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lyn31 · 2 months ago

Note

Sinceeee i'm still in this zayne and mc on a honeymoon sweetness haze, might as well request another one for my dose of sweetness hahaha can you pretty please write more about their newlywed life, all domestic like them cooking together, going on grocery shopping maybe? Heck even them doing laundry together would be cute 🤣 oh and probably them going to work related functions for the first time since the wedding and introducing each other as husband / wife? Just sending this in before i sleep so good night and thankyou in advance! hehe 💕❤️

Hopefully it's not died down yet 😂🫶🏻 And no worries, seeing that I made a series in ao3, this story would keep coming even if it just a short little scene! And again, I can't choose what activity for them to do, so this is how it ended up being...

Let me know what you think! 👀💕

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New Chapter of Life Together

Summary

You learn what it means to be loved as a wife—not through grand declarations, but in quiet mornings, soft reassurances, and the steady presence of the man who chose you for life.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Married Life, newlyweds, fluff, banter, silly, chaos, a lot of flirting!

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The first thing you feel is his arm, heavy and familiar around your waist. Then the warmth of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder. You shift slightly, testing the morning light that peeks through the curtains—and immediately, Zayne tightens his hold on you with all the intent of someone who has no plans of letting you escape.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile before your eyes are even fully open. "Good morning, husband."

The views aren’t new anymore. You’ve lived together long before vows were exchanged, before rings slipped into place. But now—now they taste sweeter, weightier. Even when said half-teasing, neither of you seem eager to stop.

You stretch your leg over his, limbs tangled beneath the covers, and he exhales softly like that was exactly what he wanted. For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the quiet of the room, the drowsy comfort of not needing to be anywhere yet.

"I had a weird dream," you mumble into his collarbone. "You were trying to fight a sentient loaf of bread."

Zayne hums. "Did I win?"

"Only after giving it a heartfelt speech about forgiveness."

"I see." A beat. "Sounds accurate."

You laugh under your breath. He kisses the back of your neck, absently, like it’s muscle memory. You reach behind you, fingertips brushing his chest until they find that familiar, faint heartbeat under your touch—calm and certain, just like him.

"What should we eat?" you ask after a pause, not moving an inch.

"You're asking me that while still in bed?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"No dirty thoughts! I’m manifesting brunch."

"You’re manifesting it from the arms of your husband, who is also very comfortable."

You twist slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. "Fine, I guess we’ll starve together."

Zayne’s smile is small but unmistakable, the kind that barely lifts the corner of his lips and still somehow makes your stomach flutter. He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours—slow, warm, and just the right side of lazy. It deepens as your fingers slip into his hair, and for a moment, you both seem to forget everything else. His touch drifts lower, and the kiss turns languid, coaxing.

But then, your stomach lets out a loud, undeniable growl.

You freeze. Zayne stills. And then, against your neck, you feel his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

"Okay, okay," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Rude."

He kisses your temple, still grinning. "Brunch it is."

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You pad into the kitchen behind him, still barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of his oversized shirts like you always do on mornings like this. Zayne rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sets his tablet on the counter, and already you can see that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s taking this way too seriously.

"Let me help," you say, even though you both know what that usually means.

Zayne glances over his shoulder with that soft, amused expression he reserves just for you. "You sure?"

"Of course! It’s brunch. It’s meant to be spontaneous and unhinged."

He blinks but nods all the same. "Alright. But no cinnamon in the eggs again."

"That's one time," you mutter, grabbing a pan anyway.

It’s controlled chaos from there. Zayne measures ingredients with military precision, he stirs with careful, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, you’re humming whatever’s stuck in your head, tossing in seasonings by instinct, ignoring every suggestion he tries to gently offer.

"That’s not... two teaspoons," he points out mildly, watching you sprinkle something into your pan with reckless abandon.

"It’s two teaspoons in spirit."

He shakes his head, reaching around you to grab a cutting board, only for your elbow to bump his side. You dodge in front of him, stealing his spatula just to flip your own food. He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just the usual dance of coexisting in a space too small for both your styles.

At some point, you flick flour at him.

It catches him clean on the nose, dusting his face like powdered sugar. He doesn’t react at first—just stares at you, completely deadpan, as if deciding whether to reprimand you or kiss you senseless.

You burst into laughter.

"You have flour—" you wheeze, pointing, "on your—"

Zayne calmly wipes his nose with a dish towel. "I’m married to a gremlin."

"Excuse you, I’m a culinary genius."

"You’re a hazard."

Still, when everything’s finally cooked and plated, the result is... actually edible. Good, even. The eggs are a little crisped on one side, the toast slightly uneven, but the flavors are warm and comforting and somehow perfectly them. You both slide onto the counter, plates balanced on your laps, legs swinging lazily.

The window’s open. The breeze smells like spring. He hands you a fork, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips again as he watches you take your first bite.

"...Not bad, right?" you ask, mouth full.

"Brilliant," he says dryly. "I might survive after all."

You nudge your foot against his, eyes catching his in that soft, slow moment that doesn’t need anything more than just being here.

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The shower is—miraculously—efficient. Warm water, quiet kisses, just enough lingering touches to feel indulgent without dragging the hours into full-blown distraction. You both dry off in sync, navigating the shared space like muscle memory, and by the time you're dressed and slipping on your shoes, it's afternoon.

Sunday means errands, but it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not when it’s the two of you.

You stop by the dry cleaners first, where Zayne handles the transaction with his usual quiet grace and you eye the mystery stain on one of his button-downs like it personally offended you. Then it’s light bulbs, of all things, which somehow turns into a debate over wattage because Zayne is, of course, reading the box like it’s a research paper.

"I swear you overthink these," you mutter, nudging his arm with your elbow.

"And you under think everything," he replies, without even looking up.

Fair.

But the best part of the afternoon is the plant shop. It’s a cozy little place that smells like soil and citrus, and you make a beeline for the corner where the leafy, drooping misfits live. One in particular catches your eye—a slightly crooked snake plant with a tilted pot and far too much charm for Zayne to ignore.

"We just re-potted three last month," he says, arms crossed.

"He’s different. Look at him," you coo, lifting the little guy carefully. "He’s got personality."

Zayne gives the plant a long, assessing look, then you. Then the plant again. "...You’re going to forget to water it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, but takes the pot from you anyway, one hand cradling the base like it’s fragile. The way he does it makes you grin—he’s already accepted the adoption, whether he admits it or not.

Outside the store, an elderly woman fumbles with her bags, and before either of you even speak, you step forward to help. Zayne’s hand settles briefly at the small of your back as you assist her, steady and quiet. She thanks you both sweetly, eyes crinkling, and you flash her a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

Zayne watches that smile with a softness he doesn’t say out loud.

The rest of the outing passes in that same easy rhythm. You hand him your drink without a word, and he takes a sip like it’s routine—no need to ask. You lean into him while waiting at a crosswalk, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder. At some point, you bicker about whether taking 3rd Avenue or looping around through the back road is faster—Zayne with logic, you with stubborn gut feeling. He humors you and takes your route anyway.

By the time you hit the grocery store, you’re both ready to knock out dinner prep. But the snack aisle derails everything. Zayne sneaks bags of cookies into the cart like you can’t see it or something. You remove one, replacing it with the lower-sugar version, only for him to sneak another one in from behind your back.

"You know we came here for, like, eggs and rice, right?" You say, grinning, crossing your arms.

"And chocolate," he adds, tossing in a novelty-flavored candy bar. He casually looks at his phone that has the grocery list like he didn’t just add sweet into it.

You scan the nutritional label like it just betrayed your trust. Seriously—if you didn’t stop this man, all his teeth would rot and he wouldn’t even regret it.

Eventually, you give up pretending to be responsible and accept that your cart now contains enough snacks for a week. Maybe two.

On the way home, you both realize brunch wore off faster than expected. Zayne’s stomach growls first. You don’t say anything—just raise an eyebrow and gesture toward a café at the corner.

