invi

Kerperlos Audio (🔞 content creator)

Tell me you want it - Praise, guided, and vocal with moans. Breathy. (Reminds me a little of Silent Poem)

Slow but intense - Slow and Steady. Breathy and moans. (Silent Poem vibes)

Be Good - Shuddery breathing.

Pre-Work Session - Short and trying to be quiet.

Guided with him in control - Instructions and praise. Vocal with moans.

A Good Morning - Enjoying himself.

CuddlefishVA (🔞 content creator)

There’s a lot you could learn - Mdom - link to Reddit

Lalalotta Audio Edits (adult content with voices from the in-game cards)

Dr. Zayne taking you from behind

Zayne eating you out

Zayne jerking off

Drunk Zayne

qinche-cvmslvt Audio Edits (Sound and voices from the in-game cards. No Ai)

TLC from Doctor Zayne

Zayne and Sylus both need you

Audio Masterlist here

Regardless, he let the movie finish, checked his phone as the credits played and then faded into silence. It was a boring time scrolling since she hadn't been texting him nonstop, hadn't sent him random Moments posts to watch. It wasn't bad by any means, as this was a new boundary they were breaking, she was here, in his apartment, touching him, asleep, and if nothing else, he'd get to tease her about this once she woke up—or when he woke her up, he realized, noticing that it had been almost thirty minutes of checking his emails and reading the abstract of a study he'd been waiting to be released.

But then her feet, and then her legs twitched in his lap, and he glanced up at her face again. She'd never described symptoms of sleep myoclonus, but a hypnic jerk while falling asleep could be quite normal. Unless she was pretending for some reason, she'd been asleep for a while, though. But then he looked at her face again, and realized with a chill: she wasn't sleeping peacefully. This was... something else.

Medical wisdom didn't have a solid answer to the question of how to help someone with a nightmare in the moment. Depending on the root cause, different practitioners avowed different things, from medication, to diet, therapy, changes in environment, some even swore by feng shui despite superstitious connotations. Zayne had never found a good solution for his own nightmares, usually just sitting alone in his bed, or pacing his apartment until his heart rate evened, and the eerie displacement associated with bad dreams dissipated. Working to the point of exhaustion was perhaps more of an avoidance tactic than a management one.

He called her name softly.

She didn't wake, but shook her head against the throw pillow she clutched.

He moved a hand towards her knee and repeated her name. Nothing. He leaned over her with one hand and stroked her cheek, just visible from where she had her face buried in the pillow.

“Foreseer, no!” She said, voice rising through each word, eyes shooting open and her entire body jolting forward as she awoke, panting. One hand caught herself on the coffee table, and Zayne found himself touching her, one arm around her back and one against her elbow. She looked over at him, eyes wide and face tight in the blue light from the television, still on despite the time that had passed. “Zayne?”

“I'm here.” He said, keeping his voice calm, even, despite the unsettling air that crept out of her vicinity.

She grabbed his hand back from where she'd pushed him away and grabbed his palm tightly, almost painfully.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“I'm fine. You, however, were having a nightmare.”

“I know, it was you, you were...” She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing. “What the fuck. Brambles. Vines with thorns. You were being... black ice.” She said.

Zayne didn't say anything. Dreams didn't always make sense. At least that was what he'd heard. His dreams followed a theme—if not a script—but that didn't seem to be the case for most people.

“It's just a dream. A nightmare,” He said, keeping his voice soft, Her grip on his hand relaxed, and he took the chance to pull her hand to his mouth and kiss her fingers.

“But it was you, Zayne.”

“It's okay. I'm here. I'm fine. You're fine.” It didn't matter that her words sparked odd memories like a forgotten dream of his own. Dreams were like that; nebulous enough that anything could be contained within them. 

“Come here.” She pulled her hand away from his mouth, but it was just to pull him down towards her.

“What, need to check?” He asked, smiling but surrendering to her tugging fingers, now on his shirt.

“Just... Need you.” She said, voice barely a whisper. Was she embarrassed?

He didn't say anything, but instead of moving straight down on top of her, moved her legs over so that he could wrap his arms around her. His couch was just big enough that they could lay face-to-face, and she quickly wrung her arms around his neck as he moved her towards the back of the couch, pinning her in. Some people found pressure comforting. She seemed to be one, as he could feel the deep, shaky breaths she took against his skin.

He took the chance to press a kiss against her temple, but then leaned away to take his glasses off, setting them on the coffee table behind them. When he turned back she was frowning down at his shirt.

“Have you ever been stabbed?”

“What?” That was a pointed question.

“Or... I don't know. You had scars. In my dream. ”

“I... do have scars.” He said, slowly, wondering if that could ever have come up in a stranger way. From a dream? He wondered...

“You were? Stabbed?”

“No, they're from... an accident I had, when I was younger.”

“Your Evol?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

“No, just... I didn't mean to fall asleep, I don't usually, but lately...” She rubbed her eyes.

“After the explosion?”

“And other things.” She agreed, voice cracking, and tucking her head back into his chest.

Well, this was not what Zayne had anticipated tonight, but his stomach was flipping nonetheless.

“It's okay. I'll be here for you if you want me.” He promised, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, the only part of her he could reach. Her arms tightened around his ribs at that.

“Of course I want you.” She muttered into his shirt. “You might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm sorry, though, this was supposed to be a... something else, tonight, and then I fell asleep, and then...”

“I said don't be sorry.” He repeated. “I have nightmares too. If we're going to continue to have... something else nights, I'm sure it will come up again.”

“You do?” She asked, looking up at him. He nodded. “I'm sorry.”

“Stop saying that, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Zayne.”

the student fidgets with their hands. “yup! that sums up everything i learned this unit.”

“hm. what especially caught my eye,” zayne adds dryly, “is this bit right before the ending lines. it differs vastly in tone. it’s conversational and strangely reassuring, as though someone forgot to remove it before submission.” he reads aloud once again.

“‘for a three-thousand-word heart anatomy paper, this works as a brief but interesting conclusion paragraph on the impact of cardiovascular fitness. if you want me to edit for tone or clarity, just let me kn—’”

betrayed by their refusal to proofread, the student finally cracks. “okay, okay! i get it. i didn’t realize i left the prompt in there before i hit ‘submit.’” they scratch their neck sheepishly, looking anywhere but their professor. “i just had a busy weekend, dr. li. i was going to write it myself, i swear, but the game on friday went into overtime, and then my roommate got dumped and i had to comfort them, and there was so much traffic on the way back from the bar—”

“i understand.”

the student freezes at zayne’s calm voice, shoulders sagging in relief. “really? so you'll let it go?”

