#Reminiscing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lyn31 · 3 months ago

Note

Heeeyyy! Would you write one of where Zayne gets jealous over reader? They are married ofc and let’s say another handsome man flirts with reader who is oblivious to it cuz ofc she only has her heart on Zayne. Zayne gets protective and jealous like in that card with Dr. Carter who gave mc flowers. Zayne takes reader to a quieter spot or home. Reader ask if he’s ok and he denies he was jealous. It makes reader sappy and blushing cuz zayne loves her a lot she teases him and he kisses her passionately to shut her up and says he was worried. OFC reader reassures him she only loves her snowman. You can write the location and event however you want. Thanks.

I took quite a different angle for this one, hopefully it still hit the vibes you're looking for! I play it off more, so it come off more playful the rest is a bit more subtle 👀 too subtle perhaps? 😭 Let me know what you think! 💕

Actually yk what, I'll make another one later per asks order! But let's say this is a treat also from the req before! 🥳 (But still let me know what you think ahaha)

I already rant about Dr. Carter before so I won't do it again here ahahahaha and yes this is the merge prompt with In Sickness and In Health!

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Jealousy, Revisited

Summary

A teasing spiral of jealousy, hormones, and chaos leads to one very pregnant woman and her maddeningly patient husband bantering their way back to soft, steady love.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Mutual jealous, flashbacks, silly, banter, flirty, married couple!

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By the time Rose and Caleb leave your home, it’s already late—well past the kids’ bedtime. Serena's been asleep in her room for hours now, worn out from playing with Willow and Jace until her little legs could barely carry her.

The dishes are done, toys picked up, and you're finally curled up on the couch, legs tucked awkwardly under you the best they can with your belly in the way. The twins have been making their presence known all evening, kicking and shifting, and you’re sure at least one of them is practicing acrobatics.

Your hand rests absently on the curve of your stomach, and your hair still smells faintly of garlic from the stir-fry you made earlier, and the scent clings to your sweater like the memory of a full house.

Zayne joins you a moment later, easing down beside you with his usual quiet grace. He drapes a blanket over you, then slides an arm behind your back, hand settling low at your waist and gently curving to support the slight swell of your belly—something he does without thinking, as if his touch belongs there.

“That was quite a gathering, huh?” you murmur, leaning into him.

“Four adults with three kids,” he says. “Felt like a ten-person gathering.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Speaking of kids, I still can’t believe what Rose told us.”

“I definitely can,” he replies, voice still neutral.

You shoot him a look and pinch at his side, but he only catches your hand in his, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “It’s an expression, darling.” Your roll your 'r' a bit more, smiling but still glaring at him. He hums at you, a quiet nudge to keep going.

“Well, I was gonna bring up how Caleb got all jealous when someone complimented Rose’s scarf, but now that we’re talking about this... it reminded me of a certain someone at a certain photo shoot.”

He blinks at you slowly, composed as ever. “That was a normal reaction.”

“Normal, huh?” You raise an eyebrow, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

And yeah—you can feel the memory blooming between you again, ridiculous and fond. Back when you’d just started dating—Tara’s dramatic plea, that chaotic photo shoot, the poor student photographer caught in the silent wrath of a very composed, very territorial Zayne Li—

You’re barely halfway through reheating leftovers at Zayne’s apartment—still standing in front of the stove with one socked foot tapping the floor—when your phone lights up with Tara’s name.

You answer with a suspicious, “What did you do?”

“Emergency!” she bursts out.

You blink, already pulling the phone slightly away from your ear. “Didn’t you just get home like... twenty minutes ago?”

“Yeah, but I need you. Come to this studio downtown—my friend’s doing a shoot and one of his models bailed last minute.”

“…Why me?”

“Because you’re symmetrical and mildly photogenic,” she says with the smug confidence of someone who knows you can’t say no. “And also because there’s no way Rose or Lara would agree to this. Come on, I’ll owe you forever. Pleaseeeeee?”

You sigh with all the drama you can muster. “Fine. But you’re buying my coffee tomorrow. And I’m talking fancy coffee. Foam art and ethically sourced beans.”

“Deal!”

You hang up, shutting off the stove with a grumble, then wander down the hall to Zayne’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, posture relaxed, typing something you know is probably more important than it looks.

He glances up the second you knock at the open door.

“Hey, so... change of plan. I’ll be back in an hour. Tara needs help with something.”

He tilts his head, curious. “And that is?”

“I’ve been conscripted into a photography crisis.”

He raises one brow. “Do you need backup?”

You give a small laugh. “Well, if you’re up for it.”

“I am.” He powers off his computer without hesitation, standing smoothly. “Let’s go.”

When you both arrive at the studio, it is a cozy mess, full of soft lighting rigs and mismatched props piled in corners. Fabric-draped chairs, vintage suitcases, fake plants that look real until you touch them. Tara waves you in like she owns the place, already halfway through a neon-pink drink and wielding a clipboard like a sword.

