#spring mc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lyn31 · 1 month ago

Note

These Zayne pregnancy fluffs are making me kick my feet! Since reader has given birth can you do one where reader has postpartum depression, she also feels like she’s not a good wife, starts getting irritated easily, and is struggling with her body/image. Zayne ofc notices is worried and reassures her she’s amazing and that it’s ok to feel these emotions cuz it’s new. He books reader a nice getaway somewhere tropical so she can get a break. Reader ofc cries while on vacation cuz she misses Zayne and the baby. Zayne surprises her the next day by showing up. Reader is shocked that he’s there and worries about where the baby is and everything. Zayne reassures her that she’s in good hands with his parents. She then cries to Zayne about everything she’s feeling then Zayne comforts her and tells her he will get a nanny to help her. Then you know it’s time for them to be romantic and finally have sexy time together you know some smut. Make it soft, sexy, and romantic yk👀. Thank you a lot. Your writings of Zayne is chefs kiss.👌🥹😭✨💗

Now you guys just want to throw me off the cliff! 😭😂 PPD? Come on guys! I'm a weak gal.... Hopefully you won't mind me changing it to baby blues instead 🥹🫶🏻 (Let me know what you think)

Sooooooo, I got carried away again—but then again, I say that more...… So maybe I should stop saying that and just mention it whenever I don’t get carried away 😂

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Lapse

Summary

After weeks of feeling like nothing but a mother, you and Zayne escape to a hot spring retreat, where between stolen moments of indulgence and quiet tenderness, you rediscover each other—not just as parents, but as lovers, as partners, as you.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: as requested this has smut at the end, semi-outdoor, handjob, fingering, thighjob, nipple play. Still as always a lot of build up, banter, dramatic, cute, sweet, and this time baby blues.

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After giving birth to Serena, you stay in the hospital for a full week at Zayne’s insistence. He never pushes, never demands—just gently reminds you that a few extra days of caution are worth it, that having professionals nearby is a safety net, not a setback. And with how utterly drained you feel, you don’t argue.

In the hospital, things feel manageable. Nurses slip in and out, their voices low, their movements practiced. Machines murmur softly in the background, steady and predictable. When Serena stirs, there’s always someone ready with gentle reassurance.

And Zayne—he’s always there. He watches over you both, making sure you sleep, taking Serena from your arms when your body feels too heavy to move. When your eyelids droop, he smooths your hair back and murmurs, “Rest. I’ve got her.” And you believe him.

The constant presence of support makes everything feel… safer. Less overwhelming.

And then, you go home.

It should be comforting. Familiar. But instead, it amplifies everything. The creak of the floorboards under your steps. The near-silent rustle of Serena’s onesie as she shifts in your arms. The tiny, uneven hitches in her breath that send a flicker of anxiety through your chest every time they break the stillness.

Serena is a calm baby, for the most part. But in Zayne’s arms, she melts. You brush it off at first—babies fuss. Maybe she just likes his cooler touch. But as the days pass, you start noticing the pattern. The way she squirms a little more in your hold, tiny fists pressing against you as if trying to find something that isn’t there. The soft, unsettled noises that build in her throat—never quite a cry, but close—only to disappear the second Zayne takes her. Other than feeding, she can’t seem to settle in your arms.

At first, you laugh about it, adjusting your grip, shifting positions, trying everything you’ve read about. “Come on, sweetheart. Mommy’s comfy too, I promise.”

Serena makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, her fingers flexing against your shirt before pushing away.

From across the room, Zayne watches, amusement flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly—considering, measuring. The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

Then, in that calm, maddeningly reasonable way of his—

“This isn’t a competition.”

Which, of course, you immediately take as a challenge.

Determined, you throw yourself into research. Late nights scrolling through parenting forums, watching tutorial videos until the soft glow of your phone screen makes your eyes ache. The football hold, the cradle hold, the side-lying position—you cycle through them all, adjusting angles, experimenting with the perfect swaddle, testing out different rocking rhythms. You hum lullabies at varying pitches, trying to find the one that settles her best, feeling half ridiculous and entirely desperate.

It takes days. Days of trial and error, of whispered encouragements, of pushing down the gnawing insecurity that you don’t say out loud.

But then—finally—Serena rests more easily against you. Her tiny fingers curl into your shirt instead of pushing away, her body softening into yours like she’s learning the shape of your arms, like she’s finding comfort there. The first time it happens, you barely breathe, afraid to jinx it. But then she sighs—a soft, contented sound—and nuzzles closer.

Something inside you unclenches. You hadn’t realized how tight your chest had been, how much air you’d been holding, until now. The knot of doubt, of insecurity, doesn’t vanish completely—but for the first time, it loosens just enough to breathe.

