#scare

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The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beeping of the monitors and the occasional distant chatter from the hallway. The dim lighting casts everything in a soft glow, making the space feel cozier than it should—even with the sterile white walls and medical equipment surrounding you.

Zayne sits beside your bed, his ever-present clipboard in hand, reviewing something with a look of calm focus. He’s been like this for the past hour—checking notes, double-checking them, then checking them again, as if he personally intended to oversee every detail of your care.

You watch him for a moment before finally breaking the silence. “You know, for someone who isn’t my actual doctor, you sure look like one.”

His gaze lifts from the clipboard, cool and composed as ever. “I am a doctor.”

You snort. “Yeah, but not mine. You’re off-duty, remember?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly, a thoughtful hum leaving his lips before he counters smoothly, “Not yours?” He leans forward, resting an elbow on the bed as his cool fingers brush over your knuckles. “I seem to recall you calling me yours quite often.”

You narrow your eyes, catching the deliberate way he twists your words. “Oh, so we’re doing this now?”

His thumb brushes along your hand, his expression composed but undeniably pleased. “Doing what?”

You let out an amused huff. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t push, just holds your hand a little firmer, his touch steady. “Either way, I have no intention of being off-duty when it comes to you.”

You roll your eyes, squeezing his hand. “Wow, so controlling.”

His brow lifts. “I prefer ‘thorough.’”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Right, right. Thorough.”

There’s a beat of silence, a comfortable one, before Zayne shifts slightly, his eyes dropping to your belly. He’s been doing that a lot—watching, his expression unreadable but his touch careful every time he rests a hand there.

You follow his gaze, smiling softly. “Getting impatient?”

His thumb brushes against your skin absently. “I wouldn’t say impatient.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “Eager, perhaps.”

The honesty in his voice makes something in your chest tighten. You bite your lip, fighting back the sudden wave of emotion, and instead lean back against the pillows with an exaggerated sigh. “I swear, if this kid doesn’t come out soon, I’m charging rent.”

Zayne exhales a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm. “They do seem rather content staying where they are.”

“You think they’ll be as stubborn as you?” you tease, tilting your head toward him.

His gaze flickers toward you, amused. “I was going to ask if you thought they’d be as stubborn as you.”

You grin. “So, we’re both in trouble, then.”

Zayne hums, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your skin. He doesn’t say it, but you can see it in his eyes—the quiet anticipation, the depth of feeling he doesn’t always put into words. You feel it, too, this strange, overwhelming mix of excitement and nerves, the knowledge that any moment now, everything will change.

And then, as if on cue, there’s a sudden shift in your body—a pressure, a faint discomfort that makes your breath hitch.

You blink, startled.

Zayne immediately picks up on it. “What is it?”

You hesitate, then laugh lightly. “I think… my water just broke.”

His posture straightens in an instant, that calm, practiced focus settling over him. But you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around yours, or the flicker of something—something almost like nerves—that flashes through his expression before he reins it in.

“Well.” You exhale, shifting carefully. “Guess they finally decided to stop freeloading.”

Zayne’s lips press together in what might be a smile, but his gaze is already sharp, assessing. He reaches for the call button with his free hand. “Let’s not keep them waiting, then.”

The contractions start soon after, steadily intensifying with each passing minute. Nurses move in and out of the room, checking your vitals, monitoring the baby’s heart rate, and preparing everything for delivery. The air shifts—calm, but purposeful.

Zayne never leaves your side.

He holds your hand, his grip firm but careful, his other hand occasionally brushing over your forehead, pushing damp strands of hair back with cool fingertips. Every now and then, you hear the soft murmur of his voice—low, steady words of reassurance, though you barely process them between each wave of pain.

You squeeze his hand through another contraction, breathing through it as best as you can. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain, just lets you cling to him as tightly as you need.

When the pain eases slightly, you slump back against the pillows, exhaling a heavy breath. “You know, I’m starting to think we should’ve made a scheduled exit plan for this kid.”

Zayne huffs a quiet chuckle, though his eyes remain sharp, watchful. “That would’ve been ideal, yes.” His fingers smooth over your knuckles. “Unfortunately, they seem to have other plans.”

You groan. “Stubborn already.”

His lips twitch slightly. “Wonder where they get that from.”

You roll your eyes but don’t have the energy to fire back. Another contraction rolls through, sharper this time, stealing your breath. Your fingers tighten around his instinctively.

