i want to spend the next decade with you

Zayne finds you curled up in bed, swaddled in the blankets like you're trying to hide away from the world. You're not asleep, he can see it from the way you breathe, but for whatever reason, you're pretending to be.

He has to approach you like you're some feral cat, slowly, carefully, to not scare you off. Cautiously, he settles down next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he finds a comfortable sitting position. It stays quiet for a while, you’re both playing a game, waiting to see who will last longer; you might crack under the pressure and come out of hiding if he gives you enough time. But when ten minutes pass and you still don’t move, he has to take the initiative. 

“I know you're awake.”

Still, you ignore him. He'll go away eventually, if you play dead long enough, he'll let you be, and you can finally melt into the bed and disappear. 

But he's too persistent. His hand reaches for you, touching you above the thick blanket. And even though you want to reject him, you don't have it in you to avoid his touch, not when it brings you comfort you thought you'd never find again. There’s a small flicker of light, a small lit match that partly lights up the darkness that’s been shrouding your mind, but it’s not enough; you still can’t see the way out.

The two of you sit in a heavy silence, Zayne with his hand firmly on you, not moving, just a heavy comforting weight, and you, completely still, your breathing shallow enough to keep you hidden. He gives you all the time in the world, and when you finally shift under the thick blanket, he doesn't make a big deal of it; he sits and waits until you show yourself.

Peeking a glance from the small gap you made, you examine his face. There's no discernible expression on it, no anger or disappointment or pity. It's just patience. When your eyes meet, you get scared. You don’t want him asking how you are or what's wrong. You don’t want him looking at you and examining you.

When he opens his mouth to speak, you brace yourself for the inevitable, but the question he asks isn’t what you expect.

“Did you eat anything today?”

It's uncomplicated, casual. A question to ease your discomfort. He's always careful with his words.

He doesn’t wait for your answer, already reaching behind him to unveil a paper bag from your favourite pastry shop. If it were any other day, you would be delighted, but the thought of having to eat something right now, the effort of chewing, makes you feel nothing but dread. But you know he’ll talk you into it, and you’ll give in; you have no energy to protest.

“Can you sit up?” 

Wordlessly, you push yourself up with your stiff arms. Everything feels sore from lying in the same position for hours on end, but you push through the pain, sitting up to face him. Past your dry, swollen eyes, you can finally see him properly, he’s still in his coat, shoes still on—he probably rushed inside. You’d chide him for it if you had the energy; you’d chide him for it if you could bring yourself to care about anything at the moment. You’re in no place to judge his attire, not when you’ve been in the same outfit for five days. The germs he dragged in with his dirty shoes are nothing compared to the germs you’ve been accumulating in bed.

It hits you suddenly that you probably smell, and you want to tell him to leave, but he doesn’t give you the chance to speak—there’s a bun shoved in your mouth right before the words leave it.

When you take the first bite, there’s nothing but texture. You voice your thoughts to Zayne, your voice strange from the lack of use over the past few days. “I can't taste it.” 

“You still have to eat.” He guides the bun back to your mouth, tapping it against your lips until you open up again.

Silently, you sit there and eat whatever he feeds you. It takes time, chewing feels like too much effort, but you force yourself to do it, because he's right—he’s always right—you do have to eat. Even when you’re like this, even when you wish you weren’t here, you still have to eat. 

It’s a mess when Zayne’s done feeding you. His hands are covered in cream from the bun, but he doesn’t complain; he just pulls out a wet napkin and cleans them up before wiping the mess on your face. Part of you wants to cower away from his touch, but the more honest part can't ever reject him. If you were brave enough, you'd just throw yourself into his arms, cry it out, and tell him everything that's wrong. But you're a coward; you never learnt how to express your pain.

He leaves for a moment. It gives you a chance to breathe. When he returns, his footsteps are lighter; he’s finally taken off his shoes. A glass of water is placed on your bedside table, and you reach for it, your body desperate to meet its basic needs despite your heart desperately begging it otherwise. 

With the cup of water empty, Zayne reaches out to take it from you. He softly places it down on the nightstand before turning back to you. Too overwhelmed by shame to face him, you avert your gaze, focusing instead on a crumb that found its way onto his black shirt. You want to be of use, to make up for this, but before you can reach out to brush it off, he makes the first move. His hand is on your head, patting you strangely. It’s a tentative touch—wary and slow—in hopes of not scaring you off. 

You feel like a cat again, lured in by food and being shown love for the first time. It makes you feel pathetic. You know he can feel the greasy, matted mess on your head, but he doesn’t comment on it. You’re the one who brings it up first.

“I should just shave it off.” It's not meant to sound like a joke, but your usual tone slips through and ruins your moment of frustrated honesty. 

Zayne sees past it and pats your head again to reassure you. “There's no need. I'll wash it for you.” 

And as comforting as it is, you predominantly feel shame. Shame for your situation, shame for letting it get this bad again, shame for not being able to take care of yourself, shame for losing to your mind again and again. But it's mainly the shame of having to rely on Zayne too much. He shouldn't have to deal with you, he shouldn't have to cater to you on his day off, but he never complains—that doesn't mean the guilt goes away. 

Reluctantly, you let him lead you to the bathroom. You wait on the toilet seat as he shuffles around your bathroom as if it’s his own. By the time you refocus, you're already naked in the half-filled tub. The warm water slowly begins to soothe the ache of your stiff muscles. 

Zayne settles on the raised platform behind you, the handheld shower head already on as he works on wetting your hair. It's a matted mess, the days of lying in bed weren't easy on your curls, and now you’ve burdened him with the job of fixing it. With every passing second, you feel worse; the guilt continues to grow, you can almost feel it pushing against your chest.

He treats it like surgery; his agile hands work on your hair with care. He generously slathers the hair mask on, letting it sit for a few minutes, before working on detangling each section. Despite his gentleness, you still grimace each time the brush catches on a knot.

“I'm sorry, I'll try to be quick,” he reassures you.

The bathwater’s cold by the time he's done. He rinses the hair mask out before starting to wash your hair normally. The shampoo bottle squeaks as he squeezes the product out, making you wince at the sudden sound. There’s another quiet “sorry” from Zayne. Each apology worsens the guilt; you’re the one who should be apologising.

“You're nearly out of shampoo. We can go buy some tomorrow.”

His voice cuts through your thoughts. He's making plans, trying to keep you here. It's nothing grand, nothing big for the future, no huge events, just a promise that there's something to look forward to tomorrow, that you can't go yet. The lump in your throat returns, but you can’t cry in front of him. Even with your back facing him, he would be able to tell. So you swallow it down, trying your hardest to maintain some of your dignity, as if you have any left at this point. 

As he lathers the shampoo, his hands work at massaging your sore scalp. It feels like you're a cat being pet and you involuntarily melt into his touch. “You treat me like a cat.” 

“You do resemble one.” 

“I wish I was a cat.” It's almost too honest; it’s a wish for things to be different. It’s a wish for things to be easier without all of these heavy human emotions. But mainly, it’s a wish for you to be something other than what you are, because whatever you are is just too hard to love, being a cat might make it easier—it’s stupid.

There's a huff behind you. You can't tell if he's laughing or frustrated, but he doesn't give you a chance to dwell on it as he throws you another command. “Close your eyes, I’m rinsing it off.”

By the time he's done rinsing your hair, it's slightly easier to breathe. When you see him reach for the body wash, you stop him. There's a pleading look on your face as you silently beg him to let you do this on your own, to let you regain some of your dignity. You know it takes a lot from him to give in—he's always eager to help—but he relents. He hands you the bottle, his fingers purposefully brushing your skin, before standing up, his knees popping as he stretches out his long legs.

He stands there, clearly hesitating, unsure whether to stay just in case you need some help, but when he sees your inaction, he understands what you need from him. So he leaves; the door kept open behind him. 