You breeze through the solo shots first—casual poses, exaggerated laughter, dramatic hair flips Tara keeps coaching you through with, “More joy! Less corporate headshot!” She takes a few turns in front of the lens herself, striking mock-model poses with a loud “Yasss” every time the shutter clicks.

It’s not half bad. Honestly? It’s kind of fun.

Until the photographer—a lanky guy with a lemon wedge tattoo on his wrist and a camera lens that looks older than the building—decides the set needs couple shots to balance out the gallery.

He gestures to a standby model. Someone tall, cologne-heavy, and definitely overconfident. He steps forward like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial, eyes flicking to you, then down to your waist. His hand starts to hover in that awkward, polite way—unsure if he’s supposed to touch.

Then, from behind the lights, Zayne’s voice cuts in.

“Actually, she’s not free.”

The room freezes. The photographer pauses. The cologne guy blinks.

Zayne steps into frame with that quiet, composed stride, like this is just a meeting he’s joining. “I mean—I’m free. She’s dating me. So… using both of us would be better.”

You try to keep the smile off your face. No use. It spreads before you can stop it. “You’re volunteering for photos?”

Zayne meets your eyes without missing a beat. “They’ll look more authentic this way.”

Tara lets out a muffled snrrk from behind her clipboard, clearly thrilled.

The photographer looks between the two of you, then nods. “Right. Yeah, sure. Chemistry’s important, right?”

Zayne’s hand finds your waist with ease, fingers come to rest at your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The first shot is stiff. The second, a little more natural. But the third—when he leans in and brushes his lips against your temple—you feel your whole expression soften without even trying.

Because he’s not acting. Not for a second.

The shutter clicks.

And clicks again.

By the time you’re back in the car, the night folding quiet around you, you can’t help poking at him.

“So… I’m not free, huh?”

He glances at you, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. “You’re still going on about that?”

“You practically growled at that poor guy,” you tease. “I think Tara’s friend was seconds away from reaching for a fire extinguisher.”

“I was being practical.”

“Oh, sure,” you say, leaning your head back against the seat with a grin. “Territorial and practical. Must be a doctor thing.”

He huffs softly, but you catch the way his mouth lifts at the corner. “You’re exaggerating.”

You’re really not—but you let him have that one.

Because that look he gave you when he stepped into the frame? You’ll be thinking about that for days.

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You wiggle your eyebrows at him, feeling the slow, aimless motion of his fingers brushing along the curve of your stomach—familiar and gentle, like he’s memorizing it again for the hundredth time. “So practical of you, dear.”

He snorts softly, voice close against your temple. “It was practical. I was already present.”

“Mmhmm. Definitely not territorial at all,” you murmur, letting your tone drip with sarcasm.

Zayne leans in just enough for his breath to cool your ear. “If you’re talking about what we did after we got home… then yes. That was territorial.”

You laugh and squish his cheeks with both hands, tilting his face toward you before giving him a deliberately exaggerated, wet kiss that leaves him blinking. “Mmm. You’ve come a long way, husband.”

He chuckles, the sound deep in his chest. “Come a long way,” he echoes, then tilts his head, thoughtful. “That reminds me—the lab assistant.”

You raise a brow instantly, suspicious. “Yeah? What about her? Are you finally admitting that you explained things slower because she’s special?”

Zayne’s arm shifts behind you, and he leans into your side with effort, trying to wrap himself around you as much as the baby bump between you will allow. It takes some maneuvering, but eventually, his hand curves gently beneath yours over the swell of your belly.

“Look who’s being territorial now,” he murmurs, far too pleased.

“Mine is justified!” you protest, jabbing a finger lightly into his chest. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t notice how close she was leaning. I’ve seen microbe samples that maintained more personal space.”

He hums like he’s genuinely considering your words, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling in mock thought. “Why do you think I was leaning away from my computer?”

And just like that, the memory sparks back into clarity—sharp, ridiculous, and so vivid that both of you can’t help snorting aloud—

You stop by the hospital one late afternoon—your day off, the weather too nice to waste holed up in your apartment, Rose of course visiting Caleb at Skyhaven—so you think, why not drop by to see Zayne?

You’re still in your casual clothes, hair a little wind-tossed, lunch bag in hand—though let’s be real, it’s mostly dessert. You round the familiar hallway corner, smiling without thinking.

And then you see it.

There’s someone new standing beside Zayne’s desk, angled just enough to invade what should be neutral ground. You’ve never seen her before—probably an intern, maybe new staff—but what gets you isn’t her badge or the tablet in her hand. It’s the way she’s leaning in just a bit too close, blinking up at the screen like she’s never seen a rib cage in her life.

Zayne’s voice is even, professional, explaining some patient form or scan, pointing something out with his pen. But your eyes narrow immediately the moment her shoulder brushes against his.

From the way she’s deferring to him, she’s likely assigned to assist Greyson. Which raises the real question: where the hell is Greyson?