You count it as a victory.

But just as relief starts to settle in, something else creeps in alongside it.

The laundry is folded before you’ve even registered it was in the dryer. A meal appears in front of you before hunger fully registers. Zayne makes sure you eat without you having to ask, presses a glass of water into your hand when you’re nursing before you even realize your throat is dry. When Serena fusses in the middle of the night, he’s already up, shushing her gently as he changes her diaper before you’ve even registered the cry.

And you know—you know—he doesn’t mind. He’s not resentful, not keeping score. He does it because he wants to, because that’s just who he is.

But the guilt gnaws at you anyway.

You should be able to handle this. You should be doing more.

Zayne’s parents arrive not long after you settle back home, their presence a mix of warmth and something heavier, something that presses against your chest. They slip into their roles as doting grandparents effortlessly.

His mother beams as she cradles Serena, swaying lightly, murmuring soft praises about how perfect she is. His father, ever relaxed, holds her with practiced ease, his touch confident, natural. Serena nestles against him without hesitation, her tiny body going still as if she belongs there.

It’s comforting. Reassuring, even.

And yet, as you watch them, something cold creeps up your spine. They don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess. There’s no frantic scrolling through parenting forums, no fumbling to find the right hold. Just confidence. Just instinct. And watching them, you feel the hesitation in your own hands more than ever.

Zayne’s family makes it look so easy. Like instinct. Like breathing. Watching them with Serena, seeing how effortlessly she melts into their touch, you can’t help but think, I should be better at this by now.

So, stubbornly, you try.

Zayne already does so much—too much—and the guilt gnaws at you with every task he takes on. You convince yourself that you have to step up, that being a good mother means doing more.

You don’t want to feel useless. And if Zayne won’t complain, then… maybe it’s fine to take on a little more.

So you do.

At first, it’s small things—changing Serena before Zayne can reach for her, rocking her when she fusses, insisting I’ve got it even when exhaustion drags at your limbs. But the more you take on, the more your mind spins. You slip down a rabbit hole of parenting forums and cautionary articles, each new post a fresh coil of anxiety tightening around your ribs.

SIDS prevention. Signs of dehydration. What if she stops breathing in her sleep?

How do you know if your baby is sick? Is she too warm? Too cold?

What if you miss something important?

The words don’t just linger—they burrow in, thorns pressing deeper every time you close your eyes. Just in case. Just to be safe.

At first, it’s a quick glance while she sleeps—watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her tiny chest. Then, once an hour. Then, every half hour. Then, as often as exhaustion lets you blink before forcing your eyes shut.

Zayne catches on quickly. He always does. Sometimes, he just watches from across the room, his brows knitting together—like he’s debating whether to say something. But then he doesn’t. Not yet.

One night, when he stirs awake and finds you standing over Serena’s crib again, he doesn’t speak right away. He just watches as you lean in close, barely breathing, waiting for the tiny lift of her chest to reassure you she’s still here.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he tugs you back toward the bed.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, his hand settling at the small of your back, grounding you. “I check on her too.”

You hesitate, lingering in the space between worry and exhaustion, glancing back over your shoulder. But what if—

His lips press softly against your temple. His voice is steady, certain. “If anything happens, I’ll be right here.”

You want to believe him. You try. But the worry lingers, curling at the edges of your thoughts—quiet, but never gone.

But the exhaustion builds anyway. Your emotions fray at the edges, stretched thinner with each restless night.

The waves come without warning. Some days, you feel fine—almost normal. Other days, the smallest inconvenience tightens your throat, frustration prickling beneath your skin.

A misplaced bottle sends you rifling through the house, only to find it sitting right there on the counter. A forgotten onesie makes your stomach twist with guilt, as if one overlooked piece of fabric means you’re failing already. Serena fusses the second you finally sit down to eat, and you have to swallow against the lump in your throat, biting back an exhausted sob.

But what finally breaks you is the breast milk.

You’re running on too little sleep, too much caffeine, and the kind of raw, frayed nerves that make everything feel ten times heavier than it should. You move to set the freshly pumped bottle down, but your hand fumbles—fingers slipping at the worst possible moment.

The bottle tips.

Time seems to slow as the milk spills across the counter, sinking into the cloth beneath it, wasted.

For a second, you just stare, brain struggling to process the loss. Then your breath shudders—eyes burning, throat tight—and a wail bursts out of you.

Zayne lifts his head instantly, attention snapping to you. Before he can reach for a towel—

“Do you know how hard I worked for that?! It’s liquid gold!” You says more at the indifferent puddle of milk than anything else.