“no.” zayne says simply. “when a patient is bleeding out on the table, your intelligence will need to be anything but artificial. you’ll receive a failing grade for this assignment. however, since you eventually admitted your misdeed, i will open extra credit opportunities to you in the coming weeks. if you continue to seek outside help from anything but the campus tutoring center or my office hours, you may be subject to expulsion.”

the student’s face flashes through the stages of grief. his tone is so crisp, his voice so final, that all that comes out is a feeble squeak. “yes, sir. i’m sorry.”

However, it still hurt, knowing Zayne only regarded you as his patient and nothing more. Maybe even acquaintances, at best. It hurt, all of it. The ache in your chest, as if your heart was breaking and he was unable to help it. Ironic, seeing as he was in charge of your heart’s condition.

Your heart was slowly yet surely breaking in pieces, every time you met with Zayne and he seemed to keep you at arms length. After he left many years ago, you silently kept up with whatever he did. Lurking in the shadows, something akin to a strong pull had you drifting back to him. His name, his presence, seeking what he did, how he was—whether he was ever going to return back home.

Return to you.

It felt surreal when he did. Then it all felt like a joke when he was so very different, so cold. To you, of all people—the only person he ever opened up to, to whom he let his warmth and gentleness show. He was caring, but in a clinical way now.

You hated it, this feeling. They felt like an even crueler joke, these feeling you had developed in spite of not having had contact all these years being apart. But how could you help it, loving him? It was nothing you could control, and you didn’t want to control it.

If there was a man on this earth worthy of your love, it was Zayne. No one else.

But it hurt, knowing he did not share those same feelings and probably never would. The woman who will end up being loved by him shall be the luckiest woman on earth, and she wouldn't even know it.

You clutch at your chest, gripping tight on your blouse as silent tears keep streaking down your face. You feel stupid, crying here where everyone could see you be so weak.

You hope no one had followed you, make sure you were okay. Sadness and heartbreak pour over you like rain, so you swallow your tears and try to calm yourself down before you make a fool of yourself.

“Are you alright?”

You close your eyes tight, stinging. Of all people in that auditorium, Zayne is the lucky person to stumble upon you like this. Now you’re even more embarrassed.

“Uhm, yeah.” you sniffle quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear it. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Lying was never one of your strong suits.” You hear him approaching from behind just as you wipe your tears off your face, “Are you in pain?”

God, you are. But he doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t need you to come clean and tell him it’s because of him. That it only took you seeing him chatter and dance with one of his colleagues—another doctor from Akso, a pediatrician who’s in charge of some of his patients—and you felt as if your own heart ripped open from inside.

Seeing Zayne with another woman on his arm… knowing he must at least like having her there—that’s what hurts the most. That it isn’t you. You want it so much to be you.

Unbeknownst to you, Zayne is battling his own quiet demons tonight. If he is honest with himself, he has been for a long, long time. Ever since he had hurt you with his Evol years ago, ever since he let himself be careless around you and ended up doing the only thing he had never wanted to do to anyone, especially you.

He had hurt you. It was his life’s biggest regret, and a mistake he sworn he will never repeat.

Yet, somehow, seeing you in this state, he can’t help but think it somehow is his fault. Something in his heart is screaming at him to move, to close the distance, pull you in his arms and soothe you. To brush the tears you try to hide away.

Would it hurt you even more if he did that?

His hands clench in tight fists, jaw working almost imperceptibly under the venue’s lights. You look disheveled, so he knows something must have happened to get you in this state. He decides to close the distance at last, even if it’s only under the pretense of a physician’s or a friend’s concern.

You flinch when his hand settles gently on your shoulder. You don’t want to turn around, a rush of panic surging through you. You know that the second Zayne sees your face, he will feel pity for you. Maybe even awkwardly try to comfort you, or check for injuries.

He does that, but you’re wrong about the look in his eyes. There’s no pity in the hazel pools of his gaze, nothing signaling you should bury yourself into the ground out of shame. No, his eyes hold something you can’t quite descipher. As he looks over you, gently yet firmly moving your arms to check for injuries, there’s this distinct look you’ve never really seen before.

His palms come at last to settle on your face, moving you by the jaw. Your face is a mess, makeup ruined by your stupid tears, but beneath all that, your cheeks flare red in shame. You must look so stupid sitting on the porch looking like this, but Zayne doesn’t say anything of it.

His eyebrows furrow slightly, and you wonder why. As his thumb moves to wipe away some stray tears, you gulp nervously. Heart beating a mile a minute, you hope to god he can’t hear it.

“Why are you crying? If you’re not hurt physically, then did something happen?”

You try to give him a reassuring smile, but to no avail, because Zayne seems even more concerned about your blatant attempt to sweep this under the rug. You sigh instead.

“Don’t worry for me, Doctor Zayne. I’m fine.” You try to move back slightly and out of his grasp. Looking to the side, your palms sweating, you try your best to sound convincing. “I will stay here a while, breathe in some fresh air.”

But he doesn’t let it go. His voice is firm, something almost tender underneath that sternness. “You’re my patient, and my friend. Of course I am worrying for you.”

Patient. Friend. It is all the same, isn’t it?

“I appreciate it, but… you should go back inside. It seems like your date is looking for you.”

You gesture toward the venue’s window, that brunette doctor he has been accompanying tonight walking away from the refreshments table and toward the door. Your stomach turns in on itself.

Too focused on that doctor, you startle when you feel Zayne fingers at your jaw again, but this time they grip a lot tighter, yet not painful, turning your face toward his. Before you can say anything, he takes a breath in, maintaining eye contact.

“She will be fine. Everyone in Akso was required to bring a plus-one tonight, and since some of us are not in committed relationships, we decided to pair-up for the event.”

“So she’s not…”

“No, she is not my date. Not quite.”

The clarification comes evenly, the same measured cadence he uses when explaining your own bloodwork back to you. But his fingers haven’t moved from your jaw, and that contradicts the steadiness of his voice. You don’t know what to do with the discrepancy.

You drop your gaze to the lapel of his suit jacket. Easier than holding his eyes. There is a faint dusting of something pale on the dark fabric—powdered sugar, maybe, from the sweets on the refreshments table—and you find yourself fixating on it because focusing on anything else feels dangerous at the moment.

“Oh,” you manage quietly. “That’s… good. That you have colleagues you can rely on.”

Zayne is quiet besides you. The kind of quiet that used to mean he was choosing his words, back when he was a boy and you knew his hesitations by heart. You had forgotten you still knew it. Your throat tightens at the recognition.

“You’re still crying.”

His thumb catches another tear at your cheekbone. He doesn’t wipe it away so much as press it into your skin, as though confirming it’s real.

“I’m not.” The denial is reflexive, stupid. Your lashes are wet and he is looking right at them.

“You are.”