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Instead, you stroll in like you belong—which you do—and round the desk casually, then lean in from the other side. Your arm wraps lazily around Zayne’s shoulders, lightly nudging the woman’s shoulder—which is barely there to begin with, your chin nearly brushing his temple.

“Do you always explain things this slowly,” you say, voice all sugar and silk, “or is she special?”

Zayne pauses—not startled, not flustered. He simply glances toward you, reading the humor beneath your tone. Then he exhales the faintest breath of a laugh.

“She was asking about patient chart formatting,” he says mildly. “I assumed she wanted the complete explanation.”

You raise a brow at him, just a touch dramatic. “You assumed wrong.”

The assistant stiffens. “Oh—I didn’t know you had a—”

“Girlfriend,” Zayne finishes, calm as anything—like it’s just another line in a report. “She brings me lunch.”

You can feel the ripple of awkwardness roll through the intern, and your smile only grows as you set the bag on his desk. “That’s right,” you say brightly. “I also pick him up sometimes. So he doesn’t get hit on by interns with no sense of personal space.”

The poor girl looks utterly mortified. “I—I just thought… um. He should eat first! I can ask Dr. Greyson later—sorry—”

And then she’s gone, heels clicking as she practically speed-walks toward the hallway.

You glance back at Zayne, who watches her leave with a perfectly neutral expression, then reaches for your hand.

“She was new,” he says after a beat. “I think this was her third day.”

“Mmm-hmm,” you murmur, leaning in to press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint imprint of your gloss. “Be honest. You liked me jealous.”

His hand turns in yours, lacing your fingers together. “I like that you showed up.”

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“Damn Greyson! Why is he eating lunch at that time?” you grumble, gesturing vaguely like your words could summon the man to defend himself.

Beside you, Zayne lets out a quiet chuckle, the kind that makes your chest warm. He doesn’t argue—though from the look on his face, he probably knows Greyson wasn’t even on break yet at the time. But because Serena adores Greyson and you’re currently on a blame-streak, Zayne lets it go. Probably even enjoying it.

His thumb grazing gently along your side. You glance over at him, narrowing your eyes. “You did like me jealous.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, his lips press softly to the crown of your head, a quiet affection in the gesture. “You’re more expressive than I am,” he murmurs. “It was… reassuring.”

You snort. “You mean hot.”

“Also that.” His fingers trace a lazy circle against the curve of your stomach—

When both of you feel it. A sudden, firm kick.

You both still.

Zayne’s eyes go wide for half a second, a startled laugh escaping him before he glances at you, equal parts amazed and amused.

“They're definitely on your side,” you mutter, hand instinctively covering his like you’re both trying to catch the moment again.

He smiles, quieter now, thumb brushing just beneath your navel. “They got your timing.”

There’s a beat. A shared breath. Then he shifts, his voice going warm with that teasing clarity that always finds the softest spots.

“Well, what I was gonna say before… you get this look when you’re jealous. Composed, but pointed. Like you’re sharpening your words before you even speak.”

Your head lifts slowly, just enough to give him a look. “You find that hot?”

He meets your eyes, deadpan, not even a flicker of hesitation. “Decidedly.”

You groan, flopping your very pregnant self down onto the couch in what you intend to be a dramatic collapse, except… it’s more like a slow-motion descent. Your body is doing its best. “Ugh. I enable you.”

“You encourage me,” Zayne says smoothly.

“Same thing,” you mutter, slumped sideways now, rubbing a palm along your belly like you’re checking whose side the twins are still on.

He hums again, hands adjusting the cushion behind you. And then, like it just came to him. “Like that time with the nurse.”

You gasp. “Oh my god. The one with the laugh?”

Zayne shakes his head, mouth flattening. “She laughed at everything. Even when I told her someone coded last shift.”

You sit up again—well, technically you haven’t fully hit the cushions yet, so it’s not as hard as it could’ve been. But you do it with a triumphant kind of energy, grinning like it’s still fresh. “Okay, that one was definitely your fault. You were not leaving.”

“I was trying,” he says, completely sincere, “and being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

He gives you a look, calm as ever. “I pulled back right away.”

You raise a brow, mimicking his deadpan tone. “You pulled back politely.”

His fingers slide up to brush under your chin, tilting your face toward his with ridiculous delicacy. “Would you have preferred impolite?”

And your brain suddenly time-warps. The smell of antiseptic. The low drone of machines. The memory hits fast—

You arrive at the hospital to pick Zayne up—technically early, but that is half the fun. His shift has an hour left, and sure, he hasn’t texted yet, but he won’t mind

You like talking to Yvonne while you wait anyway. She runs the front desk for the cardiology wing like it is her personal kingdom—knows every patient by name and every doctor’s bad habit. She spots you walking in and greets you with a wink. “He’s not out yet, but I bet you’ll lure him off the floor like usual.”

That’s the plan. Until you hear it.