Then—without a word—he grabs a tissue and hands it to you, wrapping an arm around you the next moment. His hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, like you aren’t falling apart over spilled milk.

You sniffle into the tissue, hiccuping as you swipe at your eyes. One isn’t enough—you snatch another, shoulders curling inward as you try to compose yourself.

Zayne doesn’t comment on the mess. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t try to rationalize what would normally be a minor accident. He just stays, cool and quiet reassurance solid at your side.

Later, curled up on the couch with Serena tucked against your chest, you let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. “Hormones are insane.”

Zayne hums, watching you carefully. His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze—but concern lingers beneath it, quiet and steady. “That was quite the reaction.”

You groan, burying your face against Serena’s tiny shoulder. “Don’t remind me.”

His fingers brush lightly against your knee. “I’m not judging. Just… should I be bracing for more tragic losses, or was this a one-time catastrophe?”

You huff, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “No promises.”

The brain fog creeps in just as insidiously as the mood swings. At first, it’s small things—losing track of conversations, forgetting what you were about to say. Then, slowly, it starts happening more often.

You walk into the kitchen with purpose, only to stop in the middle of the room, your mind blank. You scan the counters, the sink, the fridge—none of it jogs your memory. After a solid ten seconds of standing there uselessly, you sigh and close the fridge door, feeling no closer to remembering what you needed.

Then there’s the incident.

You’re searching for your phone—digging through the couch cushions, checking under blankets, patting down your pockets with increasing frustration. Zayne watches for a moment before silently stepping toward the pantry, reaching between a box of cereal and a bag of rice.

He pulls out your phone and holds it up.

You stare.

“…I have no explanation for that.”

Zayne just hands it over, entirely unfazed. “Not the strangest thing I’ve found today.”

And he’s right.

It’s not the first time you’ve lost something lately. Not the first time you’ve walked into a room, only to forget why. But before, when it happened, you used to laugh it off, shake your head, and move on.

Now, you just sigh, rubbing your temples, pressing your lips together like you’re trying not to be frustrated with yourself. Like you don’t have the energy to care.

Because an hour later, you hear him open the fridge, pause, and then call out, “Why is the remote in here?”

You wince, pressing your hands over your face. “I swear I was smart once.”

Zayne doesn’t even hesitate. “You’re still smart. Just selectively.”

You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “That’s a terrible thing to say to your sleep-deprived wife.”

Unbothered, he steps closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then get some sleep.”

You roll your eyes, waving him off. “Maybe later.”

Zayne doesn’t argue. Just watches you for a beat, the corners of his mouth barely curving. That look alone should’ve warned you.

Because later, when you yawn mid-sentence and rub at your eyes, he hums in quiet amusement. “Is ‘later’ now?”

You groan. “Zayne—”

“We're doing this together.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “You don’t have to push yourself like this.”

You let out a short, tired laugh. “Hey, you’re already doing a lot on your own. This is me doing it together with you.”

His brows lift slightly. Then, after a pause—

“Hm.”

You squint at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayne tilts his head, considering. “I just think your definition of ‘together’ is interesting.”

You scowl, shoving lightly at his chest. “Go away.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he tugs you against him, arms settling around your waist, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Not until you sleep.”

Still, little by little, things get better.

Serena has long since grown comfortable in your arms, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her weight familiar and warm against you. But now, there’s a rhythm to it—a pattern that, while not perfect, feels like something close to stability. You and Zayne settle into an unspoken routine, trading off seamlessly, adjusting as needed.

Even if you still wake up at night just to check on her, even with the moments of doubt… things are manageable.

Or at least, they should be.

When Serena naps in Zayne’s arms, you finally have free time—precious moments meant for rest. But instead of sleeping, you do what you always do. You pick up your phone, scroll through another parenting forum, skim another thread on sleep regressions or developmental milestones. Just a quick read, you tell yourself. Just to be safe.

Zayne watches from the doorway, Serena sleeping on his arms, leaning against the frame. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers—not on the phone, but on the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump.

“Reading something important?” he asks, his tone light.

You hum distractedly, scrolling past yet another forum thread. “Just… checking a few things.”

He doesn’t respond, just studies you for a beat longer before quietly turning away.

Then, without thinking, you swipe onto your gallery. For the first time since Serena was born, you pause.

A picture stares back at you—one taken months ago, just before you found out you were pregnant. You, standing beside Tara after a Hunter Association meeting, mid-laugh over something you can’t even remember. You look… at ease. Energized. Hair done, makeup fresh, wearing something that wasn’t just the easiest thing to throw on.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

You don’t know why it unsettles you. Maybe because you can’t remember the last time you took a photo that wasn’t just of Serena. Or maybe because, looking at this, you realize you haven’t felt like that person in a long time.