In the quiet of the bathroom, you let out a sigh before starting to wash your body. The task drains you, and you probably do a bad job of it, but you can’t bring yourself to care. There are clothes left out for you, but the bathrobe is easier to slip into. Wrapping it tightly around your body, you stand there, giving yourself a moment to relax before heading into the bedroom to face Zayne. 

He’s patiently waiting for you on the freshly made bed. There’s nowhere to hide, so you give in and sit near him. 

“Are you ready to talk?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you mull it over. You won't ever be ready, be it in an hour or tomorrow or in a week, you'll still hesitate. But you can't do that to Zayne, not when he's always here taking care of you. You gulp down the nervousness and try to formulate a coherent sentence, but you’re coming up blank. Frustrated by your inability to express anything, you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes and sigh. 

He gives you time, and when you finally speak it comes pouring out, a mess of a confession.

“I don’t know why it’s like this again, Zayne. It got better for a bit, I didn’t want to—” you pause, gulping down the fear of what you were about to admit. You’re halfway there; you might as well finish your sentence. “I didn’t want to die anymore. But the feeling’s back again. I don’t want to be in that place again, but I don’t remember how to get out. And I didn’t want to tell you this, I didn’t want to burden you, or scare you. I promise I won’t do anything.”

It’s not a secret that you struggle with your mental health; it’s inevitable with everything that’s happened. Zayne knows this, you’ve talked to him before, but it was always briefly mentioned, passed off as a joke. You never told him the full extent of it. You didn’t tell him about the weeks where you stayed locked up in your room, about the years you spent so alone, how for the five years before he showed up, you were essentially alone, spending your days going to and from your lectures without talking to a single soul. And when he confided in you about his loneliness, you wanted to tell him you went through the same, but you were too scared to ruin the image he has of you. After all, you’re fine now, you’re doing well at your job, you have some friends, you have him—there’s no reason for you to feel this way. 

But you still can’t forget how it felt. You still wake up every day scared that you’ve been left behind again, your heart hammering into your chest before it realises it’s not in the past anymore. You’re still scared, approaching every relationship with an uncomfortable wariness in fear of being too much again, in fear of ending up in that same pit. 

And you still feel small; you’re nothing great, not compared to your friends, or your colleagues, or Zayne. You hate that it makes you envious of him. How can you tell him there are days when you envy him so much it causes a physical ache in your chest? How can you tell him you’re proud of him, but his achievements still make you feel incompetent? How can you explain all that without hurting him? 

The logical part of your brain knows it’s a normal feeling, and you keep it at bay; you’ve never let it affect how much you love him. But the shame that comes with it is always there.

His hand reaches out to touch yours, but you pull away. “I don't deserve you. I really don’t. I’m sorry for being like this.” An apology slips out of you. It’s quiet, full of unspoken shame. 

“I don’t want you to apologise. You don’t burden me, and you never will.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you a chance.

“You're always there for me, aren't you?”

You are, you can’t deny that. When he told you about his nightmares, you were there. When he tried to run away, you were there. When he told you about his loneliness, you were there. But this is different, and you let him know that.

“I don't see how it is different.”

“It’s different when it’s me.” 

His brows furrow in frustration, and you think he’ll finally get angry. You want him to be upset, you want him to tell you off, you don’t deserve to be treated kindly. But that’s not Zayne; he’s too patient and kind and it makes you mad because you don’t deserve it.

“I don’t want the person I love to carry all their burdens alone.” 

Zayne’s hand reaches out and envelopes yours. It's that simple touch that does it. You feel your chest tighten. Everything stings, your nose, your eyes, even your upper lip. You can feel warmth welling up in your eyes, but no tears fall. Everything’s crashing down, but you can’t even cry. It's frustrating. You trust Zayne more than anyone in the world and yet you still can't be honest. You want to cower away from him, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls you into his arms, resting his chin on the top of your head. You're tucked away into his chest; you're given privacy.

Work’s killing you.

The constant late-night shifts, multiple tedious reports, and never-ending meetings are too much; your body is spent. You miss your bed, you miss your apartment, and you miss Zayne. You miss him so much, but you have no excuse to see him. If you were a bit more honest, you’d show up without a reason, but it’s not that easy. It’s still difficult to ask for these things, to ask for his time on his days off, to admit that you just want to be around him for no specific reason. So when you get a message from a delivery courier asking to verify your delivery location, you reel at the brilliant idea of having it delivered to Zayne’s place instead, it’s the perfect excuse.

You shoot Zayne a quick message, letting him know that a package is being delivered to his place tonight, and he just needs to sign for it. His reply is immediate, you smile when you see the snowman emoji with its little “ok” sign. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you rack your brain for something else to say, but he's still at work; his shift doesn't end for at least another hour, so you close the app and decide to check on the package instead. You aren’t sure what exactly is being delivered, your mind initially too excited at the prospect of finally seeing your partner. Clicking back on the courier's message, you scan it for information on the package. You’re suddenly buzzing with a different kind of excitement when you see that it's the rare Lego set you ordered three weeks ago. Focusing on work will be difficult when you have better things waiting for you at home.

It’s late when you finally finish up. You rush to his place, excited to see both him and the package. And by the time you're at his front door, you’re about to burst from excitement. It’s a struggle to stand still as you wait for Zayne to open the door. You chide yourself for losing the spare key, you could already be inside if you weren’t so careless. But Zayne’s efficient, he never lets you wait outside for too long, and in less than a minute, the door swings open.

“Hi.” You’re distracted while you greet him, your eyes flitting behind him to look for the package.

“It’s in the living room,” Zayne answers your question before you get the chance to ask it.

You rush inside, tripping over your shoes as you hurriedly slip them off. In your distraction, you miss the slight frown on Zayne’s face. He expected you to greet him normally, with a hug or a kiss—you both haven’t seen each other in a while, but apparently, the package is more important than him. He shuts the door behind you and places your shoes on the rack before following you inside.

You’re already on the ground unboxing it, your eyes gleaming with excitement as you tear through the cardboard box. He’s entranced by the way you’re ripping into the packaging; he knows you’re strong, but this is a strength he’s never seen from you before. You feel his gaze on you and look up. There’s a strange look on his face, a slight raise of his brows that has you confused. Your hands still for a moment and you tilt your head, silently asking him what’s wrong.

“I’m curious, why did you have this delivered here?”

“I have no place for it at home,” you answer while avoiding eye contact, your hands reverting to tearing the packaging. It’s a flimsy excuse, but you can’t tell him the real reason you had it delivered here—it’s too embarrassing.

“What is it exactly?” Zayne asks as he goes back to his place on the couch.

With the packaging fully destroyed, you turn the box to him with a smile on your face. “A Lego set. A discontinued one.”

He nods as his eyes take in what you’re holding. He seems interested, so you decide to be brave and throw in the invitation that’s been on the tip of your tongue.

“Do you wanna build it with me?” Your tone is hopeful as you ask him to join you.

“I have to finish some work, perhaps later, love.”

“Hm, alright.” The pout on your face isn’t intentional; your expressions don’t usually slip easily, but you’re disappointed that he’s still working when the weekend just started. You know you shouldn’t be upset—you can’t be—not when you show up suddenly without giving him a chance to clear his schedule, so you let it go and start busying yourself with something else. Your eyes fall on his empty mug; you should make him something to drink. You’ll feel like less of a burden if you make yourself useful.

Your thoughts spiral further while you’re waiting for the kettle to boil. Maybe it was wrong to show up here so randomly, Zayne seems really busy, but surely it would be strange if you just leave now. You didn’t even greet him before invading his space, he must be disappointed in you. You know your worries are illogical, your mind’s prone to exaggerating everything, but even knowing that doesn’t help silence them. So you distract yourself physically, silencing your mind by concentrating on making Zayne the perfect hot chocolate.

With your drinks in hand, you return to the living room. You place his mug down and hesitate for a moment before leaning closer to him and kissing him on the cheek, mumbling a small apology on his skin before pulling away. The guilt of imposing on him too much to conceal, too much not to verbalise. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” His gaze is heavy as he looks at you in confusion.