Laughter. Not Yvonne’s signature cackle, and obviously you just passed her—not Greyson’s chaotic snort. No, this one is… breathy. Too polished. Too practiced.

You slow your pace, following the sound down the corridor, heels echoing soft clicks on the linoleum. The nurse’s laugh rings again, light and almost sing-song, followed by Zayne’s voice. Calm. Polite. Controlled, like always. He’s probably responding to whatever she said with a quiet nod or an actual answer, depending on how much patience he has left today.

You find them near the nurse’s station, bent over the same file. She stands too close—one manicured hand on the back of his chair, the other drumming polished nails against the counter like she couldn’t wait for an excuse to lean in again.

Your jaw twitches. But you smile.

Two more steps and you are there. No words, just a hand on Zayne’s shoulder, a slow kiss to his cheek—sweet, theatrical, and clearly. This seat’s taken.

“Can’t believe I have to share you with this whole building,” you murmur, voice dipped in velvet steel.

Your gaze slid to her. Brief. Pointed. Like a scalpel left out on the tray.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be off shift in an hour.”

You smile at him like he hangs the moon. “Make it thirty minutes.”

The nurse falters. “Oh—I… I should check the supply cart.”

Of course you should, you think.

She vanishes faster than she showed up, file in hand and laugh tucked away like it is never there.

You don’t even get the chance to figure out what is supposedly so hilarious in the paperwork.

Zayne glances up at you, expression unreadable as ever, but his hand finds yours under the desk. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“I noticed,” you say, your tone softer now as you squeeze his fingers. “But she was practically hanging off your stethoscope.”

He tilts his head like he’s about to argue, but just then, Yvonne calls from the receptionist's desk. “You chasing off nurses again, sweetheart?”

You turn toward her, unapologetic. “Just the persistent ones.”

She grins. “Might want to give Greyson a warning. One of the surgical interns has been asking if he’s single.”

Behind you, Zayne exhales a quiet sigh, and you feel him tug your hand a little closer.

“Make it twenty minutes,” you murmur—because honestly, you’re already more than halfway to dragging him out yourself.

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Your voice is smug. “You liked that one too, didn’t you?”

Zayne exhales through a quiet laugh, his hand still tracing easy, lazy circles against your side. “I liked knowing you wanted me visibly.”

You bump his knee gently, playful. “You act so calm, but you eat it up.”

He tilts his head just slightly, eyes glinting. “It’s mutual, isn’t it?”

“…Maybe.” You say it like it’s not obvious—like you’re not halfway ready to start a fight over a giggle. Then you pause. Something clicks.

Your body shifts in his arms, careful but suddenly full of energy, and you sit up straighter, barely suppressing your grin. “Wait—wait. Oh my god, that reminds me.”

Zayne hums, patient, amused. “There’s too much, if we list them all tonight.”

“Not mine!” You jab a finger lightly at his chest. “Your moment. Like—okay. Remember when we were dating and you were always too polite to admit you were jealous? All that, ‘she’s allowed to have friends’ nonsense?”

“It wasn’t nonsense,” he says, dry as ever.

You wave that away like it's air. “But then the moment we got married? Subtlety? Gone. Evaporated. Poof. Like with that barista.”

Zayne goes still. And you know he remembers.

You do too.

The memory hits in color and taste. Warm light, the smell of croissants, and the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter—

It’s a lazy mid-morning on your day off—the kind that feels rare lately, with both of you back in rotation, juggling reports, late calls, and the unpredictability of your jobs.

But today clicks into place. No emergencies, no shift swaps. Just you, Zayne, and your favorite little café tucked between buildings like a secret.

The place is quiet at this hour, filled with the soft hiss of espresso machines and low conversation. The usual barista isn’t there, though. Instead, a new guy stands behind the counter, fresh-faced and clearly too eager. He straightens up the moment you step forward.

“Good morning,” he said, grinning wide. “What can I get for you?”

You give your usual order, tone polite but relaxed. Before you can even pull out your card, he’s already waving it off.

“On the house,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking to the name you’ve given. “For someone with such a lovely name.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, um… thanks?”

He leaned slightly over the counter. “Do you come here often?”

And that’s when you feel it—the familiar presence at your side, quiet but solid. Zayne steps up beside you, the move casual but practiced, like his body knows exactly where to be. One arm slid around your waist, anchoring you against him in a way that didn’t look aggressive but definitely sent a message.

“We’re married,” he said, voice even. “And we’d like to eat before the lunchtime passes.. Please get our order ready.”

No inflection. No visible emotion. But somehow, it had the same weight as a slammed door.

The barista blinked, his confidence faltering. “R-right. Uh, coming right up.”

Zayne didn’t look away until the guy turned to prep your drinks. Only then does he guide you toward your favorite spot by the window, his hand still resting on your back.

You sit down, trying to suppress the laugh that’s already building. The second the croissant touches your lips, it slips out anyway.

“Someone’s jealous,” you teased, nudging his knee under the table.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re my wife. It’s my right.”