It’s just hormones, you tell yourself. Just exhaustion. That’s all. But even as you move on with your day, the thought lingers, slipping into the spaces between feedings, diaper changes, and lullabies.

At some point, without even noticing, you stop feeling like you.

The realization creeps in slowly, easy to ignore at first. There’s no time to dwell on it—not when Serena needs you, not when Zayne already does so much. So you push past it, convincing yourself it’s just part of new motherhood. It’ll pass.

But Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything when you stop glancing at mirrors, when you change out of spit-up-stained clothes only when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t call attention to the way your laughter fades, your responses growing softer, more absent. But he sees it.

And then, one evening, he finds you on the couch, Serena asleep against your chest, your phone resting loosely in your hand. You aren’t scrolling, aren’t reading—just staring at the screen, lost in thought.

At first, he doesn’t think much of it. But as he moves closer, he catches a glimpse of what’s on display—an old photo.

You, smiling. Vibrant. There’s a spark in your eyes that feels almost foreign now.

You don’t notice him right away, too caught in whatever thoughts have pulled you under. But when he sinks onto the couch beside you, you blink, like surfacing from deep water. The moment your gaze flickers to him, you lock the phone and set it aside, as if it’s something you shouldn’t have been looking at in the first place.

Zayne doesn’t miss that.

His eyes stay on you, quiet and searching. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head, too quickly. “Nothing. Just… being dramatic.”

It’s meant to be dismissive, light, but the words don’t land right. You hear it, too—the thinness of your own voice, the way your smile barely holds. And Zayne… he feels it.

He’s seen you exhausted before. Overwhelmed. Even near tears. But this is different. This is you looking at a photo of yourself like it’s something distant, something you don’t quite recognize anymore.

And then—

He reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything, just holds on, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

And that’s the moment he decides—he’s not letting this continue.

The next morning, you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from another restless night. Your body feels sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, but the scent of tea and something warm pulls you forward.

Zayne is already there, standing by the counter, a cup in one hand and a neatly folded paper in the other. He looks up as you approach, his gaze steady—too steady.

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”

Instead of answering, he holds the paper out to you.

You blink at it, rubbing at your eyes before taking it. Your sleep-deprived brain lags behind as you unfold the page, scanning the crisp, neatly printed words.

An itinerary.

Your brows knit. Hot springs resort. Three days. Full itinerary planned.

Your stomach flips, and you look up sharply. “Wait—why? I don’t need a trip.”

Zayne remains calm as ever. “Last night, you tried to charge your phone in the microwave. You haven’t slept in three days. And you cried over baby socks.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Okay, fair.

His expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “You need a break.”

You shake your head, already bracing for an argument. “But I can’t just leave—”

“It’s three days.” His tone is patient, but firm. “You’re not moving to another country.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the paper. The idea of stepping away, even for a short time, feels… wrong. Like you’re abandoning something important. Like you should be able to handle everything without needing an escape.

Your fingers tighten around the paper. If I say yes… does that mean I couldn’t have handled it on my own? You swallow, pushing the thought down.

But then—gods, you want it. You want even just a moment to breathe, to feel like you again. And Zayne, ever perceptive, notices the war in your expression before you can fully mask it.

Your grip tightens on the paper, hesitation warring with longing. You want to go. You need to go. But still—

“What about you?” you ask quietly, searching his face. “What about Serena?”

His response is immediate, unshaken. "We take turns, don’t we?" His voice is steady, matter-of-fact. Then, softer—"You’re first."

Your breath catches. The way he says it—so certain, so simple—untangles a knot of tension you didn’t even realize was there.

Zayne reaches for your hand, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin. The touch is grounding, his warmth steady against the cool morning air.

“You won’t let yourself rest unless you do,” he murmurs, voice gentle but unwavering, certainty woven through every word.

“And when you’re ready to come back,” he continues, meeting your eyes with quiet assurance, “we’ll be right here.”

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The first day at the resort is almost too easy.

You settle into the hot spring with a slow, contented sigh, muscles finally relaxing in the soothing heat. The quiet is luxurious, the scenery peaceful, and for the first time in weeks, no one needs you. No tiny cries pulling you from sleep, no bottles to sterilize, no laundry to fold. It’s… nice.

No—better than nice.

You thrive. You book a massage, order a ridiculous amount of food, and for a moment, it feels good to just be. Of course, your mind still drifts—more than once, you reach for your phone to check in on Serena and Zayne. But the messages you receive are reassuring. Pictures of Serena napping peacefully, a short video of her staring at a mobile with wide, curious eyes, Zayne’s steady, grounding updates.