He doesn’t say it unkindly. He says it as an observation that cannot be argued with, that you both have to deal with whether you want to or not. You let out a small laugh that surprises you both, and his eyebrows draw together again.

“It’s nothing, Zayne. Really. I’m just… tired.”

His hand at your jaw gentles, and you almost curse at yourself from melting into the touch. You had waited so long for a tender touch from him…

“Tired,” he repeats it like he’s turning the word over in his hand, examining it for cracks. “You used to lie better than this when we were children.”

“I never lied to you.”

“You did. About your scraped knees. About whether you’d eaten. About whether Caleb had made you cry.” His gaze drops to your mouth, then climbs back up, and his throat works around something he doesn’t say. “About a great many things, actually.”

You don’t know what to do with that. You don’t know what to do with the fact that he remembers any of it, that he kept those small useless memories of you the way you kept yours of him.

A breeze moves through the porch, lifting the hair from the back of your neck, and you shiver. Zayne notices that too. His other hand comes up, finally, to rest against your upper arm, warm through the thin fabric of your blouse, and he doesn’t rub or stroke or do any of the things a date might do. He just holds you there, as if anchoring you.

“Come back inside with me.”

“Zayne—”

“Not to the auditorium.” His voice has dropped quieter than the music drifting through the venue’s windows. “There’s a quieter room off the east corridor. You can sit until you’ve caught your breath. I’ll bring you water.”

The instinct to take care of you as your doctor is back in his tone. You almost want to laugh again. He hears it before you do, you think, because his jaw shifts and he looks briefly away from your face, toward the dark garden beyond the railing.

“And then,” he says, still looking away, “if you would like to tell me what actually happened tonight, I would like to listen.”

You stare at the side of his face. At the small furrow between his brows that has been there since he was eight years old and trying not to cry over a math problem he couldn’t solve. He looks the same and yet so different, concurrently.

“Why?”

The question comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He turns back. The hazel of his eyes is a shade darker out here, without the auditorium’s light, and whatever has been sitting behind them all evening is closer to the surface now. Not pity. You’d been so sure it would be pity.

“Because it was never nothing to me,” he says. “Whatever you think it was. It wasn’t.”

His thumb passes once more under your eye, catching what’s left of the tears there, and then his hand falls away from your face as though he’s reminding himself of something. He takes a small step back. Gives you the air he had been crowding out of your lungs.

“Take your time,” he says quieter. “I’ll wait by the door.”

He turns and walks the few paces to the porch entrance, hands sliding into his pockets, shoulders set in that notable way you remember from childhood. It is the same posture he used to fall into when he was bracing for something and didn’t want anyone to see it. You press your palms flat against the cool railing behind you and try to breathe.

Inside, the music changes to something slower, more intimate. Through the window you can see the brunette doctor laughing with someone by the bar, her hand on another colleague’s sleeve, entirely unbothered by Zayne’s absence. The ache in your chest doesn’t vanish at the sight. It only changes shape, settling into something quieter, something less certain of its own conclusions.

You wipe your face with the back of your wrist. Smudged makeup, swollen eyes, blouse wrinkled where you had fisted it. You look exactly as bad as you feared you did.

Zayne is waiting at the door. He hasn’t looked back at you once, and somehow that, more than anything else tonight, is what convinces you he is trying very hard not to.

You push off the railing and follow him in.

© zaynessbeloved 2025. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

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Zayne has been caught up with work for so many weeks now, you stopped counting them; you’ve barely seen him.

“I’m not actually doing this for attention… I just miss you. But right now, all I see is that when I’m like this, it’s the only time you stop and stay with me for more than 10 minutes,” you confess. “I see.” Zayne puts a bandage on the treated wound and sits beside you. “I am sorry you felt the need to resort to these means, in order to feel seen by me.” He sounds guilty.

“No, Zayne, don’t say it like that. I’m just stupid. I should’ve just said what I felt and not—“ The sound of Zayne’s phone ringing interrupts you. It’s the hospital. “Ignore it,” he says. “Go on.” The ringing stops.

You sigh, a hollow feeling settling in your chest at making him ignore his calls, forcing him to sit through your selfishness while he could be out there saving someone who is actually in danger. “Zayne, I know I should be more honest with you. I’ve been–“ His phone rings again. He glances at it. “Take it, it seems important,” you say. “Nothing and no one is more important than you,” he responds, but you can tell the second call made him a bit uneasy.

Zayne knows the hospital would only call tonight, if there was an emergency related to his field of expertise. By ignoring the two calls, he’s pushing it. “It’s okay. I promise I won’t be seen with bruises anymore. I feel bad seeing you ignore your calls, so please…answer them.”

As soon as Zayne sighs, his phone rings a third time. He hesitates. “It’s fine, really,” you say, though you can’t help but feel like you have no choice here. “I’m sorry.” He’s clearly guilt driven, knowing you’re actually just trying to hide your real emotions.

He presses a faint kiss to the bandage on your injured knee before reaching for his phone. “What is it?” he answers. “I see. I’ll be there in 10.” He hangs up. His gaze briefly shifts again over your bruises, before meeting your eyes. His eyes are filled with reluctance.

“I…” “Go,” you interrupt him. Zayne lets out a heavy sigh. “Go save lives, Dr. Zayne,” you say, forcing a smile. “I’ll be back in a few hours, I promise.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah don’t promise what you can’t keep, Zayne,” you reply.

You feel bad as soon as the words leave your mouth. He looks at you again. “I’m sorry. Please wait fo—” He doesn’t finish his sentence, realizing it would be selfish. He then turns around & leaves.

You remain seated for a moment, feeling hollow and alone after hearing the door shut behind you yet again. Just then, your phone chimes with a notification. You reach for it. “Our lies are starting to bruise, sweetie. Your little doctor has already made the diagnosis.”

From your spot lying down on the couch, you could see the heat haze outside. The weather was humid and oppressive in its heat, making it perfect for staying indoors in a temperature controlled home. Not to mention the inclusion of your personal air conditioner, currently resting on top of you, nestled into your chest.

It was a rare day off for the two of you, and you'd both come to the conclusion that neither of you were all that willing to bear the soupy heat of the outdoors.

It'd taken some time in your relationship for you to convince Zayne to rest his body weight on top of you in such a way, and that you genuinely enjoyed it. And you did, truly. It was like being under the most comforting, good-looking, and nicely smelling weighted blanket. He'd been worried about crushing you under his weight, though that's exactly what you wanted. What'd made him finally give in to you was your very casual mentioning of the fact that he'd obviously be resting his head in between your breasts.

Which led to your current positions, and the encompassing feeling of contentment it brought the both of you.