Your muscles seize, the pressure mounting unbearably. Each breath feels like dragging air through fire, your body fighting against itself in the desperate push forward. The contractions are relentless, but there’s no telling how much time has passed between them anymore. Minutes? Hours? It all blurs together, an endless cycle of pain and fleeting relief.

You gasp through another one, clinging to Zayne’s hand as your head slumps back against the pillows. Your limbs feel heavy, the exhaustion sinking into your bones, deeper than any mission injury you’ve had. For a brief moment, it feels like too much—like you can’t do this, like your body is failing you.

Your breath stutters. “I—” The words don’t come. You shake your head instead, a flicker of panic rising beneath the fatigue.

Zayne catches it instantly. His grip shifts, firm and grounding, his cool fingertips brushing against the back of your hand. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice steady, unwavering. He lifts your hand slightly, pressing his lips against your knuckles—a fleeting touch, but the warmth lingers. “You’re doing well.”

You force yourself to take a breath, then another. The haze doesn’t clear completely, but the panic eases—just a little.

You shake your head, barely able to get the words out. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you he’s there, solid and unwavering. “One breath at a time.”

The room is a blur—rushed voices, the steady beep of monitors, the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat. You can hear the doctor saying something, the nurses murmuring encouragement, but it’s all distant, muffled under the sheer weight of everything happening to you.

And then—another contraction crashes into you, sharp and all-consuming. You barely register the way your body tightens in response, instinct taking over as the doctor’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Almost there.” he says, quiet but firm. “Just a little more.”

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours. His voice, cool and certain, is the only thing anchoring you as the final stretch begins.

You don’t know if it’s minutes or seconds, but when the next contraction comes, your body takes over. You push—every muscle screaming, every fiber of your being focused on this one thing.

And then—weightless relief.

A newborn’s cry pierces the room.

Everything that just happened crashes into you all at once. The pain, the exhaustion, the overwhelming sense of finally. You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling with the aftershocks, your vision swimming with unshed tears.

Zayne exhales slowly beside you, and when you turn your head, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are unreadable for a moment, as if even he needs a second to process that it’s over. Then, something shifts—something so quiet, so deeply felt that words aren’t needed.

His fingers brush your temple, the touch featherlight, reverent. Then you hear it again—the cry, small but strong.

The sound nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. A choked, startled sob bubbles in your throat before you can stop it, your body sagging against the bed. You barely register the movement around you—nurses bustling, hands moving quickly, a soft, wriggling weight being placed onto your chest.

Tiny. Warm. Yours.

Your hands tremble as you touch her, brushing over impossibly soft skin, feeling the rise and fall of her first breaths. Her cries settle slightly as she squirms against you, as if already seeking the comfort of your presence.

Zayne doesn’t say anything.

You turn your head toward him, and for the first time since this all started, you see something unguarded in his expression. He’s staring, utterly still, his gaze fixed on the baby in your arms like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her. For someone always so controlled, so certain, there’s a flicker of something else. Like he’s seeing something impossible. Something fragile and new, and undeniably real.

His fingers hover for a second, hesitation creeping into his movements that are usually precise. Then, finally, he lets them brush over the delicate curve of her head. The warmth is unfamiliar, delicate, alive in a way that almost doesn’t feel real.

The moment his fingertips graze her skin, his breath catches—so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Then, as if remembering himself, he exhales slowly, his touch impossibly gentle. The baby shifts under his fingers, a tiny movement—barely anything at all. And yet, something in his expression tightens, a flicker of something deep and unreadable settling in his gaze.

For once, there’s an almost imperceptible delay in his movements, as if he’s afraid the smallest touch might shatter the moment.

It’s quiet between you, even as the room hums with movement. The weight of everything lingers, exhaustion, awe—something too deep to put into words.

Zayne leans in slightly, pressing a cool, lingering kiss to your temple.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely a whisper, yet it carries more weight than any grand declaration ever could.

The relief washes over you, but it’s tinged with something strange—a lightness in your limbs that doesn’t quite feel right. You blink, trying to shake it off, but the room swims slightly at the edges.

You turn toward him just as another wave of lightheadedness washes over you.

It’s subtle at first, a sudden wave of dizziness, sharp enough to make your grip falter, but then your vision blurs slightly at the edges. Your grip on the baby weakens for just a second—not enough to be dangerous, but Zayne notices immediately.