You nearly choke. You stare at him, stunned, then snort-laugh with half a croissant still in your mouth. “Oh my god—Zayne.”

He lifts his cup, sipping without so much as a flicker of amusement. “I was polite.”

You are grinning despite yourself. “You were terrifying.”

He arches an eyebrow, finally meeting your gaze. “He was about to pay for you.”

“Which I didn’t even ask for.”

Zayne doesn’t respond, but the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays him. Just a little.

You reach across the table, brushing your fingers over his. “You know you don’t have to get territorial, right?” And wiggling your finger that clearly has your wedding ring on.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

That made you pause.

There was something almost reverent in his tone—not possessive in the shallow sense, but protective in a way that made your chest ache a little. Like he was always just waiting for the chance to stake his quiet claim.

You squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky I like it.”

He gives you a look that says that’s another reason why he did it. He laces his fingers through yours, as if he never planned on letting go.

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You’re laughing into his shoulder again, your voice muffled and warm against the fabric of his shirt. “You really said that. Zero hesitation.”

Zayne doesn’t even pretend to deny it. He just shrugs, utterly composed. “We are married.”

You pull back enough to look at him, amusement still bubbling under your breath. “Oh, so now it’s legalized jealousy?”

“I call it efficient communication.”

You snort, threading your fingers through his, letting your thumb trace absent circles over his knuckles. His hand is cool, like always, but familiar. Grounding. “You used to pretend you didn’t care.”

He shifts, just enough to tilt his head your way, lips curving ever so faintly. “I still don’t,” he says smoothly. “Unless I do.”

You give him a flat look, stifling a snort. “That’s not a real sentence.”

“It is if you understand me.”

And the worst part is—you do.

You sigh, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder again. “You’re so smug with your logic.”

“I’m consistent.”

“That’s the same thing,” you grumble.

His fingers tighten gently around yours, silent in his agreement.

You nudge his leg, casual and easy, but your grin is sly now. “Well, since we’re already deep in the jealousy chronicles, might as well air everything, right?”

Zayne lifts a brow, just slightly. “Yours or mine?”

You tap your chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Yours, of course.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his grip on your hand shifts just slightly—like he already knows which story you’re about to bring up.

And he’s bracing for it—

It’s some formal alumni gathering—an evening reception at a rented hall near your old high school, complete with dim lighting, hors d'oeuvres, and a lot of people pretending not to be comparing paychecks and hairlines.

Rose and Caleb guilt-trip you into going, insisting it’ll be fun, a reunion, just a quick drop-in before dinner. Of course, they disappear into the crowd the second you arrive, catching up with old teammates and classmates like they’d never left.

You wouldn't be here at all if Zayne weren’t with you right now. He doesn’t know anyone here except the three of you, but he shows up in a tailored black suit and lets you lead the way in, no complaints. Just quiet presence, fingers brushing the small of your back as you moved through the crowd.

You’re not even halfway through the evening when you run into him.

That classmate—the one who used to flirt with you in that annoying way that always bordered on too much. He hadn’t changed. Same cocky smile, same over-familiar tone, like the years since high school were just a brief intermission. He spots you across the room and makes a beeline over, arms already open before you can brace for it.

His hug lasted a second too long. The kind that wasn’t exactly inappropriate, but lingered. Like he thought he still had some unspoken claim.

And when he pulled back, his eyes did a slow sweep down your dress with a grin that said he liked what he saw—and he didn’t care how obvious he was being about it.

“Wow,” he said, all teeth. “You look amazing. Didn’t think I’d get lucky running into you tonight.”

Zayne is at your side the whole time, calm and unreadable. You introduce them, a little stiffly. The classmate offered his hand, and Zayne took it without hesitation, his grip polite, firm. Nothing dramatic. No cold stare. Just the picture of poised indifference.

But partway through the guy’s rambling attempt at flirtation disguised as nostalgia, Zayne’s hand finds yours. Effortless. Natural. His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, like he’d been planning it all evening.

And then, without breaking eye contact with the guy, his thumb started brushing slowly across the surface of your wedding ring—over and over, like he was rediscovering the shine, polishing it just so.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The guy keeps talking a little longer, but there is a shift. His smile dims a shade, that false confidence faltering. And eventually—finally—he made some excuse about needing another drink and walked off with a tighter jaw than before.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. He just stands there for a moment, looking in the direction the guy disappeared.

Then, quiet as ever, he murmured, “Interesting choice of cologne.”

You glanced up at him, trying not to smile.

“Pity about the attitude,” he added, like it was an afterthought. Like he was reviewing wine.

You snorted. “Zayne.”

“He was being presumptuous.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t need to.”

You kissed him later that night. Half-laughing, half-pressed-up-against-the-door, telling him how annoyingly hot he was when he got like that. The way he didn’t need to raise his voice to make a point. The way his thumb moved over your ring like he could remind the world it existed without ever having to say the words.

He only said, “I know,” before kissing you again—slow, deep, deliberate.