You had your phone in one of your hands, mindlessly scrolling and occasionally showing a funny video or two to your cozy lover. Your other hand was buried in his hair, running your fingers through the short strands and lightly scratching at his scalp. If anything, the boneless way he was melting into you was a great indicator of his pleasure. You swore if he was cat he'd be purring like a motor engine.

His eyes were largely closed, except for when you called for his attention. You knew him well enough to know that he wasn't sleeping, he was just enjoying spending time glued to you.

Having had enough of social media for the moment, you let your phone drop into the couch cushions and moved that hand to rub his back. He hummed at the motion and nuzzled his nose into your chest, somehow molding even deeper with you.

"You look as snug as a bug in a rug," you spoke softly into his hair.

He hummed in affirmation, "You're a very efficient pillow. Or rug, I suppose."

"Only the best for my bug," you said with a kiss to his scalp.

"Though out of the two of us I'd say you're the bug in the relationship."

"Huh? Why's that?"

"You're very small. Minuscule, even."

"I'm average height, mind you."

"For a bug, indeed."

You lightly tugged at one of his earlobes, "You're ridiculous." He chuckled into your skin, the sensation leaving behind goosebumps.

"Well," you continued, "would you still love me if I turned into a bug?"

He opened his eyes and angled his head to look up at you, the affection in his gaze melting you from inside out. "Why wouldn't I still love you? I can put you in my pocket."

You huffed out a laugh, "Stop being cute, mister. Don't think I don't notice you're actively calling me a bug."

"You are a bug," he says matter-of-factly, "my little lovebug." He grabs ahold of your hand and brings it up to his lips, bestowing a sweet little kiss to the back of it.

"Okay, fine. But only because it sounds cute, you hear me?"

"Yes, lovebug."

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

Because, truth be told, there were times you weren’t sure you were.

you still didn’t understand how this happened—how Zayne, the prodigy, the man who could save lives with his hands and mind, had chosen you. He was brilliant, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. And you? You were just… you. Ordinary in comparison. He never made you feel small, never belittled you, but standing beside him you felt you were just lucky to be there. His world was one of brilliance, filled with extraordinary people—Lina, the fearless Deepspace Hunter; his late friend Caleb, a DAA pilot whose loss still lingered in hushed conversations; his esteemed mentors and fellow doctors who spoke in a language you could only ever grasp at the edges. Compared to them, compared to him, you felt so small.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, was supposed to be about the two of you.

You had fallen for him in the quietest of ways—through the gentle cadence of his voice, through the moments he noticed things others didn’t. How he’d pull a chair out for you before you could do it yourself, how he’d check the temperature of your tea so you wouldn’t burn your tongue, how he’d listen, really listen, to your ramblings even after a 48-hour shift. He had nestled himself into your heart without you even realizing it.

And tonight, he had insisted he wanted to be with you, even with the chaos of the hospital weighing on his shoulders.

The call came two hours before your reservation. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you saw his name flash on your screen.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Zayne’s voice was warm, familiar, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it tonight.”

Your heart sank, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to remain even. “It’s okay, Zayne. I know you’re busy.”

“It's been a long shift, and the surgeries…”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cancel the reservation. Take some breaks and rest, okay? You sound tired…”

“I am fine, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I swear.”

"It’s fine, Zayne." you whispered, even if it wasn’t. “We’ll just celebrate it another day. No big deal.” Even though it felt like one at the moment.

Still, you weren’t upset. Not really. You understood. You always understood.

You hung up and exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your lap. It wasn’t his fault. He was working back-to-back shifts, saving lives, doing what he was meant to do. And yet, you couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from settling in your chest.

You exhaled slowly, stripping away the dress you had so eagerly put on just hours ago. You slip into into one of Zayne’s oversized sweaters instead, the one that still smelled like him, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You wear leggings underneath and slip on your shoes. You took your time packing the gifts back into the car, moving slowly, as if dragging out the moment would make it hurt less. Maybe when he was finally done, you could pick him up from the hospital. At least you’d get to see him and surprise him. This was what occupied your time for the next three to four hours.

Once everything was back in the car, you plopped yourself on his plush but ergonomic couch. You scrolled through your phone while waiting, mindlessly tapping through social media, until one post stopped you cold.

Lina’s story.

A picture of her sitting across from Zayne in a small restaurant outside Akso hospital, the caption lighthearted:

When you have to drag out your doctor because he won’t follow his own advice about resting. (-_-)

Zayne looked amused in the photo, tired but still composed, his lips slightly curved in a small, rare smile. He looked… content. His gaze focused on her as if she had just said something ridiculous.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen.

It was stupid. It was so stupid to feel like this. Lina was his childhood best friend. She had never given you a reason to be insecure, and yet, the sting of it hit you like a slow, creeping ache. He had time to go out for a meal with her. He had time to smile like that, even after canceling on you. You knew you were being irrational, that he had only stepped out for a quick bite in his busy shift, yet you felt betrayed.

Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, but they kept falling, silent at first, then turning into quiet, shuddering sobs. You felt pathetic. Childish. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You knew he wasn’t. But it hurt anyway. Because you would have taken anything—just a few moments, even just a simple meal at that tiny restaurant, if it meant spending time with him today.

It hurt in a way that made your chest feel tight, made the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. The sting of it crept under your skin like a wound you hadn’t realized was open, raw and aching. The disappointment bled into something uglier, something heavier. Why, after everything, did it feel like you were always on the sidelines of his life? No, Zayne never made you feel that way. It was your own spiraling thoughts.

A loud sob choked its way out, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that would somehow ground you. You wanted to hate yourself for crying over something so petty. He was saving lives. He was exhausted. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it hurt.

You needed to go home. You needed to collect yourself before the ugly thoughts swallowed you whole. You stood up, tears streaming down your face, as the weight of it all seemed too much to bear. You didn’t want to sit here anymore. You didn’t want to wait. You needed to go home, to clear your head, to get away from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

You sniffled, grabbing your keys and heading out. The highway would be the fastest route home—less traffic, a straight shot. You rerouted, pressing your foot on the accelerator, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You wiped at your tears quickly, trying to focus on the road.

The road stretched out before you, a wide expanse of concrete and asphalt that felt like it would swallow you whole. The tears wouldn’t stop, and you wiped them away, trying to steady your hands on the wheel, trying to focus on the road ahead. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you understood, that you were rational about his work. The reality of it, the empty seat next to you, the disappointment of seeing Zayne happy in a photo with someone else, it all felt too much.

And then—

Headlights. Too close. Too fast.

A car jumped the signal, trying to merge into the highway.

You slammed the breaks, the scream of tires against pavement rang in your ears.

The impact was instant. A violent, sickening jolt that sent your body forward, the seatbelt snapping against your chest, the airbag exploding in front of you. The windshield cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Your vision blurred, the world spinning.

Pain.