“Just…” It’s hard to explain. You're sorry for getting too excited. You’re sorry for being who you are. You’re ashamed. You know he can’t read your mind so you try your hardest to verbalise it in a way that won’t leave you too vulnerable. “I kind of ignored you, and I showed up suddenly, and—”

“I missed you.” He reaches for your face, cradling it gently in his palm. His words are sincere, his tone thick and sweet. “You gave us an excuse to see each other when I was struggling to come up with one, so don’t apologise.”

It’s all a bit too much, it scares you how well Zayne can see through you. It makes you feel too exposed, too vulnerable. He understands you better than you understand yourself. You’re unsure of what to say other than a quiet okay, but he doesn’t seem to mind it.

He leans across his laptop, nose bumping into yours as he kisses you clumsily from the weird position. His thumb brushes against your cheek when he pulls away, and you can see it clearly now—he’s relaxed, there’s no tension in his face. “Thank you for the drink.”

Part of the uneasiness dissipates. He makes it all so easy, reminding you that he loves you just as much as you love him. The physical tension in your body drops, and you retreat, a bit overwhelmed by the physical affection. You leave Zayne to his work and settle down on the carpeted ground, secluding yourself with your solitary activity. And as you pour out the building bricks, you smile to yourself. It’s comfortable, existing together in one place without the pressure of performing for each other, without the constant need to maintain a conversation. It’s natural. It feels like home.

As you sit there in the lowly lit room, the sound of Zayne typing away on his laptop and the repetitive movements of your building start to make you sleepy. You push yourself away from the table until you hit the edge of the couch. You can feel the warmth of Zayne’s knee near your head. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you lean back and sigh to yourself—you feel exhausted. At this rate, you won’t be able to finish the build tonight. But you’re so close, you can't give up. You have to call in your reinforcements.

“I'm tired.”

“You have to finish what you started.” He shuts you down instantly, but you hear him close his laptop. He gives in to you so easily.

“I’m tired,” you repeat, nudging his knee with your head. “Finish it for me.”

“You really love ordering me around, don’t you?” There’s no bite to Zayne’s words, he’s already moving to sit next to you on the ground. “So, how should I do this?”

“You’ve never built a Lego set before?”

“I haven’t. I’ve seen the children in the pediatric ward play with them, though these seem more intricate than the building blocks made for children.”

Your heart aches at his admission. He’s missed out on so much, his childhood days spent studying rather than playing games with people his own age. And although he admits it as if it's a fact about a stranger, you know how much it upsets him, how much he grieves his lost childhood. But it’s okay, you’ll make up for it together; you’re here for him now.

You push yourself off the edge of the couch and scoot closer. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, you can feel his body heat radiating through his sweater—it’s comfortable—you want to nuzzle into him, but there’s a more important task on hand. You reach out for the instruction manual and point at the step you left off at. “I stopped here, you just have to follow the instructions.”

He hums in reply and starts building. You watch as his hands move around, mesmerised by the way his long fingers hold each piece. He’s quicker than you at building, there's a surgical precision to his movements, every block snaps into place perfectly—it’s annoying. A sudden competitive feeling surges in you, and your energy returns immediately. You sit up and reach out for the box; you’ll start on the second instruction booklet while Zayne finishes up the first. He can’t beat you at your own game, you’re the expert here. Hurriedly, you pour the bricks out of the bag and start sorting them.

“I thought you said you were tired,” Zayne notes, his attention still focused on the bricks in front of him.

“I was,” you mumble a reply.

Zayne’s eyes drift to you, watching for a moment before commenting with a hint of surprise in his voice, “You’re very organised.”

“Of course, this is a must. You have to organise the pieces by shape and colour, or you’re doing it all wrong.” You start rambling, explaining to him what knolling is for a solid five minutes. You’re sure he’s listening to you—he always does. “It’s half the fun.”

“And yet you still can’t keep your home tidy,” he teases instantaneously, almost as if he set you up for it.

“Hey! My apartment’s an organised mess.”

“If it’s an organised mess, then why are you always complaining about losing stuff?”

Looking up, you glare at him. “Be quiet and focus on building. We can’t go to bed if we don’t finish this.”

“How scary, I’m lucky you’re not my boss.” That light mocking tone is still in his voice; he can be so annoying sometimes.

“I’m not?” Your voice is firm as you raise your eyebrows at him, smiling when he falters under your gaze. It feels good to put him in his place.

“…You are.”

The conversation lulls again, and you continue building together into the quiet of the night. Occasionally, you look up to watch Zayne as he builds. He’s clearly enjoying it; that constant tension between his brows isn’t there anymore, and if you look close enough, you can almost see the slight upturn of his lips, an almost smile. You’ll have to invite him to your place soon, he’ll probably enjoy free-building as well. You mentally note it down, another activity for him to enjoy; another activity to make up for all the lost joy from his childhood. The list is long, you’re unsure how to tackle it, but for now, you’ll focus on enjoying the moment.

You say that, but the exhaustion catches up to you again. You’re messing up, misreading the steps, and the smaller pieces keep slipping out of your fingers whenever you try to snap them in place. It’s frustrating, you’re so close to finishing, just a few more steps, but your body keeps betraying you. A break would be nice; you could rest on the couch, but your eyes fall on something much better. Zayne’s lap is calling you, his strong thighs covered by the soft fabric of his sweatpants, are too alluring to resist. Succumbing to the sudden wave of exhaustion, you lower yourself to the ground, pushing Zayne’s arms away so you can use his thighs as an emergency headrest. “Doctor, your patient needs to be resuscitated.”

He slips into his role immediately, teasing you, his hands still busy with the bricks. “My patient seems perfectly healthy.”

“Your patient’s tired.”

He stops to look down at you, his gaze analytical as he searches your face for something, you can't exactly tell what he's looking for until he articulates it. “Her energy levels seem to fluctuate sporadically, perhaps we should run some blood tests.” There’s a hint of genuine worry in his voice, his question more than just a line in your impromptu skit.

“She’s fine. It’s just been a long week.” You brush off his worries, not wanting him to misunderstand your sleepiness as something more than what it actually is.

“We can always finish this tomorrow.”

“But we’re so close.”

“We’ll still be close tomorrow, there's no need to rush things.” He runs his fingers through your hair as he speaks, always so gentle with both his words and actions. He never pushes you, he’s never in a rush, even though it kills you both to know how much time you lost in your separation. This calmness of his is an anchor you’re grateful for, you just wish you could offer something back. “Let’s call it a night, then?”

“Five more minutes?” The words are heavy in your mouth as you talk; you’re clearly tired, but you don’t want your time together to end just yet. And the softness of Zayne’s thighs is better than any pillow, you really don’t want to move.

“You’d think we’re getting out of bed, not getting into it.” There’s a small smile on his face; he’s proud of his joke.

“Very funny, Dr. Zayne. Have you thought about switching career paths? You’d do so well as a comedian.”

He pinches your nose, chiding you for teasing him, and you giggle, your expression loose from the delirium of your drowsiness. Feeling playful, you roll to your side and bury your face into his soft stomach. At first, you feign innocence, nuzzling into him like a cat, and when he least expects it, you bite him. It's a soft bite, not enough to leave indents of your teeth, but just enough to make him flinch. He's always been ticklish, skin too sensitive, no matter how much he likes to deny it. You laugh into his shirt, pushing yourself further into him, but he pushes you away, forcing you to turn back to face him. His ears are all red, and you laugh again. He’s so cute, you want to go in for another bite, but he stops you.

“Get up.”

Your body moves instinctively at his command. You’re too tired to give it much thought, but there’s something there—there’s something in the way you just listen to him. He’s right behind you as you head to the bedroom, but before he steps in, you stop him, holding his arm firmly. He forgot something. You point behind him to the mugs left behind. He turns to look in the direction you’re pointing at, but he’s still confused, unsure of what exactly has you stumped.