Ten minutes later, you're inside, warm and cozy, sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s reading the menu with that familiar furrow between his brows, like choosing between a croissant and a danish is a life-altering decision.

"You look so serious right now," you tease, sipping your drink. "Like you’re solving a medical mystery. For pastries."

"I like to be thorough."

"You're adorable."

He lowers the menu slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "...You’re not getting out of deciding the movie tonight." But despite how steady his tone is, the tips of his ears are turning red.

You grin around the rim of your cup. "I’ll let you pick—if you get the strawberry tart and let me steal half."

"...Deal."

You end up splitting three pastries anyway. Conversation drifts from movies to work, to the idea of maybe cooking something light for dinner, to whether or not that plant is actually going to survive under your care. It’s nothing flashy. Just the rhythm of being you and Zayne—shared smiles, knees bumping beneath the table, the world soft around the edges.

And for a lazy Sunday? It’s perfect.

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Monday morning hits different after a slow weekend. There’s a light chill in the air, one that creeps in through the kitchen windows despite the soft warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains. You pad across the tile floor, barefoot, still slightly sleepy, wearing nothing but one of Zayne’s button-downs—loose, wrinkled from the laundry basket, and hanging just enough to tease.

You’re not really trying to make a statement.

...But you're also not not trying.

You're mid-pour with the kettle when you hear the bathroom door open and soft footsteps cross the hall. Zayne steps into the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing his usual morning expression—composed, alert, too calm for someone who just walked in on his wife looking like that.

Except for the smallest shift in his gaze, the stillness in his steps as he takes you in.

He says nothing at first, only moves toward the counter like he always does. Pours himself a mug of coffee. But you catch the flicker. That very specific pause as he lifts the cup to his lips and doesn't drink—just watches you over the rim, quiet, assessing.

And yeah. You know exactly what you're doing.

"Morning, husband," you say sweetly, voice innocent as you stretch just slightly to reach the sugar jar.

His eyes trail the motion, linger a second too long. "...Good morning, wife."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink. That’s all. No teasing, no smirking. But you feel the tension in the air anyway, coiling subtle and slow between your bare thighs and his calm restraint. This man, composed even now, does nothing by accident.

"You're going to be late," he says, finally turning back to his coffee.

"So are you," you reply, sipping yours, perfectly unfazed.

But his gaze dips once more as he walks past you, deliberately brushing the edge of his hand along the curve of your waist, kissing you slowly before going on his way out of the kitchen, as if staying any longer would mean neither of you would get out of the house today.

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A few hours into work, you’re back on base, half-distracted during reports when something ridiculous happens—Tara gets her coat stuck in the door and tries to play it off like it didn’t happen. You manage a sneaky photo just before she notices.

You send it to Zayne with no caption.

A minute later, your screen lights up.

Mine💕: Is this why you were wearing my shirt and nothing else this morning? To not get attack by door?

You grin and fire back.

You: Well, I had to arm myself with something. Your shirt felt appropriate. Has… sentimental value.

Mine💕: It had strategic value this morning too.

You almost laugh out loud.

You: Are you suggesting I distracted you?

Mine💕: You walked into the kitchen half-dressed. On a Monday. After a weekend where we barely left bed. So, yes.

You: Oh no. What will I wear tomorrow?

Mine💕: Nothing, if you’re trying to get me to skip work.

Your cheeks heat—part laughter, part memory, part anticipation. The texts keep going, drifting more playful, more suggestive, until you're both balancing professionalism with escalating tension.

Eventually, somewhere between paperwork and lunch, he sends one last message.

Mine💕: I’m picking up dinner tonight. So you can go straight to not wearing anything when I get home.

You don’t reply immediately. Just stare at your screen, biting back a smile.

But oh yeah—you’re both very much looking forward to tonight.

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You get home before him. The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to hum to yourself while moving through it. Zayne said he’d bring dinner, so technically you didn’t have to do anything—but a sudden idea takes hold somewhere between opening the fridge and spotting the unused chocolate in the cupboard.

Dessert.

You’ll make dessert.

Well… a dessert.

You tie on the apron—his apron, naturally. It's one of those neutral-toned ones with deep pockets and a tie that loops around your waist twice. The only thing beneath it is skin and a whole lot of mischief. It’s half a joke—just the apron, no clothes—but it doesn’t stop you from fluffing your hair and checking the mirror before you start.

You’re not just teasing. You want to see what that calm, steady husband of yours does when he walks in and finds his wife waiting with nothing but his apron.

The baking part goes better than expected. It helps that you’ve done this before, and that you know exactly how he likes his sweets, although he’ll eat any sweet you give him and this is just talking about actual food.

You’re plating them when you hear the lock click.

The door swings open. Zayne steps in, dinner in hand, something warm and likely perfectly portioned. His eyes lift—routine, casual—until they register what they’re seeing.

He stops mid-step.

You’re standing there at the kitchen counter, apron tied neatly, dessert on display. The light catches your skin, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the air seems to still for a moment.

He blinks.

“Welcome home, husband,” you say, voice light, innocent.

He sets the takeout bag down on the nearest surface. Doesn’t even glance at it. Just walks straight toward you, loosing up the tie on his shirt, walking slow and with controlled, like he's handling something fragile. Or dangerous.

His hands slide to your waist—cool, sure. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I thought we agree on nothing.”

“Isn’t this more exciting?” you murmur, tipping your head up just slightly, pulling at his tie.

He kisses you like he has no intention of stopping. And for a long, breathless stretch, he doesn’t.

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By the time you actually sit down to eat, the food is lukewarm and the desserts are nearly forgotten. You both laugh about it, halfway through your second bites, a little dazed, your hair mussed, his neck full of kiss marks. Both of you barely dress.

The kitchen still smells like sugar and vanilla.

And Zayne? He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

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It’s just past midnight when he wakes up.

No gasp, no cry—just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth and the sudden tension of his body beside you. You feel it immediately, even through sleep. The shift in the bed. The way his hand curls slightly, like he's still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

You roll toward him, reaching out before your eyes are fully open. “Zayne?”

He blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. His breath is still uneven. There’s sweat at his hairline, his shirt sticking to his chest, his jaw tight.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don't reply at first. Just press your forehead to his shoulder, your arm slipping around his middle.

“Was it… another nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the nod. It's small. Heavy.

It doesn't happen often—not anymore. But every now and then, something cracks through that carefully maintained calm. Close calls. An impossible case. A moment when the scalpel trembled, or worse, when it nearly slipped. Or sometimes... sometimes it's you. A memory he tries not to relive, no matter how old or how faint.

“You’re here,” you whisper, voice soft against his skin. “We’re safe.”

His arms come around you after that. Slow, a little hesitant—like he still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be comforted—but when he exhales, it’s shakier than he means it to be.

“You were…” he trails off. “In the OR. I—”

He stops again. Shakes his head.

You don't need the rest. You've heard enough versions of this dream to know where it leads. And you know exactly how deeply it sinks into him, even hours after it ends.

So you pull him closer, shifting until you’re almost on top of him, fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him. “You made vows,” you say, quiet but steady. “So did I.”

His hands press against your back, anchoring. He doesn’t reply, but you feel the moment he lets go of the dream. Not entirely—but enough. Enough to stay here. With you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love.”

You press a kiss just below his ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

And finally, finally, he breathes like he believes it.

He falls asleep not long after, arms still around you, the warmth of your body pulling him back to steadiness. And you stay like that, wide awake, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You know he’ll be okay in the morning.

He always is.

But you stay anyway—because that’s what you promised.

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Bonus

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The event is held in one of the hospital’s private conference halls—high ceilings, too-bright lighting, waitstaff weaving between clusters of formally dressed doctors and researchers. There’s soft music playing in the background, more ambiance than melody, and a spread of hors d’oeuvres on white-clothed tables no one quite dares to touch.