Mine♥️: She had a good nap. Drank all her milk.

Mine♥️: No signs of missing you terribly yet.

Mine♥️: I assume this means you’re free to enjoy yourself.

At night, you send him a photo of the steaming water, lanterns casting a soft glow across the surface.

You: You really booked me a private one?

Zayne’s reply is instant.

Mine♥️: Of course.

Mine♥️: Would’ve been better if I were there.

The implication makes warmth curl through you.

You: Oh now you say that?

But then he follows up with a picture of Serena sleeping soundly.

Mine♥️: Focus on yourself. We’re fine.

And you believe him.

Mostly.

By the second day, though, something shifts. It gets harder.

The excitement wears off, and the quiet isn’t as comforting anymore. You still try—exploring the nearby town, lingering in the hot spring longer than necessary—but there’s a persistent ache beneath it all. You miss them. You knew you would, but not like this.

It doesn’t help that Zayne texts you less today. Not not at all, just… less. And you get it. Of course, you do. Handling a newborn alone isn’t easy—especially at barely a month old. But every silent hour stretches, the quiet turning hollow.

That night, as you settle into bed, your phone finally buzzes.

Mine♥️: You should open the door. Just a suggestion.

Your brows furrow. What?

A knock sounds.

Your heart leaps—you’re out of bed before you can think, barely aware of your feet hitting the floor. You pull the door open, and there he is—bags in hand, expression unreadable, but eyes unmistakably warm.

For a moment, you just stare.

Then, all at once, you’re moving—throwing yourself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He barely has time to drop his bags before catching you, hands firm at your waist, breath knocked out in a quiet oof.

“You’re here,” you breathe, half in disbelief. “You’re here.”

Zayne lets out a soft hum, one hand slipping up your back, the other holding you against him. “I’m here.”

Tears prickle at your eyes. You hold on tighter. He smells like home—cool, clean, faintly like the cologne he always wears.

You pull back slightly, hands coming up to cup his face. His skin is a little colder than usual from the night air, his hair slightly tousled—but it’s his eyes that catch you. He looks… tired. Not exhausted, but there’s a faint tension in his shoulders, a quiet strain in his eyes.

You snap into focus. “Wait—what about Serena? Is she okay? Who’s with her?”

Zayne smooths a hand down your back, reassuring. “She’s fine. My parents took over today, and she settled with them easily. So I left.” A pause. “It’s just one night and one day.”

Your heart clenches. He did all of this just to see you.

And then you see it—the quiet exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he doesn’t voice. He needs this too.

Your resolve hardens.

"You need to relax," you say suddenly, reaching for his wrist. Before he can respond, you’re tugging him inside, intent written in every step.

The door clicks shut behind you. Zayne doesn’t resist as you push his coat off his shoulders, and it slips to the floor in a soft heap. His hands come to rest on your waist, cool fingertips pressing through the fabric of your robe, but you don’t give him a chance to take control. Not tonight. You reach for his collar, undoing the buttons of his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, relishing the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his skin.

He watches you, patient but expectant, hazel eyes shadowed in the dim lantern glow. “Taking this seriously, are you?”

Your lips curve, but you don’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, you slide your hands up his chest, pushing the fabric apart before leaning in to press your mouth just above his heart. His exhale is slow, measured, but when you start trailing kisses higher, along the line of his throat, his restraint frays.

Zayne’s grip tightens at your waist before slipping lower. In one smooth motion, he tugs at the tie of your robe, parting it just enough for cool air to tease your skin. His mouth finds yours, capturing you in a slow, lingering kiss as the silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

By the time you guide him toward the terrace, your clothes are forgotten on the floor, the heat simmering under your skin rivaling the steaming water outside.

Steam rises in soft curls around you, the scent of minerals lingering in the air as the warm water laps at your skin. The private hot spring sits nestled within the enclosed terrace of your room—open to the cool night air, but shielded from any prying eyes.

Beyond the wooden fence, the faint rustle of trees and the distant hum of the resort fade into the background, drowned out by the quiet rush of water and the steady rhythm of breathing.

And Zayne.

You press your back against the smooth, heated stone at the edge of the spring, the warmth seeping through your skin as Zayne moves between your legs, his body flush against yours.

His hands, cool as always, glide along your damp skin, a striking contrast to the heat surrounding you. His breath is steady but heavy. His lips graze your collarbone, trailing upward, catching against your jaw. His fingers dig into your thighs.