“You won't clean up? You're really leaving a mess behind?” You clarify, your tone more shocked than anything.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s fine? Are you okay?” You reach out to hold his face in your hands, turning it side to side as you examine him. He’s acting strange.

“I’m okay.” His voice is muffled from the grip you’ve got on him, but he still finds it in him to tease you, “Your bad habits must’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Wow, my Zayne’s changing, soon his room will be just as messy as mine…”

He squints at you as you mess with his face. He’s cute like this, cheeks all squished, face rosy from the blush that covers his skin. You can tell he wants to deny that possibility, but you don’t give him the chance.

“How about I teach you some more bad things?” You let your hand drop from his face, choosing instead to wrap your arms around his waist. You pull him in, burying your face into his chest.

“Like what?”

You think for a moment, what could you do when your energy is this low—the bed. “Let’s sleep upside down. Our heads at the foot of the bed.”

You feel his chest rumble as he laughs at your suggestion. It's silly, but he agrees to it without any complaints. He’s pliant in your arms, letting you do whatever you want.

“Then let’s go, Dr. Zayne.” With the little energy you have left, you lift him up. For a moment, his feet are off the ground as you pivot him around. “To the bathroom.”

As you're standing side by side, brushing your teeth, you feel stupid for panicking earlier. The night’s been good, it's been comfortable. Your body feels light, the tension of the week forgotten; you just hope it's had the same effect on Zayne. You meet his eyes in the mirror, and they widen for a split second before he smiles at you. There’s no tension in his face, no tension in his body; his comfort mirrors yours.

He lets you drag him to the bed, all docile as he helps you move the array of pillows to the end of the bed. It feels strange lying in bed like this. The mattress doesn't dip down, still firm from the lack of pressure, and the view is unfamiliar; you've never focused on this spot on the ceiling before. Your eyelids are getting heavier, but you still try to push past the drowsiness, still wanting to talk with Zayne, to enjoy his company. “Does it feel like you’re at a sleepover?”

“I’m not sure how that’s meant to feel like.” Another confession delivered as a fact. But you see past his composed tone—you always do—and offer him whatever support you can.

“I’m not sure either.” Admitting it is strange. For someone so insistent on helping Zayne experience the things he missed out on, you aren’t in a better position yourself. The days of your childhood were spent alone, alienated from children your own age because of who you are; it’s not an easy thing to bring up, so you rarely do it. But the drowsiness gets the best of you, and you allow yourself this small admission. You turn around to face him, letting the moment of honesty linger for a moment before speaking again. “We’ll figure it out together.”

It starts suddenly, a random disturbing thought materialising itself in your head while you’re kissing Zayne. It’s not too loud at first, you brush it off, kissing him harder in an attempt to silence your mind. And it works for a bit, your body’s more focused on Zayne as you pull off his shirt, your hands too busy touching him to care about anything else. It’s only when he’s pushing into you that it starts again. Your body reacts first, every muscle stiffening, as a new distressing thought pops up again, it’s dirtier this time—it's vile—and you know you're meant to just acknowledge these thoughts, to let them pass, and continue what you're doing, but it's too much—it's too loud. You're dragged out of the situation, dragged deep into your mind, your physical senses numbing as you sink further. All you can feel is your heart beating against your chest, the thoughts beating against your skull. In your panic, you grab Zayne’s hand, nails digging into his skin from the vice grip you have on it. You hear him call your name, but it's distant, blocked out by the thunderous sound of your heart in your ears, as it gets louder and louder. The room feels small as your vision darkens around the edges, you can’t see clearly, you can’t see Zayne anymore.

“Zayne…” When you finally speak, your voice feels heavy, foreign in your mouth, like it belongs to a stranger. You’re stuck in place, unsure of where to move, you can still feel him against you; you can still feel your own arousal, and your panicked mind can't tell why you're aroused anymore. You can't tell if your body's reacting to your thoughts, and it scares you. It's all too much, it should be gone—you need to wash this feeling off. 

The words are stuck in your throat when you try to verbalise your distress to Zayne, but he doesn’t need you to speak, he’s already pushing himself off you, making sure not to touch you anymore than necessary. You’re grateful, and you try to thank him but you’re not sure if the words ever left your mouth; you’re not sure of anything right now. 

“Let me help you.” He offers earnestly, but you can’t let him touch you right now—not when you’re still dirty.

Shaking your head, you push yourself up, trudging to the bathroom without his help. Your vision’s slowly returning, but everything’s just shapes and colours, barely discernible, it’s just enough to guide you to the bathroom door. The sudden intensity of the bathroom lights is too much, so you close your eyes, this time wilfully accepting the darkness, and feel around for the light switch. A relieved sigh leaves you once you find it—it’s finally dark enough, you finally have some control. 

Too exhausted to shower, you decide to clean your hands instead; that's where the guilt accumulates, that's the place you need to purify. With the water running at the hottest temperature, you rub at your skin, washing everything off roughly. It's cruel and it hurts, but you need this—you need to be clean—you need to focus on something other than the thought repeating itself in your mind. When the bathroom door opens, you’re unsure how long it’s been, the previously scalding water is cold as you scrub away the remnants of the jasmine soap; the scent you usually love feels sickly, it doesn’t help you feel clean. Zayne’s standing there watching you, his heavy gaze almost palpable. If you look in the mirror, you would probably see him, but you keep your head down, staring at nothing in particular as you wash and wash, your heartbeat slowing down with each cycle.

“You should stop. Your skin’s red.” Zayne’s voice is flat when he finally speaks up, he feels distant yet too loud at the same time. Your senses are still a mess. 

He’s probably right, but you don’t want to look, you’re distressed enough, you don’t want to see what you’ve done to yourself. So you blindly trust him and comply, turning the tap off, ignoring the stinging of your skin as you turn to face him. He’s still by the door, still not intruding, giving you whatever privacy he can spare while still making sure you’re okay. You’re grateful for it—you’re grateful for him. It’s easy to stop a physical compulsion with Zayne around, but your mind is still racing, ruminating through the thought, flipping it around and examining it. 

With your hands raw and dripping wet, you step out of the bathroom. You stand there for a moment, trying to snap out of your daze. Instead of trying to control the mess in your mind, you try to distract yourself with whatever’s around you. Your eyes drift to Zayne, and you focus on him. He’s dressed again, his hair is still a mess, there’s a mark on his neck. You focus on the small things, letting your eyes trail down his body as you fight against your thoughts. When your eyes finally reach his hands, there’s another flash of panic on your face. You’d hurt him—the indents of your nails discernible on his skin even in the low light of the bedroom. It sets your heart rate off again. 

“I hurt you.” You grasp his hand, cupping it in both of yours and bringing it up to your face. Your pose is reverent as you apologise to him, your head tilted down, too afraid to look at his face as an apology leaves your mouth. “I'm sorry, you're always so afraid of hurting me but I'm always the one who ends up hurting you. I'm sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t aware.” His tone is too controlled, he’s trying to rationalise your actions to rid you of the guilt. It would help, but your mind’s behaving irrationally at the moment.

“Please don’t try to excuse it. Not right now.” It’s pathetic how you beg, asking him to comply with your wishes when you’ve hurt him.

But, Zayne doesn’t argue back, deciding instead to help you in a different way; he’s always determined to find a solution. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want me to distract you?”

“Distract me, please.” It’s humiliating, standing there post panic, in your damp shirt and underwear, vulnerable in front of him and pleading for help. You feel horrible, constantly dragging Zayne into your messes, constantly using him as an anchor when you should be his instead. But he never complains, he’s always eager to help you. So you guide him, telling him your boundaries before letting him take control. “Just don't touch me right now. I'm dirty.”

He doesn't react to the last statement, knowing that reassuring you won't help quell your distress. Instead, he ushers you outside the bedroom, letting you walk in front of him until you reach the kitchen table. “Sit down.” 

Obediently, you comply, letting your heavy body drop onto the chair. 

“Do you need something hot or cold?”