Zayne stands beside you, tailored suit perfect down to the pressed collar. He blends in seamlessly with the rest of them—composed, unbothered, clipboard conversations flowing around him like water. But you can feel it in the way his hand rests at the small of your back. Gentle. Protective. Anchored.

He leans in slightly when someone approaches. “This is my wife,” he says simply, voice calm but warm.

You hear the words more than once tonight—always offhand, always soft. But every time, they catch you a little off guard. My wife. It shouldn’t feel so new anymore, but somehow, coming from him, in this polished, clinical space where everything is usually professional and precise… it does.

It feels like a tiny rebellion.

You smile, offer your hand, try to keep your voice steady as you greet whoever he introduces you to—department heads, residents, researchers you only know by surname on articles he's sent you. And you do well enough, even as you notice the subtle double takes. The way eyes flick between the two of you. Like no one expected this pairing. Or maybe they just didn’t expect you.

“She’s even prettier than you described,” one of the cardiologists from another hospital murmurs with a smile, a little in awe.

Before you can react—before you can wave it off or stammer something awkward—Zayne’s already answering.

“She always is.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. Doesn’t smirk or make a show of it. He just says it like it’s fact. Like gravity. And suddenly you’re the one left flustered, heat blooming in your face.

Zayne offers you a drink then—water, always observant—and you accept it more for the distraction than anything else. His fingers brush yours briefly. Steady. Sure.

Later, during a lull in the presentations, you find yourself pressed shoulder to shoulder with him by the tall windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t say much, just watches the traffic below. But his fingers curl around yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.

You lean into him a little.

“You know you’re going to make it hard for me to show my face around here again,” you murmur.

“Why?” he asks mildly, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You just… announced me like I was the highlight of the year.”

“You are.”

You laugh, bury your face briefly against his arm, cheeks still warm. He says nothing else, just lets you stay close, thumb still moving in slow circles. The rest of the evening passes in the blur of names and speeches, but you hold on to that moment.

To the quiet certainty in his voice.

To being his wife—not just on paper, but here. Beside him. In his world.

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Notes

They're too cute for their own good 😩🫶🏻 I'll be back 👀 Here's the proposal and wedding fic, How it all happen, and here's the honeymoon fic, Honeymoon part 1 (Smut) and Honeymoon part 2 (Fluff) This is a bit of a jump but here's where they attempt at trying for baby lol 2 years into their marriage! Try For Baby (Fluff)

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 ✨

197 notes · View notes

lyn31 · 3 months ago

Note

Hello there! I’ve read all of you Zayne fics and they are so cute. I was wondering if you could do one before pregnancy where Zayne proposes, to the wedding, and eventually honeymoon. Can you make it romantic and smut towards the honeymoon please. Thank you in advance.☺️

Hey, sooooo I did it, but uh it is bigger than I expected it to be (that's what she said) so I separate it into two part, it's one fics on Ao3 but anyway! Hopefully this is what you're thinking of!

Oh and hopefully you don't mind me writing my OC there as well🫶🏻🥰 Let me know what you think! And enjoy!

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How it all happen

Summary

Returning to the town of their first festival, you and Zayne relive old memories with quiet affection, playful competition, and a spark of nostalgia that gently reveals how much—and how deeply—things have changed between you. And in a quiet garden wrapped in sage green, gold and burgundy, you marry Zayne beneath soft November skies—where love, memory, and mischief all walk hand in hand.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Fluff, proposal, marriage/wedding, fluff, sweet, banter, silly, chaos. Technically still in the canon world!

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The moment Zayne suggests this particular town for the festival, you know exactly what he’s doing.

You don’t say anything right away. You just give him a long look as the memory clicks into place, your lips tugging into a slow, knowing smirk. “Really?”

Beside you, Zayne doesn’t even react. The glow from the hanging lanterns catches in his hazel eyes, casting flickers of soft amber across his otherwise unreadable face. He slips his hands into the pockets of his coat, utterly unbothered. “It’s a festival.”

You let out a small laugh, nudging his elbow lightly with yours. “You’re taking me back to our first festival. After all these years.”

“Hm.” He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a breath of amusement. “And?”

You watch him a second longer, the corner of your mouth tugging higher. “You’re so sentimental.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head, gaze drifting to the lights ahead—like he’s already walking through the memory and the present at once.

he layout has changed. New stalls have replaced old ones, the colors are brighter now, and the speakers hum with updated music—but the bones are the same. The warm lanterns. The scent of grilled food hanging thick in the air. The laughter and footsteps over cobblestone.

And you’re not complaining. Not one bit. If anything, something warm and heavy settles in your chest. Familiar. Safe. You take a step forward, close enough for your fingers to brush against his. You grab his hand and lead him further into the festival.

“Alright then,” you say softly. “Let’s make some new memories.”

The ring toss stall is tucked in the same corner it always was, wedged between the candied fruit stand and a newer game with blinking lights. It looks smaller than you remember, but that might just be time playing tricks.

You pause in front of it, and nostalgia hits hard—sharper than you expect. Caleb’s dramatic groan when he missed every single shot, and the way Rose had snorted before casually landing all her rings in one smooth motion. You hadn’t been much better than Caleb back then, your aim clumsy, laugh breathless with how hard you’d been trying to prove yourself.

Zayne had made it look effortless, of course. Toss. Land. Toss. Land. Quietly competent, quietly smug. He hadn’t said a word, just raised an eyebrow when you’d glared at him in defeat.

But now—now you’re a hunter. You’ve trained for years. Your aim might not be Evol-level precise like your sister, but it has to count for something, right?

You step closer to the stall, eyeing the rings lined up on the counter. For a moment, the years fall away.

“Would you like to go first,” Zayne asks from behind, voice calm as ever, “or shall I?”

You scoff as you start rolling up your sleeves, already reaching for the rings. “Obviously me.”

Zayne steps back with that easy shrug of his, the kind that says go ahead, impress me, but he doesn’t voice it. He never has to.

You take a ring, trying not to overthink it. You expect the toss to be wobbly. Maybe it’ll graze the bottle neck and fall off, like old times.

But instead—somehow—it lands.

A perfect, clean loop.

You blink. The stall owner pauses mid-motion. Even Zayne’s brows lift the slightest fraction, which on him may as well be open-mouthed shock.

“Huh,” you say, master of words as always.

You toss the next one.

Another hit.

Your mouth parts in disbelief. The final ring spins from your fingers—this one’s a little off-center, but it catches the edge of the bottle and bounces just right, sliding down into place with a soft clink.

You stare. All three. Still stunned.

The stall owner lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn.”

You glance sideways at Zayne, whose expression toes the line between unimpressed and quietly impressed. “Was that skill or luck?”

You’re still processing, your heart thumping with the ridiculous thrill of it. “Let’s call it a miracle.”

The stall owner hands you a prize without asking—one that’s all too familiar. A stuffed rabbit plush, nearly identical to the one you won—or rather, that Zayne won for you—all those years ago.

You hold it out to him now, smug. “Something’s changed, huh?” you say, wiggling your eyebrows as you press the plush into his hands.

Zayne exhales slowly, giving you the flattest look imaginable as he accepts the rabbit. “Barely.”

But he keeps holding it anyway.

You grin.

Unfortunately, your miracle does not extend to the other games.

What starts with quiet confidence slowly devolves into a comedy of errors. You try the coin toss—your coin bounces off the rim and somehow ricochets out of the booth entirely. At the shooting gallery, at least you manage a win—because really, if you couldn’t, you might as well retire your guns on the spot. The rubber duck scoop? A complete disaster. You don’t even manage to snag one. The wire scoop breaks in half, leaving you standing there with a soggy paper handle and a wounded sense of pride.

Zayne, naturally, is irritatingly good at everything. You try not to watch as he knocks down every target at the dart booth with surgical precision, winning another small prize with such casual effort that the attendant doesn’t even bother to act surprised. He doesn’t gloat, doesn’t say a word—but you can feel the quiet amusement rolling off him.

