misty

“…You won’t melt in the few minutes I’ll be away,” he says, voice calm, almost teasing.

You look up at him with full seriousness. “It's worse. I’ll boil.”

That earns a quiet exhale of amusement from him, the corner of his mouth lifting as he studies you like you’re a particularly dramatic patient. “Mm,” he murmurs. “Then I suppose I’ll have to properly diagnose you.”

You blink. “Diagnose me with what?”

Zayne shifts his grip under your arms before you can protest further, lifting you with effortless ease against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Acute separation sensitivity,” he says simply. Your protest dies immediately into a small, satisfied noise as he adjusts you against him, one arm securely around your back while the other gathers what he needs from the nearby table.

“Is that even real?” you mumble, already relaxing again.

“No,” he replies softly. “But your symptoms are consistent.”

You huff a laugh, looping your arms properly around his shoulders as he starts walking. Your lashes quickly flutter shut as you listen to the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath his shirt, the coolness around him easing the heat that had been clinging to your skin all afternoon.

It’s unfair, really.

How easy it is to melt like this in his arms.

The way his steps stay steady even while carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. The way the faint chill of his evol lingers just enough to keep you comfortable without ever becoming too much. The way his presence alone feels like relief.

You shift slightly, tucking your face closer into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Then you’d agree with twenty-four hour care?” you murmur sleepily, voice muffled as you nuzzle into him. “Since my condition is so severe.”

There’s a pause.

“…Severe, hm?”

You nod against him, completely unbothered, already half-drifting.

His hold tightens just slightly, instinctive and careful as he adjusts you more securely against his chest. When he speaks again, his voice is sweeter than before. “I suppose I wouldn’t have much of a choice,” he says, a faint smile in his tone.

“If it’s that serious.” Warmth blooms in your chest at that, even through the cool air around him. You relax fully then, letting your weight settle completely into him, your breathing slowing as the rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you further under.

“…Good,” you mumble, eyes finally slipping shut for good this time. “Because I like you as my doctor.”

That earns a low chuckle from him.

And a moment later, you feel it—his lips pressing gently to your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your heart stir even as sleep pulls at you.

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m afraid I’m already committed to your case.”