Unsure, you touch your face with the back of your hand. There’s your answer; you're burning up. “Cold.”

He nods and steps further into the kitchen. With him at a distance, the fear grows. It’s illogical, you know he’s not leaving you. You know he can't read your mind, he can’t hear these thoughts, he can’t tell how disgusting you are. You know all this, but you’re still scared. 

A part of you wants to call for him, but your voice is stuck in your throat—it’s suffocating. Only when he finally speaks again does that feeling dissipate.

“For someone with your condition, it's normal to have increased sympathetic activity and decreased parasympathetic activity. Earlier, your sympathetic system activated and triggered your fight-or-flight response. This shouldn't last long, the parasympathetic system should have helped you relax, but you're clearly still agitated. We need to make sure your parasympathetic nervous system does its job efficiently. I’ve heard some colleagues talk about stimulating the vagus nerve in patients with anxiety disorders, and although I haven’t done thorough research on the topic, it can’t hurt to try it out.” 

For a moment, you're dragged out of your head as you listen to his lecture. You're in the kitchen, watching him shuffle about, his large back is facing you as he rummages through the freezer. The fear subsides—you feel safe. 

He returns with a bowl of ice and takes a seat next to you. “Can I touch your face with the ice?” 

Hesitantly, you nod. He's done this before, you trust him to do it again. Ice is easy, it always pulls you out of your mind.  

He brings the ice cube up to your face and presses it against your cheek, his gaze never leaving you as he examines your reactions. Your initial flinch is normal, but you know he’ll stop if it gets too much. “Tell me how you feel.”

“It's cold.” The answer makes him chuckle, and the soft sound of his laugh makes the corners of your lips involuntarily twitch—you nearly smile. It’s slowly getting easier, his distraction is working. 

As he continues, he narrates his actions, making sure you’re fully aware of any sudden changes: “I’ll move the ice down to your neck now so we can stimulate your vagus nerve.” He keeps his promise, never touching your skin directly as he drags the ice cube down to the side of your neck. “When you’re feeling better, I could give you a massage. It’s supposedly more effective than an ice cube.”

“Not today.”

“There’s no rush, my services are always available.”

“Don’t you think it’s unfair to offer these services for free?” You try to ask it lightly, but the meaning behind your words is obvious; your guilt seeps through no matter how much you try to hide it. It’s hard to meet his eyes—it’s hard to be vulnerable—so you close your eyes to hide from his gaze.

“It’s up to the one providing the service to determine what’s fair.” He matches your tone. “And my client already pays me enough. She helps me more than I help her.” 

You open your eyes to look at him, searching his face for any sign of dishonesty, but his gaze is firm as he stares back at you. He's sincere. He's always sincere. So you pay him back with whatever gratitude you can muster in your current state, “She’s grateful.”

Humming in reply, he places the ice cube down and replaces it with a new one, this time bringing it up to your lips. “Open.”

You part your lips, letting him push the ice cube past them. A cool sensation spreads in your mouth as you suck on it momentarily before crushing it between your teeth and speaking up again. “I thought you said eating ice’s bad, Doctor.”

“I'm assuming you're feeling better since you have the energy to joke around.”

You wouldn't send him this, not now at least, he could tell you were still wary of him. But he couldn't ignore it. He was already close by meeting a buyer in Linkon; it wouldn't take long to check on you, twenty minutes if he speeds —and he does.

When he arrived your curtains were still drawn. A part of him began doubting if you were even home. Maybe you got injured on the job; you didn't always drive yourself to work. It was a possibility he'd think of after checking your apartment. He was calm and rational even in moments of stress, this didn't rattle him. He would find you if you weren't here. He found you before and he'd find you again.

He heard the muffled sound of the television when he reached your door. You were probably home so he tried to knock. Once, twice, three times—there was no answer. So he resorted to what he knew best and destroyed the lock. He'd fix it for you later.

The inside was dark, only the faint glow of the television filled the place. He saw you curled in on yourself with half your face squished down on the couch, and if it wasn't for the sudden shift of your body he would've assumed the worst. 

Before he could get closer, he saw your head move as you turned to face him. You were fine enough to still be alert; whatever pain you were in wasn't deadly.  

You squinted, for a moment not recognising the looming figure in the dark room. But your mind caught up; it could only be one person. “Sylus? What are you doing here?”

“You texted me.”

You tried to push yourself up to look for your phone but grimaced at the sudden movement as another cramp shot through your lower abdomen causing you to inhale sharply. You were taking laboured breaths with every movement.

Sylus finally saw the sweat on your skin, your shirt was stuck to your body. “Let me help you up.”

“You don't need to. I'm fine.” Giving up on sitting, you patted around for your phone. You were certain you hadn't texted him. The last person you were talking to was Tara, you were sure of that. Finally, you found it lodged between the back of the couch and the cushions. Your eyes burned as they adjusted to the sudden brightness.

Sylus watched your face as you unlocked your phone. The bright screen illuminated your features making your tense expression obvious. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to send that to you.”

Although he'd expected it, Sylus still felt wounded that you wouldn't rely on him. But alas, he was here and he would help you. Without asking why you were in pain he spoke up again, “Let me get you to the hospital.”

“You don't need to, I'm fine, really.” You hated the position you were in, the pain had subsided slightly, but you were still vulnerable in front of him. It scared you—he still scared you. You never gave him the pin to your door, he'd clearly broken in. And maybe it was out of worry, or something else, you still couldn't figure out his true intentions when it came to you.

“You don't have to pretend to be strong, sweetie.”

“Why did you even come here? Were you worried about me?”

Sylus couldn't answer. It was a simple yes, he was worried about you, but he could see it in your eyes that you wouldn't believe him. You were already on edge because of the pain.

“Do you like me, Sylus?”

You were relentless. Even while in pain you mocked him with a question you'd asked before—a question he couldn't answer without giving away too much. It was a yes, always a yes. 

But before he could give you a dismissive answer, he heard you groan in pain. 

And before he could get closer to check on you, you dismissed him. “Just get me painkillers. The medicine box is in the kitchen.”

He obeyed you, whatever you wanted. He brought your medicine storage box over with a cup of water after turning the lights on. 

You'd finally managed to sit up, you were still curled in on yourself while sitting. Your hand reached out for the medicine box when he got closer. You rummaged around a bit before finally finding the pill package. You downed two, all the time feeling Sylus’ strong gaze on you. You probably looked like a mess, you'd been crying before you fell asleep.

He finally spoke up again, “Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?”

“There's no point,” you said as you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. “They'll say nothing’s wrong.”

“We’ll go to another hospital then.”

“Do you think I haven't tried?” Your words had more bite to them than you intended, but you were in pain, and still wary of his presence—you couldn't really control it. His need to throw solutions at you like everything was easy if you just tried hard enough was irritating, so you explained it further, trying to convince him how useless these doctors were. “I've gone to ten different clinics. They all say it's normal, just regular pain before my period. Even though I can't breathe or move right. It's stupid.”

Sylus could hear how frustrated you were, you sounded like you had a lump in your throat. 

“Fuck, it really feels like I'm having contractions,” you said with a breathy laugh hoping to dissipate some of the tension, but even that mild action hurt.

“I'll find you a good doctor.”

“I'm sure you will.” Your reply was mocking, and dismissive, but a part of you hoped that he could. Every gynaecologist in Linkon was useless but maybe the N109 zone had someone special, a doctor that wouldn't just say it's anxiety or dismiss your pain altogether; the thought nearly made you laugh. It really would be a feat if Sylus found someone.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, you can leave.” You wanted to thank him but it felt strange.

“I can't. Your lock’s broken.”

You sighed in frustration and rubbed your eyes. “Fix it then.”

“I will, anything for you.”

You hated his tone—always too earnest. He listened to you like a loyal dog sometimes; he listened like he owed you something. 

You'd take advantage of it if he wanted to be this way. “I want to eat something.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He ordered what you demanded of him before asking you where the toolbox was. 