By the time you’ve lost your third round at darts, you throw your hands up with a dramatic groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I think my luck ran away.”

Zayne, who now has the rabbit plush tucked securely under one arm and a small bag of festival snacks in the other, glances at your last pathetic dart still stuck in the outermost edge of the board. “It seems that way.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Watching you fail?” His tone is dry as bone. “Not particularly.”

“Liar.”

Zayne doesn’t bother to deny it. He just raises a brow and looks away, as if your misfortune is beneath his notice—though the faint pull of his lips betrays him.

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Sweets are your final stop before the night begins to wind down—your enthusiasm still bright, even if your aim didn’t survive the evening.

You make a beeline for the dessert stalls, immediately drawn to a delicate-looking pastry. The first bite is heavenly—rich, buttery, and soft—but halfway through, the richness starts to weigh heavy on your tongue.

You wrinkle your nose and wordlessly pass it to Zayne.

He accepts it without question, taking a bite like it’s routine.

Then comes a glossy red candy apple. You bite into it and immediately regret it. Too sticky. Too sweet. You stare at the half-bitten thing with betrayal in your eyes.

Zayne, ever wordless, takes it too.

Next is a sweet dumpling—soft, chewy, coated in syrup. It’s delicious, really, but two bites in, you're already shaking your head, lips puckered from the sugar.

Zayne sighs faintly, but pops the rest of it into his mouth anyway.

You watch him with growing amusement as he finishes everything you abandon, not once batting an eye. His movements are so precise, so efficient, it almost feels rehearsed—like he’s been assigned to finish your leftovers with military precision.

“You know,” you remark, licking sugar from your thumb, “people would think I was feeding you on purpose.”

Zayne exhales, reaching for a napkin to wipe his fingers. “I told you to stop getting things you wouldn’t finish.”

“I thought I’d finish them!” you say, indignant. “Besides, you’d just buy them anyway, so really, this is a win-win.”

Zayne gives you a look. Not annoyed—more like resigned. The kind of look that says, This is exactly who you’ve always been.

You grin and reach out, fingers catching the edge of his sleeve. “Thanks for saving me from my bad choices.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, small grin on his face. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression unreadable under the soft festival glow. But the lights catch in his eyes, pale gold and endless, and you feel something in your chest settle.

Then, without warning, he exhales and says, “Come on.”

You blink. “Hm?”

Zayne nods toward the edge of the street, where the lanterns start to thin out and the crowds grow quieter. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

Your curiosity stirs, but you don’t push. He’s already walking, the rabbit plush tucked neatly under his arm, his free hand brushing lightly against yours in a near invitation.

You smile to yourself and follow.

He leads you past the crowds, beyond the music, the booths, the hum of voices. The air cools slightly as the noise fades behind you, the lanterns becoming sparser, their glow soft and golden on the path ahead. Leaves rustle faintly in the trees above, and every now and then a firework crackles in the distance, a soft pop that lingers in the air like a memory.

Eventually, you come to a small clearing—a quiet, open space where the world seems to slow down. Just enough light filters in to catch the shimmer of something ahead.

A stall. Unassuming. Familiar.

Your eyes widen slightly. Festival sparklers.

The kind that lit up your childhood fingers, that fizzed and glowed like they were alive, tiny explosions of joy in your palms.

You glance at Zayne, brows raised. “Really committing to the nostalgia thing, huh?”

He says nothing. Just steps forward, pulls out a few coins, and exchanges them for a pack. You watch as he carefully separates two, his fingers steady and deliberate, then turns back to you.

“Here,” he says, offering you one.

You take it, your smile tugging higher. “So, what’s the plan? Slow burn romance or straight to the grand gesture?”

Zayne lights his first, the golden spark catching instantly, crackling to life in the dim. The shimmer reflects in his eyes, glowing soft against the sharp lines of his face.

“I thought you don’t like slow burn,” he says.

You huff a laugh, lighting yours next. The tip flares up, buzzing warmly in your hand. “I don’t. Unless it’s you.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The world narrows to the space between you, the quiet flicker of the sparklers in your hands. Light dances across Zayne’s face, softening the usual cool precision of his expression. He looks younger—not in age, but in the way memory softens the sharp lines of time.

You stand close, the kind of silence between you that says everything.

And for a few precious seconds, the past and present overlap—and everything is warm.

Then, his free hand—cool, steady—wraps gently around yours.

You blink, the touch soft but unmissable. It lingers, not seeking attention, not demanding anything. Just… there. Like it belongs.

You glance up at him. “Oh?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. Not right away. His grip isn’t tight. Just deliberate. Grounding.

There’s a pause—quiet enough for the sparkler’s soft crackle to fill the air. Its fading fizz mirrors your breath: slow, caught, waiting.

Then, finally—

“You were right,” he murmurs. His voice is low, caught somewhere between the sparks and shadow.

Your brows furrow. “About what?”

His thumb drags lightly across the side of your hand. Not absentminded—no, it’s too careful for that. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your skin.

“Something’s changed,” he says.

The words are simple. But the way he says them—with that quiet finality of someone who’s circled the answer too many times before finally landing on it—makes something warm stir in your chest.

Your sparkler fizzles down to a glowing nub, the light shrinking until it fades completely. Zayne’s does the same a breath later, leaving the air faintly smoky, the world a little dimmer.

But he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he turns toward you fully, expression soft in the gentle glimmer of distant fireworks. The light touches his face in waves—shadows slipping across the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheek, the delicate strain around his eyes.

“Things change,” he says. “We’ve changed. But what I feel for you?” He lifts your joined hands slightly. “It hasn’t faded.”

His voice dips lower. “It’s only grown.”

You almost laugh—almost. The kind of sound that would deflect, tease, ease the weight of what he’s saying. But when you look at him, you can’t. Because his eyes… they’re steady. Open. And it hits you that he’s not just saying this.

He’s letting you see it.

You try to speak, but nothing makes it past the knot in your throat. Zayne’s thumb brushes along the back of your hand with a gentleness that shouldn’t make your eyes sting—but it does.

“I used to think,” he says, slower now, “that the only way to keep you safe was to stay away.”

The words settle over you like a shadow.

You know exactly what day he’s thinking about. You feel the shape of it, even now. The hurt. The distance. The way he looked at you like he was made of glass, terrified you’d shatter if he touched you again.

He doesn’t look away. “That day… when I hurt you. I wanted to be better. Stronger. I thought if I trained hard enough, I could control it—my power, myself—and make sure it never happened again.”

His voice falters, just slightly, but he catches it.

“I was wrong.”

You blink, startled.

“I didn’t need to control my power. I needed to understand what anchored it.” His gaze sharpens a fraction. “What anchored me.”

He steps in—just enough to erase the last bit of space between you.

“It was always you.”

Something catches in your chest. Not pain. Not exactly. Just something raw—something that feels like healing and ache, tangled together.

Zayne lifts your hand to his chest, holding it there gently—over the soft beat of his heart. It’s steady beneath your palm, unhurried.

“This,” he murmurs, “has always been yours.”

Your breath stutters. You barely realize you’ve leaned into him slightly, until the warmth of his body eases the tremble in your fingers.

His eyes lower, like he’s searching for something inward. When they lift again, you see it—that quiet glint of resolve shining through.

“You always said I’d figure it out,” he says. His mouth tips into the smallest of smiles—faint, sure.

“And you meant it. Even when I didn’t believe in myself, you still did.”

He shifts—barely a movement—but then you feel it. The way his grip changes. The slight bend of his arm.

And then, before you can register the motion, he’s on one knee.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t make a show of it. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t speak yet.

He just reaches inside his coat, pulling out a small box—dark, simple, worn at the corners. Like it’s been carried with care for a long time.

Your pulse stutters as he opens it.

The ring shine under the scattered light—solitaire-cut, clear as morning frost. The band curls like leaves in winter, intricate without being loud. Elegant. Intentional.