Your chest burned, lungs straining to catch a breath. Your limbs felt heavy. You reached for the seatbelt, your fingers fumbling, but it was jammed.

Fuck.

Your head lulled forward, resting against the deflated airbag. Your head was heavy, your thoughts slipping away like sand through your fingers. The distant wail of sirens reached your ears, but they felt so far away.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening.

I hope the other person is alright.

The thought barely had time to settle before everything faded into black.

ZAYNE'S POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the chaos of the emergency room. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the undercurrent of blood—familiar, almost routine, yet tonight it gnawed at Zayne's nerves in a way he couldn't quite shake. He hadn’t left since he stepped through those doors, yet somehow, the guilt weighing on him had nothing to do with the lives he saved today. It was you.

He was tired. God, was he tired. His body screamed for rest, his temples throbbed from the strain of back-to-back shifts, but the hospital was understaffed, and there was no room for exhaustion when lives were at stake. As a cardiologist, his expertise lay in the intricate mechanics of the human heart, but duty demanded flexibility—especially in the ER. Cardiologists weren’t meant to be dealing with blunt force trauma and lacerations, but tonight, none of that mattered. They needed doctors. He was a doctor. So, he worked.

Even through the fatigue, his mind kept drifting back to you. He could still hear your voice from the call earlier, soft and understanding despite the disappointment laced beneath it. You didn’t deserve this. You had every right to be upset, to be frustrated that he had broken his promise, yet you didn’t even complain. That hurt more than if you had yelled at him

God, he loved you. And he hated himself for testing that patience again and again.

His hand tightened around the pen he was holding. He had plans—plans to make it up to you. The necklace in his office drawer, nestled in a velvet box, had been meant for tonight. Something small, perhaps, compared to everything you did, but a token of his devotion nonetheless. He could still salvage this. Maybe he could call you later, ask if you were still awake—

His device beeped, pulling him back to the present.

MVA on the highway. ETA: 5 minutes.

Multi-vehicle accident. Paramedics on site, victims en route.

Zayne exhaled sharply, shifting into work mode. He stepped into the ER just as the first stretcher was wheeled in. The radio chatter from their comms filled the space.

"Female, mid-to-late twenties, restrained driver, T-bone collision from a vehicle that ran a red light. Airbag deployment, but impact trauma to the chest from seatbelt. BP slightly low, likely from pain response. Tachycardic at 112. GCS is 14. Possible wrist fracture, mild concussion. No signs of internal bleeding from the ultrasound, but needs further imaging to rule out any complications."

He nodded briskly, slipping into the detached, clinical efficiency that had been drilled into him for years. It was only as he stepped forward, pulling the curtain aside, that his breath caught in his throat.

His world stopped.

There, on the hospital bed, was you.

Lying on the hospital bed, your hair disheveled, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breath lodged in his throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint focus on the rise and fall of your chest. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was dried blood at your temple, your lower lip swollen where you must have bitten down upon impact. The sight of the IV line in your arm, the faint bruises forming along your collarbone—he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Dr. Zayne…" Yvonne’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. A warning. He was frozen. This wasn't just a patient. This was you.

He blinked, his hands suddenly trembling as he reached for his gloves. Breathe. He had to focus. Had to push past the sheer, gut-wrenching fear threatening to paralyze him.

This is her. She was waiting for me. She—

"Dr. Zayne!!" Yvonne pressed, handing him the updated chart. "She needs you."

That snapped him out of it.

The moment his hands touched you, they were steady again. His voice was even as he examined you, the motions automatic, controlled. He checked your pupils, gently palpated your ribs to assess for fractures. He was a doctor. He was your doctor right now. He had to move. Focusing, he reached for his stethoscope, pressing it against your chest to listen for abnormalities. The rhythm of your heart was steady, but your breathing was just slightly labored—likely from the seatbelt trauma.

"You’re going to be fine." he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

You were stable.

"Her left shoulder—check for AC joint separation," he murmured, voice steadier than he felt. "Get a CT to rule out any internal injuries. And…" He swallowed. “Get me images from the crash site.” He needed to see how bad the collison was. He had to.

The hours blurred. He monitored your scans, adjusted your IV, checked your vitals more times than necessary. Each time his eyes drifted to you; his chest ached. He had seen the accident reports—your car, your windshield shattered, the crumpled hood. And the contents scattered across the scene…

You had planned everything.

For him.

And he wasn’t there.

Zayne clenched his jaw. Flowers were scattered, crushed against the upholstery. The pastries you must have picked out for him were ruined; their boxes torn open from the force of the crash. And gifts. There were so many gifts. He hadn’t even known you had planned all this.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You had so much waiting for him. And where had he been? At a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, eating with Lina because she forced him to take a break. He had been smiling in that photo while you were—

God.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling shakily as he sat by your bedside. He should have been with you. If he had just—

The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that you were alive.

Now, he sat beside you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, fingers curled into his palms to keep them from shaking.

"Wake up, sweetheart." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just wake up."

And for once, Zayne—brilliant, composed, always in control—felt utterly powerless.

The beep of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic, but Zayne found himself gripping the edge of his chair every time you stirred, waiting for that moment when your eyes would finally open. His body was stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to miss it.

Then, a small shift in your breathing. A twitch of your fingers.

Zayne leaned forward just as your lashes fluttered, your eyes cracking open, only to squeeze shut again at the harsh fluorescent lights. You groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. Instinctively, you tried to sit up.

"Hey—stay put," Zayne said immediately, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you down. His touch was gentle but firm, his fingers warm even against the hospital gown. "Don’t move too much yet."

Your body resisted for a moment, muscles tensing as if you wanted to argue, but the disorientation dulled your fight. Your gaze finally settled on him, hazy with the remnants of sleep and confusion.

Then you frowned.

“…You look tired,” you murmured, your voice soft, still groggy. “How long have you been here?”

Zayne’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Even now, even when you were the one lying in a hospital bed, barely recovered from an accident, your first thoughts were about him.

His throat felt tight, but he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak. “You should look at yourself first, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flickered down, taking in the IV in your arm, the bruises along your wrist, the faint soreness that no doubt ached across your body. Zayne exhaled sharply and reached out, his fingertips tracing the side of your face before cupping your cheek fully. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, as if grounding himself with the warmth of you. His eyes were moist, though no tears fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, raw in a way that stripped away every layer of his usual composure.

You parted your lips, breath hitching as if you were about to reassure him—to do what you always did, to let him off the hook, to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

But he didn’t let you.

“No,” he cut in firmly, shaking his head. “Not this time. This is the one time you shouldn’t be so understanding.” His jaw clenched, something bitter twisting in his expression. “I should have been there. We should have been celebrating our relationship. End of discussion.”

Silence settled between you.