And the thing was, he did know.

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You sigh with dramatic satisfaction as you sink deeper into his chest. “What a night.”

Zayne raises an eyebrow without turning his head. “The reunion?”

You tug gently at his cheek, just enough to make him glance down at you. “You know I’m talking about after the reunion. The reunion itself was… fine. Would’ve been better if we hadn’t run into that guy, but hey—the ending? Flawless.”

You wink at him. His mouth doesn’t curve, but his arm shifts around your waist, pulling you just a little closer—like a quiet confirmation that, yes, he remembers exactly how the night ended too.

“Marriage definitely has its advantages,” he says, voice low, almost amused. He lifts your hand with ease and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the band on your ring finger. Slow. Purposeful. Like he’s sealing something.

Heat flickers up your neck—ridiculous, really, considering how long you’ve been together. But when he acts like this, all calm devotion wrapped in subtle possessiveness? Yeah, it still does things to you.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, which only earns you a second kiss against your palm to your fingers, as if to say he knows.

Which reminds you—another story, another memory you’re still not over. “And ohhh, remember that nurse?”

Zayne’s brows pinch slightly, thoughtful. “Which one?”

“There’s too many nurses,” you snort, already laughing. You’re about to tease him for being smug when another memory slips in—uninvited, but impossible to forget.

You remember white coats, antiseptic lighting, and a nurse with a clipboard and too much charm—

You tell yourself you’re just dropping by the hospital. Totally normal thing to do. Casual, innocent. Maybe you even threw in a “since I’m already in the area” excuse just to make yourself feel more justified. Not that anyone was buying it—including yourself. But hey, you missed him. Sue you. He’s your husband. You’re allowed to.

Zayne texts that he’s finishing up a case and will meet you in a few minutes, so you linger near the nurses’ station, catching up with Yvonne until she’s paged away.

Left to your own devices, you lean against the counter, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. A few familiar faces pass by, waving or stopping to say hi. At this point, you’re basically a regular—if not by role, then by reputation. Everyone in the cardiology wing knows exactly who you are.

Which is probably why it catches you a little off guard when a nurse you don’t recognize sidles up beside you, clipboard tucked to her chest and a mischievous spark in her eye.

She gives you a once-over—not unfriendly, just… curious. Measuring. “You must be Mrs. Doctor Li,” she says, with the kind of grin that suggests she’s been waiting to use that line.

You blink, smiling politely. “That’s me.”

She sighs dramatically. “Well, now I’m jealous. Visiting your husband again? You sure you don’t wanna switch places for the day?” Her tone is playful, but there’s a tilt to her voice, a nudge to the clipboard, that gives it a little edge. Half-joking, half… not.

You open your mouth to offer some equally light reply, maybe something about how he didn’t do the dishes this morning, so really she’s dodging a bullet—but you don’t get the chance.

Zayne’s presence slides into the scene without warning. He appears at your side with the kind of quiet precision that makes you wonder just how long he’s been standing there. No irritation on his face. No tension in his posture. Just calm, composed Zayne, standing like he’d always been there.

“There’s only one Mrs. Li,” he says, voice smooth and steady. Not sharp. Not cold. Just final.

Then, after a deliberate pause, he added, “No substitutions accepted.”

The nurse’s laugh comes a second too late. “Right, right. Just teasing,” she says as she politely excuses herself.

Zayne didn’t acknowledge that part. His gaze had already shifted fully to you, and though his expression barely changed, there was a slight lift at the corner of his mouth—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it immediately.

You bit back your grin, elbowing him lightly. “Smooth.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his knuckles against your back like it was just another ordinary motion. “I’m married,” he said again, quieter this time.

Like it explained everything.

And the thing was—it did. Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip. God, he was good at this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why are you so popular?” you complain, settling into the couch with a dramatic flop that your current state of pregnancy doesn’t fully allow. This time, Zayne actually helps you lay down slowly, so you successfully lay down.

After that, he’s right back again, still leaning toward you, currently rubbing slow circles into your lower back, glancing down at you with a patient look.

“Actually, don’t answer that,” you add before he can say anything, waving a hand in the air. “Of course my husband’s popular. But.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh. “It’s hard work out here. I’m trying, okay? Being subtle.”

Zayne shifts a little, adjusting the throw blanket over your lap. “You,” he says evenly, “and subtle is not really…”

He tilts his head slightly, searching for the right word, then settles on a diplomatic. “Correct.”

You gasp, swatting weakly at his chest. “Hey! I can be subtle. I’ve done subtle.”

The way he looks at you makes it clear he’s flipping through his internal memory log and finding no evidence to support your claim.

You squint at him. “I have! I think having Serena definitely helped increasing my subtlety.”

Zayne’s hand stills against your back. He gives you a very specific look. A knowing look. One that makes you narrow your eyes right back.

“What?” you say, suspicious.

“The hospital event,” he says, voice smooth. “Not long after Serena was born.”