Immediately, his head lifts. His gaze sharpens. “What is it?”

You swallow, blinking hard. “I—” Your tongue feels thick and sluggish, like your body is struggling to keep up. “Feel weird.”

His hand is already at your wrist, checking your pulse. A second later, he glances at the monitors, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly.

“Get a blood pressure reading,” he orders, his voice cool, controlled.

A nurse moves quickly, wrapping the cuff around your arm. The numbers flash across the screen—too low.

Her expression shifts. “Her pressure is dropping.”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. “Call the attending. Now.”

The room shifts instantly. Nurses move in taking your daughter away, adjusting IVs, lifting your hospital gown to check the monitors. Words blur together—blood pressure instability, excessive bleeding, immediate intervention.

Then—cool fingers brush your cheek.

“Stay awake.”

Zayne’s voice. Steady. Firm.

You blink up at him, trying to ground yourself. “M’not going anywhere,” you mutter, attempting a smirk. It’s weak.

His fingers linger for half a second before he pulls back. His gaze flickers toward the attending nurse as she steps in, then back to you. “It’ll be alright.”

It’s not a reassurance. It’s a certainty.

The attending doctor barely spares him a glance before issuing instructions. “We need to stabilize her before we proceed. Doctor Li, I need you to step out.”

You feel him stiffen beside you.

His grip on your hand doesn’t tighten, but you feel the hesitation, the way he lingers for just a second too long, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he exhales, his grip loosening like letting go is a battle within itself. He nods.

His fingers brush over your wrist one last time before he pulls away.

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmurs.

And then, for the first time since this all started—he’s gone. The space he leaves behind is too cold, too empty.

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The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

Zayne stands just outside the door, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared in that composed, unshakable way that gives nothing away. From a distance, he looks like a man simply waiting—patient, motionless, his breathing even. But up close, the cracks are there.

His grip is tight—so tight his knuckles press white against his skin. His shoulders don’t relax, don’t shift, as if held in place by sheer force of will. And then, after a long moment, his fingers uncurl, his hands drop to his sides. He exhales slowly through his nose, a measured breath that does nothing to ease the tension gripping him.

Still, the tension lingers, wound tight in his chest. And then—without thinking—he moves.

His back touches the wall first, cool against the tension coiled in his muscles. Then he lowers himself into a crouch, forearms resting loosely over his knees. He doesn’t bow his head—doesn’t close his eyes. He just waits, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, unmoving.

Minutes stretch. Nurses pass by, but no one stops him.

Eventually, a different nurse approaches, speaking in a quieter voice, like she knows she’s interrupting something unspoken.

"Dr. Li, your daughter has been moved to the nursery," she informs him. "She’s doing well. She responds quickly, no signs of distress—breathing is steady, vitals are stable."

Zayne listens, absorbing each detail without a single wasted motion.

"Is she warm enough?" His voice is steady, measured. A doctor’s question—but something else lingers beneath it, quieter. Something almost hesitant.

"Yes," the nurse assures. "She’s in an incubator for now, just for monitoring, but everything looks good."

He nods. "And her blood oxygen levels?"

"Normalizing well."

Another nod. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers twitch slightly against his knee. He exhales through his nose—measured, controlled. He has his answers. His daughter is being taken care of.

Still, he doesn’t move.

The nurse hesitates, then glances toward the closed door beside him. "Your wife should be waking up soon."

He knows. That’s why he’s still here.

The nurse doesn’t press further. She just offers a polite nod before walking off, leaving him alone in the hallway once more.

And when the door finally opens, when a different nurse steps out and says, "Doctor Li?"—he’s already standing before she finishes his name, walking inside the room.

The door clicks shut behind him, but he doesn’t move right away.

For a moment—just a moment—he stands there, gaze settling on you. A flicker of something crosses his face—not relief, not entirely. His fingers twitch, just slightly.

You’re propped up against the pillows, the soft glow of the monitors casting shadows across your face. There’s exhaustion written in every inch of you, but your eyes are open, meeting his—awake, breathing. Present.

His shoulders shift, a tension he’s been holding finally loosening—just slightly.

Then, slowly, he exhales, a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Only then does he step forward.

He moves to touch you, then hesitates—just for a second. His gaze lingers, tracing the IV line, the faint tremor in your fingers where they rest against the sheets. When he does touch you, it’s careful, as if making sure you won’t disappear beneath his fingertips. His thumb presses slightly against your wrist—a quiet reassurance. A confirmation.