After a beat, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. “Why didn’t you demand my time?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with regret. “You had every right to.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “…I didn’t want to bother you.” Your fingers twisted into the hospital blanket, grip tightening slightly. “You’re important, Zayne. You save lives. I didn’t want to pull you away from that.”

Something in him snapped.

He let out a sharp breath, then reached for your hand, gently prying your fingers from the blanket. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Shh… And you think you’re not?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again.” His gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “You are important to me.”

"You’re important to me," he repeated, voice steady but almost desperate. "Just like my work makes demands of me, you are more than entitled to make demands of me, too."

Your eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering beneath the lingering haze of exhaustion. But Zayne’s gaze didn’t waver.

"I know I should have been there," he said again, quieter this time. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before brushing a thumb over the edge of your jaw, tilting your face slightly. “When I saw you on this bed when I entered the ER… pale, unconscious… I haven’t felt fear like that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not in all my years of doing this. Not like that."

You didn’t say anything, but your hand came up slowly, resting over his.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

This—this was what he almost lost.

His jaw clenched, then loosened as he exhaled. “I don’t want to ever feel it again.”

Another pause.

Zayne inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were still here. That you were warm. That he hadn’t lost you.

“I know I say I’m sorry a lot… and it probably has lost meaning to you.” he murmured; his voice rough with emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if struggling to put his feelings into something more tangible. “I should have been there. And I will be. Every step of the way until you’re fully recovered and after....”

His eyes flickered downward, scanning you like the doctor he was, but this was different. This wasn’t just clinical analysis—this was personal. "You got lucky," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. "Blunt force trauma to the ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken wrist. Some lacerations on your arm and leg, but nothing deep enough to require surgical intervention. The worst was the head trauma, but the scans came back clear. No bleeding, no swelling. That’s the only reason I’m not having a complete breakdown right now…" His fingers ghosted over your arm, careful not to apply pressure. "Nothing life-threatening or with lasting consequences. But still… you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone." His jaw tensed. "Not when you have me."

You gave him a small, tired smile at that, and something inside him twisted.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box. He’d gone to his office to clock off for the day to be beside you when he picked it up from his drawer. The very box he wanted to give you today. The one that was supposed to be given in a far more joyful setting. This was supposed to be today. A night spent celebrating the two of you—not this. Not hospital beds and IV drips and the hollow fear that had nearly swallowed him whole.

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were here. And this… this was still yours.

His throat felt thick as he flipped it open, revealing the necklace inside—a delicate silver chain holding a white jasmine pendant, smooth and polished, its petals carved with intricate detail. And behind it, barely visible, were his initials.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he took it out.

"I was supposed to give this to you today," he admitted, voice lower now, almost guilty. "Before all of this. Before I let my own priorities get in the way of what really mattered." He glanced up at you, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable. "I don’t want you to ever think that you come second. Because you don’t. You never have."

Gently, he reached around your neck, his touch featherlight as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal of the pendant settled just above your collarbone, resting against your skin. His fingertips lingered there, just briefly.

Then he let out a slow breath, tilting your chin up just slightly with his knuckles. His mind still reeled with everything that had happened, with everything he should have done differently.

"I love you," he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no wry smirk to mask his emotions, no half-hearted deflection. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "Even when I do a crappy job at showing it." He didn’t need you to say it back—he just needed you to know.

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, his lips quirked, just slightly, into something softer. "And since I’m apparently on mandatory bedside duty, I hope you’re ready to be completely spoiled. I’m talking fresh coffee, extra pillows, a ridiculous number of medical advices—"

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Zayne felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. Then, slowly, you lifted a hand, brushing your fingertips over the pendant before reaching up to cup his cheek.

Zayne leaned into your touch instinctively, exhaling softly. He smiled, finally, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "We’ll be just fine. I've got you sweetheart... I'll always be here for you."

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

“we’re at four,” you remind him, generous enough to keep count for him. you doubt he still can.

“h-how long do you plan on—mmh—going?” he drags his arm down just to watch your hand work him.

“till you shoot blanks," you hum, just as affected as him.

The way his length jumps at every touch to his mess-slick tip, cum already frothing thick lewdly at the base, the way his whimpers keep slipping loose—has you pulsing around nothing. zayne’s fingers find your folds, gathering the slick mix of your translucent arousal and his creamy spend as it dribbles down, pooling on the sheets.

his knuckles brush your clit. it makes you jolt and you swat his hand away. his cock jerks hard in your grip. Oh. is he into that?

“don’t distract me,” you murmur, lifting his hand to your mouth instead. You kiss his fingertips, slow.

His gaze goes glassy. you take two of his fingers in, sucking gently. The sound he makes is wrecked. downright sinful—something you've never heard before. his jaw clenches to hold back sounds. still, you bite the tip of his fingers.

and that's all it takes. he lets out a shuddered whimper as thick jets of cum spurt into your hand.

you give him a moment to breathe, to ride out his orgasm, before you straddle him. He opens his mouth to protest but it dies in his throat as soon as your juicy pussy lips rub over his hardening length.

"just one more and then we stop." you promise. seeing his state, he likely wouldn't be able to see the endeavor through. his cock stiffens once you slip it in you.

"your dedication to your work," a lazy smirk plays on his face, hands finding your hips as you begin to move on him. "Is very attractive."

"god—you're way too big," you savour the fullness that comes with being impaled on his perfectly chubby cock. zayne pulls you into a sloppy, messy kiss, his sticky spend stretching in obscene strings against your ass each time you bounce on him, wet plaps filling the room.

"push me—hah!—as far as you want." he murmurs into the kiss, before he lets out a small moan when you keep tightening at his words, gripping his poor, oversensitive dick like a vice.

your pace grows insistent. desperate. his swollen head drags along every ridge of your tight walls so wonderfully that your vision blurs. zayne's lips go lower, placing open mouthed kisses on your collarbone, the curve of your tits, eating up his drying cum.

how can you last long when he's like this? One brush to your clit and you’re breaking, sobbing as you clamp down and milk him for another orgasm. he groans, spilling again.

still, zayne manages to spread your folds apart, watching your hole twitch around him, until his cum creams hot around the stretched rim of you.

his fingers trace it, where your hole pulses around him in the last throes of your release.

"wanna take a picture?" You tease.

part 3 of the FOR SCIENCE series

"no. this sight—" his eyes never leave the place you're joined. "Is for my eyes alone."

"I think I will. Do you keep notes of my dietary preferences in my chart?" You keep your voice low enough so as to not be overheard, with the added bonus of looking like a lovers' chat.

"Would that be wrong?" He almost smirks, just enough to have your stomach twisting into knots. The dim restaurant lighting catches the edges of his face, softening him in a way you've never seen before. This was no longer Dr. Zayne. This was someone entirely different, and you weren't complaining in the slightest.