You blink. “Ah…” you murmur, sinking further into the cushions as the memory catches up—

It’s supposed to be one of those harmless little holiday things—string lights hung too high for anyone to fix properly, half-hearted holiday music looping from a speaker no one could find, and tables covered in everything from fruitcake to suspiciously undercooked mini quiches. The pediatric wing outdoes itself in decorations, and someone even sticks paper antlers on the automatic doors.

You arrive with Serena balanced comfortably on your hip, her winter hat already sliding sideways. Zayne’s fingers lace with yours, his free hand tugging the tiny hat back into place with the same quiet precision he uses for stitching incisions. You’re not technically invited, but no one ever questions you showing up anymore—not when most of the cardiology staff knows Serena by name and you by association.

It’s cozy. Festive. Fine.

Until it isn’t.

She’s young. Polished. One of the newer nurses you haven’t seen before. The kind who probably brings her own hand-poured coffee in every morning and keeps pens organized by color. She drifts over just as Zayne finishes recounting how Serena discovers snow for the first time—specifically by licking a half-buried garden light.

“Oh my God,” she laughs, lightly tapping his arm like she’s known him forever. “You’re such a natural. I mean—look at her.”

You stiffen, just slightly. Zayne, as always, remains composed. Serena stares back at the nurse with the unimpressed expression of a child who’s recently tried to eat a pinecone and been stopped.

The nurse crouches, eyes on Serena, her voice taking on that high-pitched baby-talk edge. “You’re such a daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”

Your smile is immediate. Controlled. Just a little too sharp around the edges. “She is,” you say, your tone smooth as silk.

Then, sweetly—just a beat too slow—

“Just like I am.”

The pause hits like a dropped ornament.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His fingers tighten around yours—not harsh, not even particularly firm. Just a subtle squeeze. A silent, not here. Not in front of the inflatable Santa.

The nurse blinks. Straightens. Her smile doesn’t falter, but the light behind it dims a notch. “Right,” she says with a laugh, already half-stepping away. “Well—happy Holidays!”

Zayne offers a polite nod.

You watch her walk off with a sip of your lukewarm cocoa, pretending you didn’t just drop a bomb in front of the holiday trees.

Zayne leans in, brushing a kiss to Serena’s temple. Then, quietly, near your ear. “You’re subtle like a sledgehammer.”

You hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That is subtle.”

He gives a small chuckle, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Subtle or not, you do have a way of clearing a room.”

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. “And yet you’re always the one standing next to me when the dust settles.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—barely a breath of a smile, but unmistakably fond. His hand finds your back again, calm and warm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I mean—that was subtle!” you insist, gesturing dramatically like you’re presenting undeniable evidence.

Zayne’s gaze drifts to you with that same unreadable calm, one brow ticking upward—just enough to make his opinion known without a word. The exact same look he gets when you insist that cookies count as a balanced breakfast.

You narrow your eyes at him, already seeing through his silence. “Don’t give me that face.”

His lips press together in that polite, I’m not saying anything expression, which only makes you groan.

“She deserved it!” you declare, throwing your hands up.

“I didn’t say she didn’t,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Exactly!” You jab a finger at him, triumphant. “Just like that preschool teacher!”

That earns you a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes—subtle, but you catch it. "Now that you mention it, the one before is definitely subtle."

Just like you both remember it—

It happens the first week of Serena’s new preschool.

Zayne has been picking up Serena for the whole week. He’s been getting night shifts, and he says he likes being the one she sees first when class lets out, as long as he can for now.

You haven’t argued—why would you? Seeing your husband so excited is very cute. So today, you tagged along, half for the company, half to see for yourself where your daughter’s been spending her days.

The building itself is warm and cheerful, the kind of place with sunlight filtering through paper cutout leaves and tiny rain boots lined up like soldiers beneath name-tagged cubbies. You find Serena’s cubby easily—her name spelled in glitter glue above what looks like a drawing of a rabbit. Or a potato. Possibly both.

Then the teacher approaches.

Young. Bright-eyed. The kind of person who always sounds like she’s narrating a children’s book. Which is probably good for preschool, but you’ve been in a mood lately, so you try to rein it in. Try.

“Oh! You must be Serena’s parents,” she chirps, clasping her hands in front of her chest like she’s been waiting all day to greet you. “She’s an absolute sweetheart—so independent! And Dr. Li, we just love when you stop by. It’s so refreshing to see a dad who’s so involved.”

Your smile curls automatically. “He’s very involved.”

She giggles, like that’s the best news she’s heard all week. “You’d be surprised how rare that is. He even helped her get her shoes on last time! I thought that was just the cutest—”

You tilt your head, letting your smile widen by a millimeter. Just enough to shift the air between you.

“Yes,” you say, syrup-thick. “He’s the best. Hands-on dad, great cook, folds laundry without being asked. Fantastic memory. Always remembers everything.”

The teacher blinks, her expression still sunny—but maybe a little confused by the turn of the conversation.

