ԃαɾʅιɳɠ

"Why are you limping?"

Zayne has been home from his two week business trip all of 4 minutes, and you've already been found out. You do your best to smile reassuringly, but you know he can sense the guilt. Curse him and his incredible ability to read you.

"Before you freak out, I'm fine. It's just...a minor sprain. No big deal!" Your words apparently mean nothing, because you blink and he's lifting you into the air, carrying you to the couch.

"Wh-come on Zayne I'm fine! I can still walk!" You complain, but you go quiet seeing the look on his face. Almost shell-shocked, the concern so clearly etched as he gently sets you down and kneels to inspect your ankle.

"You shouldn't walk on it." He moves your foot, murmuring an apology when you wince in pain.

"Greyson said I-I could after a week." Zayne pauses, glancing up at you in confusion. You press your lips together, cursing yourself for speaking without thinking. Poor Greyson. You'll send him an apology for how rough his Monday is going to be.

"When exactly did this happen?" He's clearly upset, but it's outweighed by his concern as he forms an ice pack with his evol and holds it to your skin.

"Oh! Um about two days after you left? I didn't want to worry you! I knew it'd be a while before you got back. The last thing I wanted was for you to be distracted thinking of me." He clenches his jaw, setting the ice aside and moving to sit next to you.

Zayne has never been good at hiding his worry from you. Even now, despite his disappointment that you'd spent the past two weeks lying to him, it's clear he's more concerned with you than anything.

"I am always distracted thinking about you. I'm quite adjusted to the feeling. Please...don't hide these things from me."

[O] to observe the fish [X] to free the fish (⚠️ danger!) 🔞 version on my poi

“Say dada!” 

“Mama!” 

“Da-da.”

“Mama.” 

Small grabby hands are aimed at Rafayel, who pouts and shakes his head adamantly at his daughter who has already seemed to pick a favourite parent.

“Noo, no cuddles or kisses until you call my name and not mama’s…” Rafayel murmurs, flicking a fine-detail paintbrush to the baby’s nose. She giggles at the ticklish sensation, reaching to itch her nose where the bristles had brushed against her skin. ‘Nose’ is actually an overstatement, because it’s barely a peak with two holes for breathing. 

“Say dada, baby. Please? For your old man?” Rafayel pleads, nuzzling his nose against her hair. All four of her limbs fly upwards as she grows restless of her father’s boring games to make her call him. 

“It’s easier to say than mama! I don’t understand,” he tries again.

“Mama! Mama! Mama!” She chants, like a little storm not willing to back down. Rafayel crosses his arms, trying to make it clear that he’s unhappy with the baby at the moment. 

After some more fussing, Rafayel concedes and lets her out of the bouncer. He melts at her little wordless demands, no matter how petty he might be feeling from not hearing ‘dada’ coming from her. 

The baby roams around the playmat, reaching for various toys to play with. Rafayel being the meanie he is, takes the plush toy and puts it further away from her every time she’s close to reaching it. With a whine of annoyance she glares at her dad before proceeding to crawl to the toy again. Rafayel moves it further. 

“Okay, okay, I won’t do it again,” he relents, putting his hands up. His daughter cautiously approaches the toy and waits a second for Rafayel to move it. When he doesn’t, she pushes herself back to sit by it and reach out to play with it. 

He plucks it from her hands and places it behind her. 

Her little face practically turns red. 

“Dada!” She yells, with all the power in her lungs. The room pauses. Rafayel’s eyes widen, before the biggest grin breaks across his face. 

“Yes! Yes, it’s dada!” He points to himself, excitedly laying on his stomach to be at eye level with his daughter. Rafayel scoops his hand behind her, pulling her closer to place a triumphant kiss to her cheek but the chubby hand that slaps his cheek stops him from doing otherwise. 

“Oh.” 

Rafayel puckers his lips, staying still to lure his daughter closer. 

“Why don’t you say dada again?” He prods. He leans closer but the baby has clearly had enough of him. She looks away to the stuffed toy, preferring to reach for that instead. 

“Dada…” He hears her murmur, but in a rather distasteful tone. It’s a small victory, but it doesn’t sound nearly as joyful as any time she has cheered or chanted ‘mama’. 

“I think she’s associating negative emotions with dada…” Rafayel whines after a long day of spending time with his daughter and analysing when she calls for ‘mama’ and when she calls for ‘dada’. 

“I told you to stop annoying her,” you flick Rafayel’s head. He rolls over on the couch, curling up into a ball of disappointment.

“I just wanted her to call for me. Is that too much to ask?!” 

You sigh, sitting near Rafayel’s legs and providing empathetic pats to his back. If your daughter started using your name as an exclamation of anger, you would probably be dejected by it as well.

Your husband tries again. He turns around, hanging his head over the edge of the couch. An exaggerated pout hangs on his lips as he watches his daughter play with a rattle. She drops it, and immediately loses it. 

“Dada!” She says angrily. Huffing, she reaches for the toy again with the slightest furrow in her brows.  You’re left consoling the babbling father again over your daughter’s new habit that is all his fault.