"What are you gonna order?" You peer over to the dish he points out, skimming the summary on your own menu. Your eyes catch on one detail immediately.

"It comes with carrot puree." You grimace, remembering every lunch you've shared where he's pushed the orange vegetable to the side of his plate.

"Are you sure you don't want the salmon instead? It's heart healthy and there's no carrots." He sighs at your words, a soft exhale that's almost fond. But when the waiter comes around, he does in fact order the salmon, shooting you a glance that says are you happy now? And you are. You're happier than you have any right to be.

"So, will you finally tell us the story of how you two got together?" Tara leans forward, chin in her hands like a child waiting for a bedtime story. "The last time you mentioned Zayne, you said it was practically hopeless to try for a relationship with him!”

You feel the heat creep up your neck. You know Tara means well, but a part of you wants to leap over the table and strangle her, just to prevent her from uttering another word and exposing your lie. Zayne's hand slips to your knee under the tablecloth, a steady pressure that makes you want to both melt and flee. You try not to go rigid at the touch, forcing your shoulders to relax. He squeezes gently, in a comforting manner, like he can feel the panic radiating off you.

Clearly, he’s trying to save you the embarrassment by promising to not bring this up later. Yes, that must be it. How sweet of him.

Damn him for being so sweet. How the hell were you not supposed to fall in love with him?!

Before you can continue to curse him in your head, you realize that he's begun to explain to the table the totally real story of how he asked you out. His voice is steady and almost too confident, but you suppose it's fitting for a doctor.

"There isn't much to it, really." He shrugs, as casual as anything. "It only took so long because I was worried my feelings weren't reciprocated.” A pause, then a glance at you that's just too tender.

"But once I discovered they were, I knew I had to act on them.”

You smile at the shared chorus of 'awwws' that ripples around the table, busying yourself with your water glass to swallow down the sudden wave of nausea. You take a sip, let the cool liquid settle in your stomach. He was good at pretending. So good you could almost believe him, almost let yourself sink into the fantasy that your feelings were actually mutual, that the way he was looking at you now wasn't just part of the act.

But you know the truth. That it's all a lie.

You're pretty sure he's still talking, something about the bakery, about how nervous he was, but the room suddenly feels like it's caving in on you. The walls inch closer, the chatter of your friends grows distant, and the weight of the deception presses down on your chest until you can barely breathe.

This was ridiculous. You needed to come clean. You needed to tell everyone the truth so that you could get the hell out of here, run back to the city and bury yourself in work and forget any of this ever happened. You can't go a week like this, can't get a taste of heaven knowing it'll be ripped away from you and you'll never experience it again.

"I'm gonna get a drink." You murmur to the table, not meeting anyone's eyes. You slip away before anyone can respond, practically running past the bar and out onto the balcony overlooking the beach. The night air hits you, salt and cool breeze, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in your chest.

A tear slips down your face, but you're quick to wipe it away, angry at yourself for letting it escape. Maybe you were overreacting. It was just a week, right? Seven days. How different was it from the nights you'd spent laying in your bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining what it would be like if Zayne was next to you? At least now he actually was. That should count for something.

“Are you alright?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

You don't turn around. You can't. If you look at him now, with the moonlight shining on his features and concern clear in his knit brow, you might lose what little composure you have left.

“Yeah, I’m alright. I guess I’m just not a very good liar.” You murmur, leaning against the cold metal railing. A warmth is placed on your shoulders, smelling cedar and pear. You pull the fabric of his jacket closer, still not looking up.

“If you wish, I could tell everyone you’re tired from the train ride? Perhaps you’ll feel better after some rest.” He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but he knows there’s more than you’re letting on. You hum in agreement, feeling him step closer until he's shoulder to shoulder with you, both of you looking out to the vast sea stretching endlessly before you.

“For what it’s worth…I’m glad you chose me for this trip.”

You don't know what to say to that. So you say nothing.

You wait for him by the elevator, room key in hand. The guilt you feel over abandoning dinner is outweighed by your exhaustion at this point, so you don’t feel bad as Zayne joins you, his presence oddly reassuring. He hits hitting a surprisingly high number on the row of buttons, and the elevator hums as it begins to rise.

“They must have gotten us a nice room.” You note, mostly to yourself, but he hums in agreement. Ever the gentleman, he takes the key from you to open the door, holding it so you can step inside.

Oh wow.

The room takes your breath away. Clearly, they’d spared no expense. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the moonlit sea, plush carpeting that muffles every step, a gorgeous ensuite bathroom with marble countertops and a deep tub you desperately want to sink into. And then there's the bed.

One huge bed.

You and Zayne turn to each other at the same moment, clearly both thinking the same thing. I mean, of course they would give you a room with one bed. They thought you were a couple. Couples share beds. That’s what couples do.

But do friends share beds?

"I can sleep on the floor, if you'd be more comfortable?" Zayne offers, already scanning the room for extra blankets. But you're quick to refuse, shaking your head before the words are even fully out of his mouth. The mere idea was ridiculous. You were two adults after all, fully capable of sharing a mattress without anything happening. You'd known Zayne a long time, it's not like you were strangers or anything. You could totally do this.

"We can share the bed. It's not a big deal." You manage to come off much more nonchalant than you'd expected, shrugging even as your heart pounds away in your chest like a trapped bird. Hopefully he won't give you a check-up on this trip. If anything is going to give you away, it would be that, considering the way your pulse jumps every time he's close.

"I'm going to take a shower first, if that's alright?" Zayne states, already moving toward the bathroom. You know he's probably dying to get the train germs off, so you agree quickly, grateful for a few moments alone to compose yourself.

When the bathroom door locks, the soft click echoing in the quiet room, you allow yourself to sit on the edge of the bed and breathe. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. You count to ten, then do it again.

Your earlier spiral had been a fluke. You felt better now, truly. Just look around! You were at a gorgeous resort with your closest friends, and the man you loved was only a few feet away. Sure, he didn't love you back, but you were making your peace with that.

The sound of the shower turning off makes you shake the thoughts out of your head, sighing as you sink deeper into the plush mattress. But before you can dwell on the situation too long, the bathroom door clicks open, and you turn on instinct.

And what a sight you’re greeting with.

Zayne's hair is wet, dark strands clinging to his forehead and dripping down his neck. Droplets trace his jaw, catching the dim light before running along his collarbone and disappearing lower. His abdomen is even more toned than you'd imagined, lean with the muscle definition of a sculpture. Sure, you knew he worked out, but looking at his biceps now, the way they flex as he runs a towel through his hair, your mouth nearly waters. When your gaze trails even lower, towards the towel slung precariously low on his waist, the faintest hint of a shaven happy trail visible above the white fabric, your head snaps away so fast you nearly strain your neck.