“And,” you add, voice still as warm as a cup of freshly brewed tea, “he’s mine.”

You let that hang a beat before tacking on, casually.

“Want me to say it slower?”

The smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. You can see her trying to figure out whether you’re joking—and more importantly, whether it’s safe to laugh.

Zayne clears his throat beside you. “I’ll just… get Serena’s bag.”

And off he goes, calm as ever, not even pretending to hurry.

You watch him go with the slow, deliberate blink of a woman who knows exactly what she just did—and would do it again without hesitation.

The teacher stands there, fingers twisting slightly in the hem of her cardigan. “He’s, um. Very lucky.”

You nod, voice breezy. “He is.”

She moves on—quickly.

And that’s the end of that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I know when someone’s being nice and when they’re being flirty, alright!”

“Yes, darling.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

Zayne raises both hands in a show of innocence, his voice all polite calm as usual. “Me? Making fun my pregnant wife? That’s just harsh.”

You shove him lightly with a scoff, which really only makes him lean into it more. When you push yourself up from the couch, it’s slow going—your hand pressing to the small of your back, a little grunt escaping before you can stop it.

Zayne’s hand is already there to steady you. Of course it is.

You swat him off with a fussy flick of your wrist. “I’m fine.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“I want to sleep,” you grumble, shuffling toward the hallway. “You can leave your pregnant wife alone.”

Behind you, you hear the slight panic in his voice. “Love—”

You turn around, walking backward now with one hand cradling your belly. “Don’t ‘love’ me. You’re popular. Go flirt with someone else.”

His lips twitches—just slightly. “You started this.”

“Oh, please. You got weirdly quiet about that nurse.”

“I was being polite,” he says smoothly. “And strategic. Unlike some people, I don’t threaten strangers in front of the holiday trees.”

You stop your walk and narrow your eyes at him.

Slowly he says, “I mean… I should’ve told them first.”

You huff, “Don’t patronize me!”

Zayne’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to think of a way to reply to his very pregnant, very hormonal wife. You just cross your arms waiting for his reply.

Then finally he settles with. “I’m not patronizing. I’m… negotiating.”

“With who?” Raising your eyebrow at him.

He gestures vaguely between you. “The situation.”

You snort. “Oh, so now I’m a situation?”

“You’re always a situation.”

“You take that back.” You gape at him, half-offended, half-delighted.

He leans in a little. “Make me.”

Your mouth opens again—primed for another dramatic comeback—but instead you let out a laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it. You hate that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious. You love that he’s funny when you’re trying to be serious.

“Ugh,” you mutter, defeated, and turn to waddle away again. “I should make you go sleep with that inflatable Santa.”

Zayne catches your wrist gently before you can get too far, and this time he doesn’t say anything right away. Just pulls you in with that quiet, careful steadiness of his until your foreheads bump softly together.

His voice is low when it comes. “You know it’s only ever you, right?”

You try—really try—not to melt at that. You fail.

You stare at him, unblinking. “That’s cheating. You can’t just go soft and sweet after arguing your case.”

Zayne’s mouth curves—barely. “I thought you liked it when I went soft and sweet.”

You squint. “Not when it makes me lose.”

He hums, the sound low and amused as he brushes his thumb lightly along your wrist. “You never lose.”

You open your mouth. Pause. Then close it again with a huff because… yeah, okay. That was good. And unfair.

Closing your eyes for a second. Just a second. you finally murmur, “And yeah,” softer now. “I know, it’s the same for me—you’re the only one, too. Then and now.”

He leans in, brushing a kiss just under your brow, the barest hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “Even when you’re being ridiculous.”

You sigh dramatically. “That’s your favorite version of me.”

“It’s the only one I get.”

You try not to smile. Fail again. With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite hide your fondness, you mutter, “You’re lucky I’m too much in a need of cuddles to make you sleep on the couch.”

“My wife does say I give best cuddles,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to your temple again—soft and steady, like the kind of promise that doesn't need to be spoken out loud.

You lean into it without meaning to. Maybe you’re a little tired. Maybe you're just too in love to keep pretending you're mad.

“…Fine,” you mutter. “You can come to bed.”

“Thank you for your mercy.”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

He doesn’t. He just smiles—barely there, but warm—and shifts his hand to your back again, that familiar pressure you’ve come to depend on more than you’d ever admit out loud.

And so you let him guide you, quiet and close, down the hallway and into the hush of your shared space. Feet aching. Belly heavy. Heart annoyingly full.

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Notes

My stubborn ass make me finish this today even though I should be sleeping, so if there's any typo excuses me and please point it out 😵💕 Also this is way shorter I suppose, I mean in term of snippet it feel shorter, or that might just be me ;-; Anyway! Hope y'all enjoy! Let me know actually, this is also a new angle...

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: Parenthood AU Masterlist ✨

Although if you missed the Newlyweds series! Here How it all happen And also the Pregnancy series, starting with Try For Baby

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