But you barely see it.

Because his eyes are still on you.

“You’re here,” Zayne says quietly, “and I’m here too.”

A pause. The kind that feels full.

“And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The words are calm. No fanfare. No trembling.

But your entire body trembles anyway.

You stare. Not because you don’t know what to say—but because your heart is too loud, too full, too fast.

Zayne watches you carefully. As always. As if he’s still giving you a way out.

"You always have something to say," he murmurs. "But right now, you’re just staring."

A breath leaves you in a shaky, ungraceful rush.

You grip his hand tighter, as if anchoring yourself. Your other hand flies up to cover your mouth, as if that’ll stop the way your chest is shaking.

He waits.

You swallow hard. Try again.

“I—”

Your voice folds on itself. So you nod. Fast. Almost desperate.

Zayne’s mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile. But something close.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

A noise slips out of you. Awkward. Choked. Half-sob, half-laugh.

Then finally, breathlessly—“Yes.”

Zayne rises, slow and deliberate. He takes your hand again, sliding the ring onto your finger with gentle precision. It’s cool against your skin. It fits like it was always meant to be there.

As soon as it’s done—

You launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, the force of your embrace rocking him a step back. His arms wind around you without hesitation—one across your back, the other curling under your shoulders.

You press yourself into him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You’re crying,” he says softly.

“You—You made me cry!” You sniff, words muffled against his chest.

A beat. Then, dryly— “You were the one who stayed.”

You laugh, the sound cracking down the middle. “I can’t believe you still remember all of that.”

Zayne holds you tighter. His breath shifts near your temple.

“I never forgot.”

And behind you, a firework blooms across the sky—brief, bright, beautiful. Like the past and the future, lighting up all at once.

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

The next evening, you and Zayne are at Rose and Caleb’s place for dinner—one of those rare months when Caleb is actually home. The food’s good, the wine even better, and you? You’ve been casually flaunting your ring every chance you get, wrist angled just so when you reach for your glass, the light catching the gemstone like it’s part of the performance.

Rose catches on first, narrowing her eyes with suspicion as she tracks the movement of your hand. “Alright,” she says, setting down her fork. “Let me see it properly.”

You grin, already extending your hand toward her. She takes it delicately, tilting it under the light with an appraising look before her lips twitch upward.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs. “Congratulations.”

“Congrats,” Caleb adds from across the table, raising his glass toward you both before flashing Zayne a look full of good-natured disbelief. “Didn’t think you had it in you to pull off a grand gesture.”

“Oh, it was perfect,” you say, sitting up straighter, your excitement bubbling over. “Picture this—lanterns, sparklers, a quiet moment away from the festival, and then he—”

Zayne lets out a quiet sigh, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “You weren’t this talkative when it actually happened.”

You turn toward him, scandalized. “Shush.”

Caleb perks up, eyes wide. “Wait—were you quiet? You?”

Rose raises a brow, amused. “No way.”

Zayne remains calm, completely unfazed as he takes another sip. “She just stared at me.”

“I was emotional,” you say, half-defensive, half-laughing.

Caleb’s already shaking his head. “The chatterbox was silent? I can’t believe I missed that.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you’re one to talk. Rose was the one who proposed to you.”

“And?” Caleb shrugs without shame. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” you say, waving your hand airily, “except your eyes were so puffy the next day, you looked like you’d lost a fight.”

“Okay, alright,” Caleb cuts in, pointing his fork at you. “That’s enough out of you.” Then he flicks his hand toward a napkin, sending it flying toward your face—only for Zayne to catch it midair and set it down like nothing happened.

You glare at Caleb. “Using your Evol, bro? Really?” Your own Evol flickers in your hand—useless for offense but itching to respond anyway.

“What you’re above using your Evol now?”

“You know damn well that’s not how my Evol work!” You turn toward Zayne, your hand just land on his shoulder but he already shakes his head, “No.”

So you turn toward your sister and she lift her eyebrows toward you, “Are you suggesting I’d cut my own husband?”

“Your husband just attacked your little sister with a napkin!”

“He try, your fiance stop it.” She say smirking. And Caleb beside her just wiggling his eyebrows.

You groan. “Sis, please control your husband.”

Rose sighs, swirling her wine glass like she’s been through this routine a hundred times. “I’ve been trying for years. Remember?”

Without missing a beat, Caleb throws an arm around her, grinning like the smug menace he is. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“She really doesn’t,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

He fires back without hesitation. “You’re worse than me.”

You scoff and turn toward Zayne. “Hey, at least Zayne can control me perfectly fine.”

Zayne exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying not to smile. “Both of you, stop.”

Rose leans forward, eyes glinting. “Oh no, please, don’t. Go ahead, sis, what else?”

Caleb grins, clearly egging it on. “Yeah, tell us more. This is great.”

Now it’s you against both of them, and Zayne—your supposed partner in all this—is sitting beside you, rubbing his temple like he’s quietly weighing every decision he’s ever made that led him to this exact moment.

Poor man never stood a chance.

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

The garden has gone quiet.

Zayne stands beneath the floral arch, the scent of fresh blooms faint in the crisp November air. The breeze is light but steady, rustling the edges of his tailored deep charcoal suit—cut in clean, deliberate lines that sharpen his frame. The gold cufflinks at his wrists catch the soft afternoon light, and his burgundy tie shifts subtly when he breathes, the color rich and warm against his white shirt.

He’s been calm all morning. Steady. Focused in that familiar, meticulous way—adjusting place cards that don’t need fixing, double-checking timelines, confirming details already confirmed twice over. But now, with the music changing and the quiet settling deep around him, there’s something else unfurling in his chest. A low, quiet pull. Not nerves. Just something undeniable—something that belongs only to this moment.

Beside him, Greyson leans in, voice low and dry. “Still time to fake a medical emergency.”

Zayne doesn’t so much as glance at him. “If you want to explain to her why she got dressed for nothing, be my guest.”

Greyson huffs, a sound that passes for approval, and eases back into place, hands folded neatly in front of him. The silence returns—not heavy, but full. Tense with anticipation, charged with something quiet and electric. Zayne’s gaze remains locked on the end of the aisle.

And then—

The garden doors open.

For a second, there’s nothing but light.

Then comes the soft sweep of ivory—fabric gliding over the stone path, lace tracing down her arms like frost. Gold flickers beneath the layered skirt with every step—subtle, like sunlight breaking through water. The cape veil follows, its floral embroidery catching the breeze in soft, fluttering waves.

She’s radiant—but it isn’t the dress that steals his breath.

It’s her.

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

Your grip tightens on Rose’s arm without even realizing it. Caleb is on your other side, straight-backed and composed, but his eyes flick toward Rose with a whisper of concern when he hears her sniff. She’s already tearing up.

“Oh no,” you murmur.

Rose lets out a watery laugh and immediately passes you the bouquet, fumbling for the tissue Caleb—predictably—produces from his pocket with practiced ease.

“Why is she the one crying?” you ask under your breath, amused but touched.

Caleb pats her back gently. “She’s been trying to marry you off for years.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest is undeniable—thick and glowing and everywhere at once.

Then the music shifts again, and you take a breath.

Everything stills.

One step forward, and the rest of the world falls away.

Zayne stands at the end of the aisle like a fixed point—everything else blurs around him. The burgundy at his collar, the glint of his cufflinks, the way the light brushes the line of his jaw. He looks composed, still, but there’s something in his eyes—some quiet knowing—that tells you this isn’t waiting anymore.

This is it.

Each step draws you closer. The distance between you narrows, and his figure sharpens through the haze. His focus never falters, locked entirely on you. You don’t think he’s blinked since the doors opened.

The soft trail of your cape veil sways behind you, catching the breeze like the petals in the surrounding hedges. Everything feels like it’s moving in rhythm with your steps, with your breath, with the quiet tremble of something too big to hold.

And then you’re there.

Breathless.

Still.