"I left my clothes out here." Is all he says in explanation, only sounding a little embarrassed. His voice is rougher than usual, but you push the thought aside.

You hum in response, trying not to stare and distracting yourself by imagining what it would be like if his suitcase got lost at sea and he was left only wearing this towel.

You know, normal thoughts about your close friend.

When he emerges in a plain t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, you can't quite meet his eyes. Instead, you snatch your own bundle of clothes and step into the bathroom, setting the spray to the coldest setting possible. The shock of it against your overheated skin does nothing to cool the images seared into your brain.

You take your time, if only to delay the inevitable. You go through every step of your routine with agonizing slowness. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash that you definitely did not pick because it reminded you of him. You do your skincare, patting each layer into your skin. You apply a dessert-scented lotion that you totally did not pack in case a situation like this occurred. No, it was all just a coincidence.

Finally, when you can't stall any longer, you step back out into the bedroom.

He's flipping through a book, glasses perched on his nose, the lamp casting shadows across his face. It's almost sick, how attractive he is. The way his brow furrows slightly as he reads, the way his lips part just a fraction. You slip into the bed, sighing at the feeling of the luxurious sheets against your skin, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that there's less than a foot of space between you.

“Should I turn off the lamp?” He offers as you lay down on your back.

"If you're done reading?"

He nods, and the light shuts off with a soft click. The clink of his glasses hitting the nightstand is followed by the rustle of sheets as he settles in beside you. The moonlight illuminates the room just enough for you to see his silhouette resting on the pillow, and then turning to you slightly. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, a presence that's both comforting and terrifying.

"Goodnight." He whispers softly, the word barely audible.

Your heart clenches. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like if this were real. If you could reach out and touch him, if he would hold you close, if you could fall asleep in his arms.

"Goodnight, Zayne."

You close your eyes and try not to think about the morning.

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In other words, you can come in the next five minutes, or experience the pain and agony of denial for as long as Zayne sees fit. A quick glance at the clock perched on your bedside table confirms your suspicions; he has 90 minutes at his disposal, and you? You're still stuck on the first of two syllables Zayne's asking for.

“Very well then.” Cold disappointment nestles into Zayne's face. “Safe words.”

The demand trembles down your back, the hem of your silk nightie drawing goosebumps over your exposed flesh. “Red to stop,” you mutter, “yellow to slow.”

“And if your mouth is otherwise occupied?”

You swallow thickly. “Sign ‘r’ with either hand.”

Zayne chuckles. “If only you’d been so agreeable before…” Like cradling a porcelain doll, Zayne caresses your face, thumbs swiping apologies over your heated cheeks. “Behave,” he whispers, “and it won't be too painful.”

And other lies as told by Zayne Li. 

Zayne skips the warm-up entirely. No basic commands, no spankings; he swapped his tie for proper silk restraints and forgoes his fingers in favor of an unrelenting massage wand shoved right up against your clit. 

“Keep squirming and I'll turn it up.” 

Even with Zayne's legs pinning you down, you can't help but try and thrash away from the onslaught of heavy vibration and Zayne's mocking smile. He shrugs off his jacket and undoes his waistcoat, sighing over the wrinkles in his shirt and ignoring your muffled cries in favor of scolding you for ruining his outfit for the day. “Have I really been spoiling you that much?” He asks, basking in the sparkle of your unshed tears and the cries stifled by the makeshift gag wedged in your mouth. “Oh, sweet girl, I'm so sorry. I can't understand you when you're holding onto last night's mistakes like that. Does your dream taste as good as it felt?” 

Whatever essence your panties once held has since been lost to copious amounts of drool. An answer paired with an apology both strain against the gag, Zayne looking down expectantly. How he hasn't come in his pants already is beyond you; the wand doesn't relent, and he holds you down at the price of his cock enduring the same torture you've been through for the longest three minutes of your life. 

Zayne tilts his head. “Come again?”

Oh, what a dick. 

Another orgasm tears through you, and usually, Zayne would praise you for it. You're met with a stern glare, your thighs trembling, arms tugging against the restraints digging so kindly into your wrists as you try, in vain, to warn Zayne that you're about to squirt all over his shirt and pants and to please please please move the wand so you can breathe again. Your back arches. Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, mumbling about his newly-ruined slacks. 

“As much as you'd love having me carry your scent to work, hospital standards dictate clean clothes.” Zayne fishes your panties out of your mouth. “Are you ready to talk now?” 

You nod, sweat dripping down your neck and brow. “It was Cay–?” You don't recognize your voice, raspy and dry and screaming for water. Ever the doctor, Zayne grabs your water from your nightstand, cradling the back of your head to make sure you don't choke. 

“You were saying?” Zayne idly toys with your sweat-laden hair, finally freeing you from the endless string of vibration. “Go on,” he whispers. “Be a dear and tell me who else was in our bed last night.” 

Your eyes flutter shut, but Zayne won't allow for even the flimsiest of shields. His hand cups your jaw, squeezing until you meet his gaze. Knots curl through your stomach, guilt churning in your chest; even with his pupils wide and hungry, even with all logic and reason, you feel bad for dreaming about another man. For dreaming about, “Caleb.” 

A beat of silence washes over the master bedroom. No sunlight peeks through the blinds, clouds heavy and grey with a crisp winter morning and a fresh wave of panic, because Zayne's not getting up. 

“It was Caleb.” You try again, louder, taking ownership of the untameable mistake. “I–”

“Shh.” Zayne rubs your shoulder. “Relax.”

You never should've let your guard down. Zayne doesn't do mercy. Not in the bedroom. Never in the bedroom. Your eyes slip shut, tension melting into his warm embrace. 

“One more time,” Zayne murmurs, weight shifting above you. You miss the sound of thumbs tapping against a screen. You're blissfully unaware of the prompt Zayne's setting up, because you foolishly thought that a simple bout of overstimulation would be enough to repent. “Say his name again,” he whispers. 

“Caleb.” 

Reality crashes into the room. Zayne's wicked chuckle. Your sharp gasp. The trill of your phone against your ear. 

“Greedy girl.” Zayne nuzzles into your neck, smirk gliding over every tender inch of your stilled frame. “Calling for him twice in one day…” His teeth nip at your neck, breath hot, voice low. “I did say you'd be trying your luck. Maybe…” Another kiss. Another trill of the line. Another hitched breath. “Fate will take pity on you.”

Fate plays out in Zayne's favor this time.

“Hey!” Caleb's voice chirps against your ear. “What's goin’ on? It's kinda early for you.”

Zayne finds your pulse with his lips– “Say his name again.” And finds your clit with his fingers. 

Once again, Caleb's name falls from your lips in a breathy moan.