It’s raw, desperate, the kind of reunion that speaks louder than words. You barely manage a breath before he’s kissing you again, tilting your chin, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to make up for every second you spent apart. His fingers tighten, pulling you closer, and heat spreads through you faster than the water ever could.

But between the sharp need, Zayne hesitates—just enough for his lips to brush against your jaw, his breath warm as he murmurs, “Are you sure?” His voice is low, restrained, even as his hands betray him, pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s only been a month.”

You exhale sharply, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him back to you. “I’m sure,” you whisper, nudging his lips with yours, “but if you stop now, I’ll actually lose my mind.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest, but there’s no amusement when his mouth claims yours again—just raw, unfiltered need.

Zayne’s hand moves—slowly at first, skimming along your waist before pressing against the heated stone behind you. His fingers flex, grounding himself, before he lifts you effortlessly, settling you onto the edge of the spring.

The stone is cool against your bare skin, making you shiver, but the contrast is nothing compared to the heat pooling between your thighs.

He steps between your legs, pulling you forward until your bodies are flush again. The kiss deepens—hotter, more desperate. Your hands clutch at his shoulders before sliding up, fingers threading through damp hair, tugging him closer. He doesn’t resist. If anything, it unravels him further, his body pressing fully against yours, his hands finally roaming where he wants.

His palms cup your breasts, cool against your flushed skin, kneading with firm, deliberate pressure. A gasp catches in your throat as his thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You shift, thighs tightening around his hips, but he doesn’t let up—his touch sharpens, tugging, pressing, teasing, coaxing you to open for him.

Zayne exhales, his breath warm against your skin, before murmuring, “My beautiful wife.” The words are soft, but laced with something deeper, something that makes heat tighten low in your stomach. His lips trail over your jaw, lower to your throat. “You’re breathtaking.”

A shiver runs through you yet again, but it’s not from the cold. Before you can respond, his teeth graze your skin, a teasing bite that makes you gasp before his tongue soothes the mark. He lingers there, his mouth pressing against your shoulder with something like worship, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Your own hands start to move—sliding down his chest, over the firm muscles of his stomach, lower.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, already hard and thick beneath your touch, and Zayne stills.

His breath stutters against your shoulder as you stroke him—slow at first, then firmer—relishing the way he tenses, the quiet groan slipping past his lips. The water slicks every movement as you tease along the sensitive underside before twisting your wrist just the way you know drives him crazy.

Zayne exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. But he doesn’t let you have the upper hand for long.

His mouth finally lowers, capturing your nipple between his lips, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sucking hard enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight through you.

You gasp, back arching, legs tightening around his waist. As his mouth works you, a soft leak of milk escapes, mixing with the heat of his mouth, but Zayne doesn’t hesitate. If anything, the taste seems to drive him further, making him suck harder. After all, you’ve already discussed how your body adjusts to your baby’s needs when you're still pregnant before, and with Serena not needing to feed for at least another two days, Zayne takes full advantage of the rare opportunity.

His hand mirrors the attention, teasing the other breast, rolling and pinching until you're squirming in his grasp, your body trembling with every tug, torn between the ache of pleasure and the soft, natural release your body craves.

While his other hand skim your stomach, slow and deliberate, before sliding lower, brushing over your slick heat. You jolt, anticipation spiking, but he deliberately avoids the spot you want him most, fingers slipping between your entrance instead, teasing just enough to make you whine.

Zayne lifts his head just enough to murmur against your skin, “You’re drenched.”

You shudder, tightening your grip around him. “We’re in water,” you gasp.

He chuckles—low, dark. “I’m the one in the water.” Then presses a finger inside you.

His pace remains slow—intentional. He watches you now, hazel eyes dark beneath the dim light, studying every reaction, every stutter of your breath as he works his fingers inside you. His hand still on your breast continues teasing you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, spreading the leaking milk over the sensitive bud.

He slowly licks his lips, seeing how his teasing makes you leak, as if he wants to taste it himself but also craves watching you unravel like this. His thumb presses into the base of your nipple, making the milk spill out in a small stream that he spreads further, savoring the sight of each drop coming from you.

Your hand falters slightly on his cock, but you don’t stop, fingers still moving along his length, stroking him in a rhythm that mirrors his own touch.

Your body arches, the cool night air a stark contrast to the hot spring, the water lapping at your dangling legs that remain submerged. One of your hands props you up, fingers digging into the edge of the hot spring for balance as you tilt your hips toward him, silently begging for more.

You shiver, every touch heightened—whether from the chill in the air or simply the fact that it’s been too long, you don’t know. But Zayne knows. Of course he does.

And then—his touch shifts.

His hand drifts lower, leaving your breast to trace along your stomach. His fingers ghost over the soft skin stretched and marked by the nine months you carried your daughter.