The garden hushes again as Zayne lifts his hand, and you place yours in his. His touch is cool, steadying. His fingers curl around yours with gentle precision. He doesn’t smile, not fully—but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough.

You squeeze back, leaning in the smallest bit. “You didn’t cry,” you whisper.

Zayne mirrors the gesture, his voice soft. “You didn’t either.”

From behind you, Rose lets out another sniffle.

And a second later—far more reluctant—Caleb.

“Still not us,” he mutters, clearing his throat like it might undo the emotion already creeping in.

But none of that matters.

Because all you can do is look at Zayne.

And in this moment, with nothing between you—no nerves, no space—this beginning already feels like everything.

Perfect, simply because it’s him.

He takes your hands, cool and steady in yours, and though his voice is quiet, every word carries.

“I thought I understood what it meant to protect someone…” Zayne’s gaze holds yours, unwavering. “But it wasn’t until you that I realized protection isn’t only shielding. It’s choosing—every day, in every way. It’s staying close, even when nothing makes sense.”

He pauses, not from nerves, but with purpose. A breath drawn like he wants every word to land gently, precisely.

“You’ve always had this way of turning silence into something warm. I never had to say much around you… because you already knew. But today, I want you to hear this.”

His thumbs brush over your knuckles—grounding, intentional.

“You are the one I want to come home to. The one I’ll reach for—through chaos, through quiet, through everything. And I promise… even when I don’t say it out loud, I will love you in all the ways I know how.”

Another small breath, and then, with the faintest tilt of his head—

“And I can’t wait to spend every special and ordinary day with you.”

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

Your hands tighten around his, knuckles blanching just a little, and it takes a heartbeat before you can speak past the swell in your chest.

“I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be someone who gets this kind of love,” you begin softly, voice a touch unsteady. “But somehow, it found me. You found me.”

You glance up at him, warmth welling behind your ribs.

“And it didn’t feel like lightning or a fairytale. It felt… steady. Like I was already home.”

Zayne’s expression doesn’t shift much—but you feel the way his grip answers yours. Present. Solid. Yours.

“You’re the calm in my chaos. The one who never asks me to change, but still makes me want to be better. And every time I look at you, I still can't believe I get to be the one beside you.”

You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“I promise to keep choosing you—even when I’m tired, even when I’m being impossible. I promise to fight with you, not against you. To grow with you. To be the hand you can always reach for.”

You squeeze his fingers, just enough for him to feel it.

“And I promise not to tamper with the things you’ve so carefully set up… too often.”

A few soft chuckles rise from the guests, but your focus stays on him.

“Thank you for being my safe place,” you finish, voice lower now, threaded with emotion. “I can’t wait to keep walking through life with you—one step at a time.”

The moment your last words settle in the air, something unspoken draws you forward. Zayne leans in without a word, the breath between you shortening—lips just shy of meeting—

A pointed cough slices through the tension.

Both of you still.

The officiant lifts an eyebrow with polite amusement. “We’ll get to that soon enough.”

A wave of laughter ripples through the crowd, warm and affectionate. Zayne doesn’t smile, but you feel his soft exhale, the subtle shift in his shoulders. His fingers slide along yours as he straightens, the warmth of his touch lingering.

“The rings, please.”

Rose and Caleb step forward—your sister blotting at her eyes again as she carefully hands you Zayne’s ring. Caleb offers yours with a flourish so dramatic it earns a few quiet laughs, including a soft snort from Rose.

The bands are simple, elegant—etched with a fine snowflake design at the center. It had felt a little cliché at the time, but both of you had known instantly: they were right. A small gemstone catches the light in yours, subtle but luminous—just like the moment itself.

Zayne goes first. His hands are steady, deliberate as he slides the ring onto your finger. There’s no hesitation. Just quiet, practiced certainty—the same certainty he’s always had with you.

When it’s your turn, your fingers tremble slightly. You brush against his as you guide the band onto his hand, and he flexes just a little under your touch—grounding himself in you with that one, silent motion.

And then—

“You may now kiss.”

You don’t wait. Your hands find his face, thumbs along his jaw, and you pull him in without care for grace or timing. It’s messy and impulsive and yours. The cheers start early, but they fade behind the thrum in your chest.

Zayne exhales into the kiss, hands finding your waist as he draws you close. The rush softens almost immediately, settling into something deeper. Something still.

He kisses you like a vow. A quiet promise that doesn’t need to be spoken.

Applause rings around you, scattered and joyful, but neither of you move—not yet. Not until it settles. Not until the shape of this moment becomes something you’ll carry.

And when you finally ease back, just enough to breathe, to see him clearly—Zayne is exactly where he’s always been.

Right here. With you.

Your heart is pounding, breath catching, but everything in you feels settled. Whole.

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

The applause fades into the soft buzz of celebration as the evening air cools around you. Lights twinkle through the trees, casting golden reflections over the hushed garden—but you barely register them. Your fingers are still laced with Zayne’s as someone gently nudges you both toward the center.

You don’t need prompting. You’d go anywhere with him.

The music begins—soft, unobtrusive, just the right amount of warmth in its rhythm. There’s no fanfare, no dramatic cue. Just a simple melody and the feel of his palm finding the small of your back.

You settle against him easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like your body was made to remember him.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel everything in the way his thumb brushes your side, in the slow, deep exhale when your forehead finds his shoulder. You sway together, barely moving, like the whole world has narrowed to this single point of contact.

At one point, he murmurs your name—just your name—and when you tilt your head to look up at him, there’s a softness in his eyes that tugs something deep in your chest.

You don’t try to fill the moment—you don’t need to. His gaze, the hush between you, the unspoken laughter when you almost step on his foot… it all becomes the rhythm you move to.

His hand lifts, trailing along your arm like he’s memorizing you all over again, and when your eyes meet again, it’s with a kind of quiet disbelief.

This is real. This is you. This is him. This is home.

And as the music carries on, slow and weightless, you think—If every version of forever begins like this… I’ll say yes every time.

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

Glasses clink gently as the music fades, guests returning to their seats still smiling from your first dance. Caleb rises with a flourish—predictably dramatic in his tailored burgundy suit, perfectly matching Rose’s dress—tapping a spoon against his glass until the room quiets.

“Well,” he starts, letting the silence linger just long enough to build anticipation, “I was told to keep this short. Which, as most of you know, is the cruelest request you can make of me. But as the best man and the best bro, I'll oblige.”

Laughter ripples through the tables. He flashes a grin at Zayne.

“I’ve known this woman—” he gestures to you, “—since we were kids sneaking cookies and stealing blankets in the middle of the night. And if I’m being honest, I never thought anyone would be able to keep up with her. I mean, she’s stubborn, chaotic, far too smart for her own good... and way too good at convincing people to go along with her.”

He raises his glass toward Zayne now, tone softening.

“But then this guy showed up. Quiet. Polite. Cold, even. At first, we thought she might break him. Or that he’d vanish like a ghost in a week.”

Another laugh, even from Zayne.

“But somehow, instead of disappearing... he stayed. And then, somehow, he matched her. Not by being louder, but by listening, being there. Not by chasing her chaos, but by letting her be exactly who she is. And in return, she does something I’ve never seen her do for anyone else—she softens.”

He pauses. “You ground each other. And that’s something rare. So from someone who’s been there since before the first chapter—congrats on finding your favorite person.”

He raises his glass higher.

“To love that balances. To a partnership that endures. To Zayne and our one and only hellraiser.”

The room erupts in cheers and clinks. Caleb sits back down with a satisfied smirk, already reaching for Rose’s hand.

Rose stands beside Caleb now, her champagne flute half-filled and catching the light. Her expression is softer than usual—less teasing, more thoughtful. She glances toward you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken, something only the two of you would understand. A quiet breath leaves her lips before she lifts the mic.

“There was a time I thought my sister and I would always be alone.”

The opening makes a few people shift in their seats, but you don’t flinch. Neither does Caleb. Because you know she doesn’t mean it dramatically—just honestly.

