then says, “You are holding a tea I made for you while wrapped in a blanket burrito because of a fictional character’s tragic but arguably predictable backstory.”

“So… yes?”

“Yes. It wouldn't change.” A tiny smile plays at his mouth. “I like you today, yesterday, and every hormonal Tuesday in between.”

You stifle a laugh, burying your face in the steam again.

“I should’ve recorded it for blackmail later,” you mumble into it.

“I can say it again,” he says, and drapes his arm over the back of the couch, letting it rest lightly behind your shoulders. You snort at that but your heart could not be fuller.

And like that, everything feels softer. Still a little ridiculous—but warm, and anchored, in the quiet way only he can manage.