Your breath catches. A lump rises in your throat.

Between the steady pump of his fingers inside you, the cool air against your feverish skin, and the way he looks at you—soft, reverent, like you are something to be worshiped—you almost shatter on the spot. He traces the marks slowly, so gently that it makes you shiver, heat building in your chest, something raw and unspoken swelling between you.

You never said anything about feeling insecure before. But you don’t need to. Zayne already knows.

Your sweet husband—he always notices first.

Swallowing hard, you reach for him. The hand that was supporting you slides up to curl around the nape of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss is deep, slow, sweet—the kind that lingers, the kind that says more than words ever could.

Your fingers still move along his length, stroking him steadily, and he doesn’t stop either, his pace matching yours. Heat coils tighter between you, and when he finally adds another finger, stretching you further, you gasp into his mouth.

Your grip on him tightens in response, strokes quickening. His breath hitches, his groan muffled against your lips.

Between kisses, your breath stutters, a desperate whisper slipping past your lips. “Put it in.”

Zayne stills for a moment, fingers buried deep inside you, his cock hot and heavy in your grasp. But instead of obeying, he exhales, low and measured, before murmuring against your lips, “The condom is in the room.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. You blink, barely processing, too lost in the molten heat of his fingers working inside you.

“We need to go in,” he continues, voice steady despite the way your walls flutter around his fingers.

You hesitate, cheeks warming, before admitting, "I… already started on the mini-pill."

That makes him pause. His gaze sharpens, flickering over your face, catching the faint blush dusting your cheeks. For a second, he’s completely still—then, his fingers flex inside you, a slow, deliberate press that makes your breath hitch.

He exhales as if steadying himself, and something about the look in his eyes sends a new wave of heat through you. He’s thinking, you realize—not just about the pill, but about you. About how you planned for this, expected him to want you just as badly. The realization does something to him, something that makes his restraint feel even more fragile.

His lips part slightly, as if considering something, and you shift, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean—" You clear your throat. "I thought you'd be all over me after the recovery period."

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but close. “Was that your plan?”

You huff, squeezing around him in retaliation, making him inhale sharply. “It’s fine, Zayne.” You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his jaw. “Just do it.”

He doesn’t move right away. He’s still, too composed, though you can feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding him together. Then, finally, he murmurs, “Better to be safe.”

You groan, frustrated, and he leans down, kissing the sound straight from your lips.

Your head tips back against the stone as he slowly pumps his fingers again, dragging another moan from you. “It’s fine,” you insist, breathless, thighs twitching around his waist.

Zayne hums, like he’s considering it, but then—“I have a better idea.”

Before you can react, he withdraws his fingers, grips your waist, and lifts you off the stone edge, pulling you back into the water. You gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as the heat envelops you again.

“Zayne?” You blink up at him, confused—until he turns you.

Your back presses against his chest, his arms encircling you, his breath warm against your damp skin. His hands find your thighs, and you barely have time to process before he slides his cock between them, thick and hot against your soaked skin.

Realization sparks, and you let out a breathless laugh. “So, we’re doing this instead?”

Zayne hums again, this time against your ear, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. His grip shifts from your thighs, one hand settling on your waist, the other dipping between your folds, fingertips finding your clit.

Before you can protest—or tease, really—he presses down, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands snapping to the edge of the hot spring to brace yourself as your thighs tense around his cock.

“Just for now,” Zayne murmurs, guiding your movements. He thrusts between your legs, his hand on your waist anchoring you against him while his other fingers work you open.

And just like that, your protest is gone, replaced by a sharp, needy moan.

Zayne’s pace is unhurried at first, his cock sliding between your thighs, the friction heightened by the slick heat of the water and the way his fingers toy with your clit. Each slow, deliberate grind sends a pulse of pleasure through you, your breath catching as you grip the stone edge for support.

His grip on your waist tightens, holding you steady as his hips roll against you. The blunt tip of his cock nudges your swollen folds, the friction slick and hot, making your thighs quiver. But he controls the rhythm effortlessly, each movement measured, precise.

Zayne exhales, the sound heavy, controlled, but you catch the tension in his voice when he murmurs, “That’s it.” His lips brush your ear, his cool breath a stark contrast to the warmth enveloping you. “Keep holding me like that.”

You shudder, arching into him, your back pressing against his chest. “Feels good,” you murmur, your voice breathy.

A low hum rumbles from him in response, his hand on your waist sliding toward your folds. With careful, deliberate movements, he parts you, holding you open as his other hand flicks your clit, then presses down with just the right amount of pressure, rubbing slow, teasing circles that have you gasping.