Rose smiles faintly. “Not in the sad, tragic way. Just… us, in our own little world. It always felt like we had to carry everything on our own. Even when we were surrounded by people, we only really leaned on each other. We didn’t trust easy. Not because we didn’t want to—just because… we couldn’t.”

She pauses. You feel the weight in her words, like the space between them is made of things left unsaid. But her gaze doesn’t waver.

“And then we met people who broke through all that. Caleb, who somehow managed to be both loud and safe at the same time.” That earns a small laugh from the room—and a grin from Caleb that she pointedly ignores.

“And Grandma Josephine… who gave us a home. Even when she didn’t have to. Even when she had every reason to turn away. She didn’t.”

Your voice wavers, just slightly, but you don’t look away.

Instead, your gaze lifts toward the sky—soft and pale above the garden, the clouds stretched thin like brushstrokes. The kind of sky she would’ve called “good for drying laundry” with a smirk and a sip of tea.

There’s no dramatic pause, no gust of wind or shining beam of sunlight. Just a quiet weight in your chest. Just the ache of missing her—and the peace of knowing she would’ve been here if she could.

You glance down again, catching sight of Zayne’s parents in the front row. His mother’s eyes are glossy, her fingers folded tight in her lap. His father clears his throat quietly, looking straight ahead with a softened expression.

They don’t need to say anything. You can feel it—their grief folded in with yours. The kind of silent understanding that only comes from having loved the same person deeply.

“And then there’s Zayne,” Rose continues, her voice gentling even more. “The quiet boy who lived next door. Who we used to see reading on the porch and thought, ‘he’s either going to save lives or accidentally end up in a sci-fi novel.’”

Laughter ripples again, light and fond.

She looks at him now. “You were always a little strange, in the best way. But you never looked at my sister like she was too much. Not even once. You never needed her to shrink herself to be loved.”

You blink. The sting behind your eyes catches you off guard.

“She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know that the way you look at her makes her feel safe. Like it’s okay to exist fully. Loudly. Softly. However she is.”

Rose’s gaze returns to you now, warmer than before, quieter. “You found someone who sees you—not just for who you are, but for who you’ve fought to become. And I couldn’t be prouder.”

She raises her glass, her voice low but steady.

“To the girl who held my hand through the darkest nights—and to the man who never lets her forget she’s more than what the past tried to make her.”

A pause, just long enough for your throat to tighten.

“May your future be even softer than your beginning.”

You barely manage to lift your glass in time, the world already blurred at the edges with warmth and tears. The applause comes a second later, muffled under the beating of your heart.

Rose doesn’t look at you again right away. But as she sets the mic down, her fingers brush yours in passing—just once. Just enough.

And that’s all you need.

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

Zayne’s mother rises slowly, hands folded neatly in front of her. She doesn’t draw attention with her voice—it’s soft, almost soothing—but somehow the entire room goes quiet for her.

“I wasn’t planning on speaking tonight,” she begins gently, “but watching you both today… it’s hard not to say something.”

You smile, already misty-eyed. She’s not flashy like Caleb, or teasing like Rose. Her tone is simple, sincere—like a memory whispered between friends.

“I used to see you all together,” she continues, eyes flicking briefly to where Rose sits, and then to you. “Back when the world felt just a little too big for all of you. You’d show up at our door, sometimes muddy, sometimes loud, sometimes… carrying Josephine’s latest project in a jar.”

A quiet laugh bubbles around the room. You flutter your lashes, trying to blink it away, heart catching.

“And every time,” she says, her smile fond, “Jo would insist that Zayne come with you. Even if he was already reading. Even if he said no. She’d just wave him off and tell him, ‘You’ll thank me later.’”

She pauses, looking over at her son. Zayne’s expression is unreadable to most, but you see it—the tiny shift in his eyes. He’s listening.

“She always said you brought warmth into the house,” she says to you now, voice softening. “And I see it still. You steady him. And he steadies you.”

You exhale through a trembling breath, trying to keep your expression together.

She leans in slightly, tone almost conspiratorial. “I’ll tell you something else, just between us.” A few soft chuckles. “There are moments when you move your hands while you talk… or when you tilt your head like you’re about to say something clever… and I swear, for a second, it’s like seeing Josephine again.”

That’s it. Your eyes blur. You blink hard, but she gives you a kind smile as if to say it’s okay.

“She would’ve been proud of both of you,” she finishes simply. “Of what you’ve built together. Of the way you love.”

Then she quietly raises her glass. “To love that keeps growing. And to Jo—for introducing them properly, even if she pretended it was just another afternoon.”

Everyone echoes her toast, gentle and warm.

You lift your glass, hands trembling just enough to feel it.

You don’t even try to blink the tears away now.

As the clinking of glasses settles and Zayne’s mother takes her seat again, your fingers slip beneath your eye, swiping quickly—just a beat too fast to catch the tears before they smear your makeup. But Zayne beats you to it, reaching over with the edge of a neatly folded napkin, ever precise, ever composed. He dabs the corner of your eye with a gentleness that makes it worse somehow.

You lean closer, pretending you’re adjusting your hair just to whisper under your breath, “This was supposed to be roast central. Where’s the part where Caleb tells everyone about you falling off the slide because you tried to read while climbing it?”

Zayne murmurs back, quiet and dry, “I believe he’s saving that for the afterparty. When more alcohol is involved.”

You sniff, still blinking, and give him a mock glare. “They’re all supposed to be embarrassing us, not making me cry in public. This was not the emotional breakdown portion of the evening.”

“You’re doing well,” he says simply, brushing a final tear from your cheek with his thumb, like it’s nothing. “Dramatic. But well.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his knee with yours under the table. “I hate them a little bit. All this sentimentality. They’ll never let me live it down.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just glances sideways at you, then leans in so only you can hear him.

“She was right, you know,” he says, so quietly it settles into your chest like a secret. “You do bring warmth.”

And just like that, you're almost crying again.

“Stop that,” you whisper fiercely, blinking fast. “We’re past the vows. This is supposed to be safe territory.”

Zayne leans in, quietly amused as he dabs beneath your eye with his thumb.

“You cried through all of Rose and Caleb’s wedding,” he murmurs. “And you thought ours would be safer?”

You sniff. “Then you should’ve warned me, you menace.”

Your swat doesn’t even land—Zayne catches your hand mid-swing and kisses your knuckles like a peace offering, and doesn’t even try to look sorry.

The next toast begins—but for a brief moment, it’s just the two of you in your own little corner of the world, warm and brimming.

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

You’re both standing in front of the cake, cameras pointed, guests gathered. The knife rests in Zayne’s hand like it’s a surgical instrument, his posture too perfect for something that’s supposed to be messy fun.

He glances at you. “We’re doing this properly, yes?”

You raise a brow, already reaching for a second fork like a weapon. “Define properly.”

Zayne’s hand hovers over the cake, hesitating like it’s a rare specimen under dissection. You? You stab right in, unbothered, scooping up a generous chunk with your fork before he’s even made the first cut.

A murmur of laughter ripples through the crowd.

Zayne sighs softly, adjusting his grip on the knife like he’s resigning himself to the inevitable. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You married this,” you shoot back, grinning like the chaos had always been part of the plan.

Then comes the feeding part.

You offer him a bite with a suspicious glint in your eyes.

He narrows his. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you say innocently. “Feed you? Celebrate our eternal union with frosting and devotion?”

He leans in, reluctantly opening his mouth—and of course, you smudge a bit of frosting on his nose right after.

Zayne closes his eyes, slow and resigned, and you hear Caleb holler from the crowd, “She’s already winning the marriage.”

Zayne wipes his nose with one hand, deadpan as ever. “This is why I had napkins prepared in my pocket.”

You cackle, and he just raises the fork and gently, perfectly, feeds you a clean bite of cake like he hasn’t been publicly humiliated.