Your eyes lingered on him as he knelt in front of the door, fixing the lock all on his own. He could’ve called someone to do it, it would’ve been easier, he didn’t have to stoop so low for you. Your eyes grew heavier as you watched him work. Your body betrayed your mind; all the wariness you felt towards him wasn’t enough to stop the ease that spread through your limbs. Perhaps subconsciously his presence felt familiar. 

“Sure, but is it weird?” You sigh and place your forehead down on the table. “What if he's just nice to me ‘cause it's his job?”

“Then he’ll tell you that.”

You raise your head to glare at her, she really was no help. You’ve been stressing over this for weeks. You even started searching online forums out of desperation. The consensus was that it would probably end up badly, apparently, vets were nice to all their clients—it came with the job.

But, you weren’t sure if calling Zayne your vet was right. He wasn’t just a vet to you when you first met at the animal shelter. You were a volunteer long before Zayne showed up.

The day you met him was quiet. You’d just shown around some school kids who were interested in walking the dogs before heading back to the main building to check up on the kittens. Someone had dropped off a box of week-old kittens and they were on a strict feeding schedule. As cute as they were, it was exhausting, and the shelter was already understaffed. 

You opened the door to the isolation room quietly, trying your best not to wake the kittens up, but it was pointless as someone was already in the room trying to feed them. You watched from behind as the man struggled with the kittens. Two of them were scaling his body. One was already on his head, and another was sucking on the fabric of his trousers. 

You held back a laugh as you approached him. “Hey, do you need some help with that?”

“Please.”

“Let me get them off you.” You reached out for the one on his head, and untangled the small paws from his hair, trying not to hurt either of them in the process. 

Once you'd gotten all but one of the kittens in the crate, you turned back to him. “You should probably keep them separated and feed them one by one.”

“They didn’t give me a chance.”

He was funny. 

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Zayne.” 

You introduced yourself to him and began demonstrating how to properly bottle-feed the kittens. “Make sure to keep them on their stomach while you feed them, and angle the bottle like this, it mimics the way the mothers feed them. Just open their mouth with your finger gently if they’re refusing, they don’t have a choice, they have to drink this.”

After your demonstration, you handed him the bottle. “Here, you try.”

He held the kitten carefully and copied you perfectly.

“Good job, you're a natural.” You grimaced at the tone you’d used to praise him, you typically helped out younger people but surely it was embarrassing for an adult to be spoken to that way.

He made no comment about it and you both continued with bottle-feeding the kittens. You showed him how to stimulate the kittens and you both worked at making sure they all used the bathroom before placing them back in their crate to sleep.

Once you were done, the place was a mess. The heavy smell of kitten formula filled the room as drops of it covered the floor and both of your clothes. 

“Don’t worry, it’s always this messy,” you said as you stood up. “I’ll get you a towel.”

You left the isolation room and made your way to the storage room to grab a few clean towels. You returned to see Zayne making little snowflakes for one of the older cats in the room. You watched him from behind, not wanting to disturb the moment. As the snowflakes subsided, he hesitantly reached out for the cat, who in turn backed away. There was a shift in his shoulders, he was dejected, but he withdrew, not forcing an interaction. It was sweet—he was sweet.

-

A few days after your first meeting you’d seen his name on the doctor’s volunteer list and felt embarrassed. You’d talked his head off while teaching him how to feed the kittens but he’d already known all of it. It made sense, minus the out-of-control kittens, he was good at it.

You confronted him about it once you finally found him in the storage room. He was organising the cleaning supplies, going by with his day like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t tricked you.

“Hey, I saw your name on the doctor volunteer list,” you started, your tone accusatory. “Why didn't you say anything when I was acting like such a know-it-all?”

“I appreciated your help.”

“Sure, sure,” you said as you leaned against the shelf. “Must’ve been annoying.”

“I assure you it was not. You’re very knowledgeable.” His deep voice was earnest as he complimented you. He wasn’t trying to embarrass you at all. 

Still, you were embarrassed, both by his compliment and your first meeting, and you looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze. Your eyes drifted to his hands, and you watched as he folded the towels with ease. His large, skilled hands got through them faster than you ever could.

You felt awkward just standing there so you spoke up again, “Let me help you.”

“You really like helping, don't you?”

You huffed in amusement, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a proper laugh. Your conversations felt too familiar, like you’d known each other for eons. You didn’t feel the need to reply or to keep up a charade of unnecessary social interactions, so you fell into a comfortable silence as you helped each other out with cleaning the storage room. The ease of your actions was apparent, you flowed with each other, never colliding. It came easy. It felt natural. 

-

Although most volunteers tend to come and go, Zayne was diligent. He’d attend every Saturday and help around until the sun had set, and despite your awkward first encounter, you found yourself drawn to his company. You’d even plucked up the courage to join him for lunch after seeing him alone all the time. 

You discovered a lot about him from your first shared lunch. It was an unbearably hot day and you could feel the uncomfortable sensation of your shirt sticking to your sweaty skin. The heat dampened your mood and you were miserable. However, that instantly changed once you saw a familiar figure having lunch at one of the picnic tables. 

You approached him carefully, a part of you hoping to scare him but you held back. “Hey, mind if I join you?” 

“Go ahead.” You barely noticed the small smile on his face.

You took a seat across from him, placing your bag down on the bench in the process. Your eyes drifted to his lunch, it was clearly homemade, and surprisingly very cute. You started to wonder whether someone made it for him; there was no way he made those octopus sausages for himself. Perhaps he had a partner, or maybe even children. You were so lost in thought that you didn't realise you’d been staring at his food for a solid minute.

“Would you like some?” Zayne asked as he moved his lunch box towards you.

You shook your head. “Oh, no. I've got my own food.”

You pulled out your own lunch and started picking at it. The question kept running through your mind and you felt so incredibly nosy but you needed to know whether someone had made Zayne’s lunch. 

“Did your partner make that for you?” The words left your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“What?”

“Your lunch,” you clarified.

Zayne looked down at his lunch, furrowing his brows in confusion. “I made it myself.”

You'd never seen him look that confused—he looked cute. And, for a reason unknown to you at that time, you felt relieved by his answer, you could finally fall back into the loose rhythm of your conversation. 

“Even this?” you asked as you pointed at the sausages with your chopsticks.

His ears turned red as he glanced to the side. His voice was quiet when he finally replied, “Is it strange?”

You shook your head, hoping you didn’t overstep and unnecessarily embarrass him. “Just didn't expect that from you. They're very cute.”

You both went back to eating in shared silence. Your concentration was on the phone in front of you as you aggressively searched things up.

Zayne noticed that you look troubled. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing, I’m just looking for a new vet clinic.” You glanced up from your phone and it hit you—you had a professional right in front of you.

He saw your eyes widen before your phone was shoved in his face. He glanced down at it and raised his brows, unsure of what exactly he was looking at. You’d zoomed in so much that the map was indiscernible. 

“Do you know any good clinics in this area?” You zoomed out on the map and waved your phone around. “I’m moving there soon.”

He took the phone from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in the process, and moved around on the map before handing it back to you. “My clinic is close by.” 

He took out his cardholder and you couldn’t help but smile when you noticed the snowflake design on it. His taste was surprisingly cute for someone who typically appeared so serious. You didn’t know him well enough at the time, but that side of him became less shocking as you got closer. 

“Are you allowed to advertise your services to other volunteers?” You teased him as you flipped his card, examining it with pretend scrutiny. 

“Why wouldn't I be?” He teased you back, his tone flat. “I can give you a discount since we're acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?”

Zayne continued, not realising what he said wrong. “Just make sure to ask for me when you book your appointment.”

You were caught up on the acquaintance comment. At that time you’d assumed you’d gotten closer. You’d seen him every weekend for three months and you’d hoped you were at least friends. But perhaps he was joking, you really couldn’t tell sometimes. 