"You were waiting," you murmur, voice hoarse, the words threading through the rawness in your throat. You shift slightly—just enough for the sheets to rustle—but even that small movement leaves you breathless for a second. His fingers shift slightly against your wrist, like he notices.

His lips press together faintly—not quite a frown, but not neutral either. "Of course."

You huff a tired breath, tilting your head just a little. "And our daughter?"

"She's in the nursery," he answers immediately, his voice steady. "The nurses assured me she's stable—no complications."

A slow, relieved exhale leaves your lips.

Zayne watches you, his gaze flickering over every detail—the way your fingers twitch weakly against the blanket, how you start to lift your hand but let it fall back to the sheets, your breath just a fraction uneven. He knows you’re alright now, you’re awake. You’re here.

His hand moves, fingers trailing up until they settle against your cheek. His touch is cool, grounding, and when you lean into it—just barely—his thumb skims over your skin in a slow, absent motion.

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You wake slowly, warmth pressing against your side, the rhythmic sound of beeping monitors lulling you into awareness. It takes a second to register everything—the hospital room, the soft weight of blankets over you, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

Your body feels different than before—less exhausted, though a dull soreness still lingers, like a distant ache instead of the overwhelming fatigue from the first day. Manageable. Easier.

And then, you hear it.

A quiet, steady voice murmurs something too soft to make out.

You blink your eyes open, the room still dimmed by the evening light filtering through the blinds. And there, sitting beside the hospital bed, is Zayne.

He leans forward slightly, adjusting the tiny bundle in his arms—your daughter, cradled carefully in his hands. His voice is quiet, patient, as if he’s explaining something to her, even though she’s far too small to understand.

You don’t move at first, just watching. It’s rare to catch him like this—settled, no longer on edge, his focus entirely on her. His usually sharp gaze softens, tracing over every tiny feature as if memorizing her all over again.

You don’t know why you expected him to overthink this. The man analyzes data for a living, after all. But somehow, fatherhood has come to him as naturally as breathing—each movement careful but sure, each touch precise yet gentle. No hesitation, no uncertainty, just a calm, measured certainty in every move he makes. And yet, it’s not clinical. There’s something soft in the way he holds her, something instinctive. Natural.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m not sure she’s ready to appreciate the commentary just yet.”

Zayne’s head lifts immediately, sharp instincts ever-present, but this time, he doesn’t tense. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m talking in my sleep.”

His gaze flickers over your face, checking—because of course he is—but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he exhales, slow and quiet, before glancing back down at the baby. “She was fussing earlier.”

You shift, pushing yourself up slightly, but before you can get far, Zayne is already moving. One hand settles gently against your back, supporting you as he adjusts the pillows with practiced ease.

You give him a look. “You know, I did survive before you started micromanaging me.”

“And yet, here you are, letting me,” he murmurs, completely unbothered as he smooths the blanket over your legs.

You huff, but there’s no real bite behind it—because, well, he’s right.

His fingers brush over your wrist, lingering just long enough to check your temperature, before his gaze flickers to the baby. “You should feed her now.”

You glance at your daughter, her tiny fists barely peeking out from the blanket. “You’re giving her back just like that? Thought you’d keep hogging her.”

Zayne doesn’t react immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches—slightly. “She does seem comfortable with me.”

“She’s a newborn, Zayne. She can’t even tell you apart from a blanket yet.”

He hums, clearly not convinced, but still, he shifts forward, carefully placing the baby in your arms. His movements are precise, ensuring she’s supported properly, as if she might shatter under anything less.

Once you’ve settled, he watches closely, like he’s analyzing every part of the process, committing it to memory.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to supervise the entire thing, aren’t you?”

His gaze meets yours, unblinking. “Obviously.”

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, tired but genuine. “You really are fussing.”

Zayne doesn’t deny it. Instead, he reaches over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with precise care. “You just woke up. Someone has to.”

And, well—he’s got you there.

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Notes:

Zayne as Dad is live rent free in my head now...... also I watch one of those video where everyone is literally fussing the baby and the dad is just waiting outside of the mom's room, like "why is my wife not out yet" it was so cute 🥹 so ofc I have to use it as well 🫶🏻😩 Not connected and more like a snippet (smut) but still on pregnancy theme!

You're reading the Pregnancy series! You're at Part 5

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Part 6 (Smut at the end)