You chew. “That’s not how you win.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says smoothly. “I just wanted cake,” he says, as if that should’ve protected him from frosting warfare.

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The chairs are pulled to the center of the floor for the shoe game. You and Zayne sit back-to-back, each holding one of your own shoes and one of his. Caleb stands nearby as the self-appointed game host, grinning like he’s waited his whole life for this moment.

“Alright, first question,” Caleb announces. “Who said ‘I love you’ first?”

Without hesitation, you both raise your shoes.

Laughter erupts, and Zayne says behind you, calmly, “It was a statistically safe environment to do so.”

“What does that even mean?!” Rose laughs from the front row, hands clamped over her mouth.

You’re already calling over your shoulder, “You ambushed me the next day in a lab and said it back like it was a diagnosis!”

“And you still cried,” Zayne replies simply. You don’t even need to see him to catch the teasing in his tone.

Next question.

“Who’s the better cook?”

You raise his shoe. Zayne raises yours.

You twist around sharply. “What? No. You’ve literally saved us from food poisoning.”

Zayne tilts his head. “Your baking is better.”

You blink. “I’m pretty sure that’s just your 'unhealthy obsession with sweet' talking.”

“You share some with others as well.”

You groan. “Barely. You eat all of them before they even leave the kitchen. So it’s not really a balanced review.”

A few more questions fly by—

Who’s more stubborn? (You both point at yourself.)

Who spends more time getting ready? (Zayne raises your shoe instantly—no hesitation, even though you don’t actually take that long.)

Who’s more likely to survive a zombie apocalypse? (Zayne raises his shoe. You raise his too, with a dramatic shrug.)

Then come the mock interviews. Caleb’s now holding a mic like a late-night host.

“Okay, now for the hard-hitting journalism. Tell me—what was your first impression of your spouse?”

Zayne answers without pause. “Disruptive.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Excuse you!”

“I saw her jumping through our fences.”

Caleb nods solemnly. “Ah I remember that.”

You fold your arms. “And my first impression of Zayne? Distant. Terrifying. Pretty.”

“Pretty?” Tara echoes from her seat, already giggling.

Zayne turns to you, calm as ever. “You said that out loud.”

You smirk. “I was honest from the start.”

Caleb paces toward the long table of guests, still holding the mic. “Alright, round two! Audience edition. Everyone, reach under your chairs.”

There’s a rustle of fabric and surprised laughter as people discover little red and green cards tucked underneath—red for you, green for Zayne.

“Here’s how it works,” Caleb explains. “We’re gonna throw out a scenario. You hold up the card of who you think is most likely to do it. Let’s see if you all really know this couple.”

First question. “Who’s more likely to sweet-talk their way out of a parking ticket?”

The sea of cards rises—mostly red.

Zayne raises your red card too.

You raise both.

A wave of amusement rolls through the crowd.

“Predictable bias,” Zayne says lightly. “How is this even a question?”

You nudge him. “It’s not my fault I’m adorable.”

Next question. “Who’s more likely to accidentally start a fight in a group chat?”

Cards go up—this time, an even split.

Zayne raises your card.

You look around at the divided room and sigh dramatically. “I said the outfit looked like a curtain. I didn’t tag her. That was an accident!”

Tara shouts from across the room, “You sent it to the wrong chat!”

“Which is not illegal,” you defend.

“It should be,” Lara mutters, shaking her head beside Tara.

Next one. “Who’s more likely to survive in the wild?”

Every card turns green. Every. Single. One.

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Wow. No faith in the bride?”

You glance at Zayne. “To be fair, I did scream the last time we saw a raccoon.”

Zayne nods solemnly. “She dropped her sandwich.”

“And ran,” Caleb adds, snorting.

“And I stand by that choice! Did you see the claws? Far away I’m good. Up close with no gun? NOPE.”

More questions follow, getting sillier as the night goes on—

“Who would adopt ten cats if left unsupervised?” (You.)

“Who keeps weird snacks in their coat?” (Zayne. You can always find different sweets in his pockets.)

“Who pretends not to know how to do laundry to get out of it?” (Zayne raises your card. You throw a napkin at him.)

“Who’s more likely to completely forget where they parked?”

You raise your red card confidently.

Zayne raises both.

A murmur of agreement ripples through the guests.

Caleb gestures toward him. “Man speaks the truth.”

You scoff. “Okay, first of all, I found the car last time.”

Zayne hums. “After circling the block three times.”

“I was scanning.”

“You were praying.”

Laughter fills the air, and the game continues until it finally winds down with one last question:

“Who’s more likely to be the last one to say ‘I love you’ before falling asleep?”

There’s a pause. Then, as if rehearsed, you both raise each other’s color—Zayne holds up red, and you hold up green.

You glance at him, a slow smile forming. “Huh.”

His thumb taps the edge of the card, unreadable for a beat before he says, “I suppose we’re both persistent.”

Your heart stumbles.

Caleb claps his hands together, breaking the moment. “And there you have it, folks! Stubborn, competitive, and disgustingly in love. A perfect match.”

The crowd laughs and cheers, and you shake your head, setting your cards down before reaching for Zayne’s hand beside the table, giving it a squeeze. His fingers curl around yours, cool yet you feel warm and steady.

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The music has softened, the bass no longer pounding but humming low beneath a lazy melody. Most of the guests have drifted off—some hugging you tight before they go, others sneaking out with quiet waves, their arms full of party favors and shoes dangling from their hands. The firepit flickers low in the corner of the garden, surrounded by the last few stragglers nursing drinks and finishing their cake.

Rose is on her third round of teary goodbyes, half drunk herself, sniffling into Lara’s shoulder as Caleb dramatically fans her with a napkin and Tara is shaking her head. Greyson’s somehow managed to corner yet another guest into a conversation about interstellar gut flora, and your in law is still dancing together like they doesn’t realize the reception ended thirty minutes ago. Which is very cute.

But you barely notice any of it.

Because Zayne’s hand is in yours. And he hasn’t let go since the dance.

Your heels are long gone, your dress a little wrinkled from hugs and spinning and sneaking bites of cake behind each other’s backs. The veil’s tucked into your arm now, the pins long abandoned somewhere on the sweetheart table. You don’t even remember when the string lights above started glowing softer—but they do, casting a gold haze over Zayne’s face as he watches you.

You lean into him with a quiet sigh, forehead brushing his collarbone. “Do we need to make a last lap before they drag us back in for another round of games?”

Zayne shakes his head lightly, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. “They’ve been sufficiently entertained.”

“Mhm,” you murmur. “We should slip away before Rose decides she wants a speech remix.”

“She’s already cried through two. I don’t think she’s legally allowed to make more at this point.”

You huff a laugh, tilting your head back just enough to catch his gaze. “Did we actually pull it off?”

His thumb brushes gently over your cheekbone, still a little damp from earlier tears. “You tell me.”

A soft laugh escapes you, and you nod. “Yeah. We did.”

He kisses your temple, slow and quiet, then threads his fingers between yours again. “Our bags are already packed.”

“Mhm. I made sure of it,” you say, already imagining the escape—bare feet on cool tile, collapsing into soft sheets, the realness of being married sinking in somewhere between jet lag and messy kisses. “We should go before someone notices we haven’t been kidnapped for another round of photos.”

Zayne glances back once, eyes scanning the soft sprawl of people still lingering in the haze of fairy lights. Then he looks down at you, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

“Ready, wife?”

You beam. “Lead the way, husband.”

And with that, fingers laced, shoes forgotten, you slip quietly away—just the two of you under the stars.

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Notes

Hey :D if you read until this then congrats, you just read 10k words in one sitting ahahaha but joke aside, hopefully everyone enjoy this and if you're the one request this, hope it reach your expectation! This is so cute to write aaaaaaaaa The Honeymoon fic is over this way! Part 1 (Smut) and Part 2 (Fluff) And here's the Festival mention for their proposal! on Ao3! and the proposal reference!

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 ✨

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