“Right, I will.” You replied after a moment, trying to fall back into the light rhythm of the conversation and hoping you didn’t sound too hurt. “Thank you, Dr Zayne.”

You tucked away his business card in the back of your phone case—somewhere close and safe. It felt like a key to a different door in his life and you made sure to never lose it.

-

Zayne technically became your vet the day you finally visited his clinic. It was four months after meeting him, you’d finally settled into your new apartment and your cat's yearly vaccines were due. 

You arrived at the clinic with your pet carrier in hand. After registering at the front desk, you sat down in the waiting area and looked around. The place was small and modern, with a jarring white-on-white scheme that was typical for most clinics, but you noticed a personal touch in every corner. There were drawings behind the reception desk, probably left there by some kids. You saw one that was clearly of Zayne and smiled. You could tell he was loved. 

While in a daze, you heard Zayne call your cat’s name. You turned to face the sound of his voice and an inexplicable feeling emerged when your eyes landed on him. Seeing him outside the confines of the shelter felt strange, as if you’d crossed a threshold. He looked different. He never wore his glasses at the shelter. And he looked good in his scrubs. You stood up and walked over to him before your thoughts trailed off any further.

“Please come in,” he said as he held the door open for you.

“Thank you.”

“Here, let me take her.” He reached for the carrier once you entered the room. 

You handed her over to him and he placed the carrier on the examination table. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.” 

“I really wanted to see how you are at work,” you answered back, your tone too light. 

He cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose bridge before abruptly changing the subject. “So, you’re here for a check-up and vaccines.”

The obvious deflect of your words caused your face to heat up. You shouldn’t have teased him at work, he wasn’t your friend, he was just doing his job. You should've been serious; you should've played the role of the client without disrupting his work. You answered his question and stiffly stood there as Zayne shifted his attention to the cat in the carrier.

He opened the door of the carrier and peeked in. “Don't be scared, I won't hurt you.”

You’d told yourself you’d be serious—a good client—but the way he talked to animals, the subtle shift in his tone, was so sweet that you couldn’t help but smile. 

Zayne reached into the carrier to get your cat out. She was always nervous at the vet and would cling to the carrier with all her strength, but he managed to take her out swiftly. His focus fell fully on her as he started the examination. “How has she been at home? Any unusual behaviour?”

“Nope, she's acting normal. She’s eating normally and playing around like usual.”

He hummed in reply as he placed her on the scale. “Perfect weight, good job. Let's check your heart now.”

You watched him closely as he worked. He always carried himself well, his movements confident and precise. Anyone could recognise that he was capable at his job. He was just like this at the shelter, always working hard even on the menial tasks assigned to him. He finished the examination quickly and vaccinated your cat with ease. Once it was over, he assured you that your cat was healthy and gave her a quick pet before placing her back in the carrier and seeing you out.

You hesitated before leaving the room, a part of you afraid that you’d ruined something by coming here. You’d acted too familiar at his workplace and you weren’t sure if you’d overstepped, it was hard to tell where you stood in his life. 

“I’ll see you this Saturday?” You asked tentatively, hoping his answer would quell the sudden unrest in your heart.

“Of course. Take care.”

-

Despite your so-called status as a mere acquaintance, Zayne always seemed to overextend himself when you were in need of help. You’d rushed into the vet clinic one night with an injured dog in hand. It was past closing time and with no other staff left in the building, Zayne had every right to turn you away—but he didn't. He'd seen you from behind the glass door and let you in immediately. 

“I'm sorry I know you're closing up but I had nowhere else to go,” you spoke quickly, your knuckles white as you gripped the cardboard box that had the dog in it.

Wordlessly, Zayne reached out and took the box from your hands. It was heavy. 

You started explaining yourself again, “There was a wanderer and—” 

“I’ll take a look,” he cut you off before you could finish the sentence. 

You tried to follow him but he blocked your path. “Stay out here.”

“But—”

“Stay.” His firm voice left no room for arguments.

So you relented.

The door shut behind you and you dropped down onto one of the waiting room chairs. The place was near silent, you could hear your heart beating loudly against your chest. There was no noise coming from inside the room. Your hands were still sticky from the blood but you had no energy to get up and wash them. 

Time seemed to stretch out in the waiting room and by the time Zayne emerged from the room you were unsure how long it had been. His footsteps felt deafening as he approached you.

“There was nothing I could do,” he spoke up before you had the chance to ask.

“If I’d gotten here sooner…”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” His words were blunt but you could tell he was trying to rid you of any guilt.

It hadn’t been your fault; it was bound to happen.

A deafening silence stretches between you and you look away; you couldn’t bear to look at him. You should leave. You’re not sure if you announced it to him but he seemed to understand. 

“Let me take you home, you're in no state to drive.”

“I can’t leave my car here.” 

“I’ll drive you back in it.”

You would've argued back but your hands were still shaking, your body still heavy. His firm voice offered you necessary comfort, so you accepted and allowed yourself to be a burden again. You handed him your car keys, but instead of reaching out for them you felt his hand on your wrist instead.

“Your hands are dirty.”

He left you in the waiting room for a few minutes before returning with a damp towel. He knelt down, reached for your hands again and started wiping away the blood. You let him, your hands heavy in his as he worked gently at getting you clean. You stared at him, a part of you envious of how calm he seemed, another part grateful for the anchor.

He told you to wait in the car as he closed up the clinic. You tried to pay before leaving but he wouldn’t let you; he wouldn’t let you do anything. So you sat in the passenger seat and waited. Your eyes drifted to the steering wheel, the blood on it had already dried up, you couldn’t have him touch that so you tried your hardest to clean it with whatever you had in the glove box. 

The car door opened just as you finished cleaning. Zayne got into the driver's seat and adjusted it before asking where you lived. You put the location on the in-car navigation and sank back into your seat. The air in the car felt heavy as he drove you home. Your body became sluggish as the events of the day caught up to you. You were tired so you let your eyes close for the rest of the ride.

The car came to a stop.

“We’re here.” 

“How’re you gonna get home?” A part of you wanted to ask him to stay. But it was too much, and far too soon. 

“I’ll call a taxi.”

“Let me pay for it,” you insisted even though you already knew his answer.

“There’s no need. Just head inside.” He sounded just as tired as you. 

You felt bad; he should’ve been home already but he had to deal with you. So you try to pay it back with any sort of favour, it's the only thing you know how to do. “I’ll wait with you.”

You both got out of the car and stood beside one another in the humid night air. You tried to fill the silence with anything but all you could muster up was a quiet thank you. Minutes passed before the light of an approaching taxi came into view. It was time for him to leave.

He turned to you and placed the car keys in your hand, “Make sure to send your car in for cleaning.” 

You thanked him again before he left—not that it would ever be enough. And as you made your way to the entrance, you felt his eyes on you. The taxi took off once the door closed behind you. The hallway felt unbearably dark. You were exhausted.

-

And when you stopped showing up to the shelter, Zayne was the first one to reach out. 

You received a text from an unknown number, an ominous “Are you alright?” that left you confused. You ignored it initially but then the same number called you and you had to pick up. You were prepared to hear a stranger but the voice that greeted you was familiar—it was Zayne. He sounded worried, but still, he didn’t push you to talk. He could tell that you were hesitant to do it over the phone so he invited you out to a coffee shop to talk instead.

You arrived at the meeting spot early but Zayne had you beat. You saw him from the glass windows already sitting on one of the corner tables. Luckily, the place was barren. An old establishment that barely got any visitors and never played any music; it was a perfect place for a conversation. You hesitated slightly before opening the glass door. 

“Hi,” you said once you reached his table. 

He greeted you back.

There were already sweets on the table, two cakes and some fruit tarts. You could feel his eyes on you as you settled in your seat. You shifted your bag around in your lap, trying to distract yourself from the heavy atmosphere. It’s quiet for a bit, both of you unsure of what to say. 

“I didn’t know what you’d like so I ordered a few things.” Zayne broke the silence as he pushed a plate towards you. “I got us some tea as well.”

“Thank you, you really didn’t have to.” 

He poured tea for both of you; an absurd amount of sugar in his mug and a smidge in yours. He mixed it for you and placed the mug down in front of you.

“How have you been doing?” He asked, his tone mindful as if he was afraid to hurt you. 

Your answer was vague, you said you were alright but Zayne could tell you weren’t being honest. The conversation stagnated again, both of you unsure of what to say. You picked at the cake in front of you before taking a small bite. You could barely taste it. 

“You can talk to me,” he offered, hoping it was the right choice. 

“I'm not sure what to say.”

“Anything is fine.”

You tried to organise your thoughts, to form them into a single coherent sentence, but it was difficult. He’d come out here just to see you, so you had no other option but to try harder. 

“I can't sleep.” Your hand held onto the mug in front of you, seeking some semblance of security, anything to ground yourself. You couldn’t say anything else. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t everything. You were afraid. Despite your frequent volunteering you’d never seen or touched an animal that was injured to that extent, the most you’d seen were sick ones. Animal death wasn’t unfamiliar to you but it was never that violent. 

You felt Zayne’s fingertips brush against your hand and you stiffened up, suddenly conscious of his touch. It wasn’t foreign to you. You’d had passing moments in the shelter, instances where you sat too close together. He’d even bandaged you up when a particularly scared cat had scratched you up. He’d washed your bloodied hands. But this felt different. You could tell that he wanted to hold them for a different reason but he was too afraid. Seeing him try brought you enough comfort.

“It’s not easy to experience these things.” 

“Even for you?”

He nodded and took a sip of his tea. He didn’t offer you any advice, you appreciated it. Knowing that he understood was more than enough.

He helped the conversation shift to something easier. He caught you up with things you missed at the shelter and told you about the amusing pet names he’d seen at work. You could tell how hard he was trying so you leaned into it. You let yourself fall into a comfortable conversation as you told him about your week. You ate one of the tarts. You could finally taste it.

When it was time to leave, he mirrored a question you’d asked him before—one you’d asked when you needed reassurance. “Will I see you this Saturday?”

It was your turn to offer it.

“Yeah. See you.”

-

Your emergency meeting with Tara had been useless. You’d spent the entire walk home recalling every moment between you and Zayne. And now you lay in bed, twisting and turning as you wrack your brain for a decision. Tara told you it wasn’t weird. There technically isn’t any conflict of interest and Zayne does seem to like you, or at least you hope he does and you aren’t reading him wrong. 

The moments you spent together were good. The past eight months were nice but having your meetings restricted to either the shelter or the clinic left you yearning for more. You want to break this ordinary routine. You want to see him more than once a week. You want to invite him over. You want to visit his home.

You aren’t sure why you’re still hesitating. 

You pull out your phone, hands shaking slightly as you open up your messaging app. You smile once you see his usual default profile picture, still not set despite you telling him how to a few weeks ago. You’ll remind him next time you see each other. You have a lot to tell him. Your fingers hover over the keys as you think of what to type. Something simple; something easy. You won’t hesitate anymore.

“Then what's the issue, sweetie? It's better if we match, anyway. I am your date.”

“I don't think I can afford a custom dress right now.” You give him a random excuse, hoping he’d just drop it and let you head home. 

“That's not an issue. It's my treat, a thank you for the invitation.”

“You really don't have to.”

“I want to.” He’s too persistent.

“Fine.” There was no point arguing back. “Just be quick, and I'm not getting undressed.”

You throw him the measuring tape from across the room. He catches it swiftly, still too relaxed.

“C'mere.” 

Before you get a chance to walk over, the tethers of his evol wrap around you and drag you closer to him. You end up between his spread out legs. He looks good under you, handsome despite the usual unflattering lighting in fitting rooms. It pissed you off.

Sylus reaches out to tug at your oversized sweater. “You’ll have to take this off at least.” 

“Fine.” You hesitate for a moment before reaching down and pulling it off, the shirt you have under rides up slightly in the process. 

Sylus’ eyes immediately drop to the exposed skin. His gaze eager for something, heavy, almost palpable, that you can’t help but feel it. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just enjoying the view.” His hand reaches out and squeezes the fat at your waist. His touch feels cold on your heated skin. 

You stiffen up but let him continue.

But he can read you like a book, your discomfort is obvious. “Relax. I won't hurt you.” 

He pulls down your shirt where it rode up, his hand lingering for a bit. You can see a smile on his face as he brings the measuring tape to your waist.

You look anywhere but at him. Your entire body is tense as you try not to feel embarrassed by how intently he is taking your measurements. It’s not like he doesn’t know you’re fat, this just felt like too much, like he’d realise something else entirely. 

“You seem a bit distracted today.” 

His voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“‘M just a bit tired.” A believable excuse. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You hadn’t been sleeping well because of your nightmares and this shopping trip wasn’t helping. The lights were starting to be too much, and you were starting to feel your skin get clammy as you overheat under them.

Thankfully, he lets it go and moves on to take your hip measurement. His hands linger again, 

He jots it down before moving down to your thigh.

“It's for a dress, I really don't think you need to measure there.” You suddenly feel a jolt of embarrassment and reach down to push his hand away. Your thighs were an area you were particularly insecure of and having him so close to them was overwhelming. 

He tugs at the tape that's wrapped around your thigh making you stumble forward slightly. Your breath catches in your throat and you hold onto his shoulders to balance yourself. 

“I need to be precise, sweetie. You took my measurements so well, it’s only fair that I do the same for you.”

You feel yourself get warm at the compliment, and the large hand splayed on your thigh doesn’t help quell your embarrassment. You try to focus on the strong muscles of his shoulders, letting yourself tighten your grip on him as he takes his sweet time with you. 

“You’re awfully touchy today, kitten.” There’s a lilt to his tone, he’s teasing you again.

“As if you’re not.” You take your hands off his shoulders, suddenly ashamed for touching him so freely.

He lets out a deep hum, not bothering to refute your claim. The sound makes warmth pool in your stomach.

“I like touching you.”

You’re unsure what to say to his sudden sincere remark, so you ignore it, hoping he’d just hurry it up or just change the subject. 

But of course, he doesn’t let it go.

“Are you embarrassed?”

He looks up at you, hoping to meet your gaze but you’re staring off to the side again. 

“Or are you uncomfortable with me touching you like this?” His tone is serious now. 

“It’s not that.” You deny it vehemently, finally meeting his gaze.

“What is it then?”

“It's stupid.”

“Not if it's making you upset, sweetie.”

You pause for a moment before speaking up again, “It is embarrassing, and it is stupid. I don't want you measuring my body like this. I know I'm fat, and you can see it, but this is too much for me today.”

Your voice feels loud in the quiet room. Too loud in your own ears. 

“I just don't want you knowing exactly how big I am. Even though it is very obvious,” you try to end it off on a lighter tone, chuckling a bit at your comment but your voice betrays you. 

Sylus waits for you, making sure you're done before he starts talking again.

“I already have your measurements.”

“What?”

“Mephisto,” he answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Of course, it was that stupid bird. 

“Right. So why all this?”

“Just wanted to be close to you.” He admits; another sincere remark that makes you feel strange.

“Sure.”

You watch and he pulls the measuring tape away from your thigh, replacing it with his large hands. 

“I like touching you.” He repeats the earlier phrase. “And it is unfair to let you have all the fun.”

His hands trail up to your hips and then to your abdomen, their grip firm as he touches all of you. They end up at your ribs. Large and warm as they smooth the skin over, they stop there, holding you firmly.

“I want to get you clothes that make you feel good,” his voice is quiet as he gazes into your eyes, sincere and serious. “Can I do that?”

All you can do is nod, already too overwhelmed by his touch. You're afraid if you do speak your voice would crack, you'd already been too vulnerable with him. Instead of continuing, he pulls you down onto the sofa next to him, and he’s gentle like he always is. He hands you a catalogue.