A whimper escapes your throat, your hips twitching as heat coils low in your stomach. Zayne quickens his pace, his thrusts growing more forceful, each drag of his cock between your slick thighs sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

Water laps at your skin with every grind of his hips, gentle splashes mingling with the slick glide of his cock. The warmth of it all—his body, the water, the liquid heat pooling inside you—only deepens the ache, his breath growing heavier behind you.

"Zayne—" His name spills from your lips in a gasp, your grip on the edge tightening as your thighs tremble.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder before he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin. “Let go.”

The combination of his voice, his fingers, and the relentless glide of his cock sends you over the edge. Your thighs clench around him, your body tensing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. A moan spills from your lips, sharp and breathless, as you jerk in his hold, your release shuddering through you.

Zayne groans, the sound deep and low, his movements stuttering as he thrusts once, twice more before his release takes him. His cock twitches between your thighs, warmth spilling into the water as his grip tightens on you, holding you close as he rides out the intensity of it.

For a moment, the only sound is your shared, uneven breathing, the water rippling gently around you as you both come down from the high.

Zayne doesn’t let go of you right away. His fingers ease off your clit, but his lips press against your shoulder, trailing slow, lingering kisses up to the back of your neck, where your matching tattoo is located. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, still steadying, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

Your own pulse is still racing, thighs trembling from the aftermath, but when he turns your head for a kiss, you melt into him instantly. It’s softer now, less hurried but no less intense—his lips move slowly, thoroughly, savoring each second. His hands remain firm on your waist, thumbs stroking your damp skin, as if grounding himself against you.

You sigh into his mouth, pressing closer, but then you feel it—him, hot and rigid between your thighs, stirring a fresh pulse of need.

Zayne exhales sharply when you shift, just slightly, just enough to brush against him. His grip tightens, and he mutters against your lips, “We should go inside.”

A shiver runs through you, not from the cool air but from the weight of his voice—low, restrained, laced with need. You nod, breath hitching when he effortlessly lifts you into his arms.

The world tilts as he carries you, stepping out of the water with ease. He doesn’t bother with towels, doesn’t set you down—not yet. He doesn’t hesitate.

The night air is a sharp contrast, cool against your feverish skin. But after everything, his body is the only warmth you need as he carries you inside. You barely register the transition—just the firm press of his arms, the damp heat of his skin against yours, the quiet promise in his touch.

His gaze sweeps over you, drinking in the damp flush of your skin, the way your chest rises and falls, the anticipation in your eyes.

Then, as if patience no longer matters, he kisses you again—this time with nothing held back.

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

You wake slowly, warmth surrounding you—not just from the blankets but from the weight of Zayne against you. His arm drapes over your waist, keeping you anchored, his face buried in your chest, breath slow and steady against your skin. The morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the sheets.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re truly rested—despite how much energy you both spent on other activities last night.

Zayne stirs slightly, but instead of moving away, he only presses closer, murmuring something incoherent. You chuckle, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his breath deepens at your touch.

“We should get up,” you say, though you make no effort to move.

Zayne only hums in response, his face still nestled against your chest. Instead of acknowledging your words, he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your skin—right over your collarbone—before murmuring, “Later.”

Later turns out to be much later, the two of you lingering until hunger finally forces you out of bed.

Breakfast is delivered to your room, a beautiful spread of seasonal dishes, but neither of you rush through it. It’s rare to have an entire morning with nothing pulling you away—no cries from the baby monitor, no responsibilities waiting. Just you and him.

You tell yourself to resist checking your phone, to just enjoy breakfast. But the moment Zayne reaches for his coffee, you can’t help it. A quick glance turns into scrolling through the photos his parents sent.

Serena swaddled and peacefully sleeping, her tiny fingers curled around his mother’s hand. Then a short video—his father making exaggerated faces at her while she stares in quiet fascination.

Your heart clenches.

You knew you’d miss her, but seeing her like this, knowing you won’t hold her until tomorrow—

Zayne catches the shift in your expression before you even say anything. Without a word, he reaches over, brushing away the tears that slip down your cheek.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your eye, then the other. “We’ll see her tomorrow.”

“I know,” you whisper, sniffling. “I just miss her.”

Zayne smiles, his thumb stroking your cheek. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pressing into his touch. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” He kisses you again, this time on the lips, soft and lingering. “Just reminding you.”

His hand lingers on your cheek, grounding you, as if silently urging you to hold onto the lightness of the moment. Then, with a small exhale, he drinks his coffee, and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to do the same.

After a slow morning and an indulgent breakfast, the two of you finally step outside, the crisp afternoon air carrying the faint scent of pine and blooming jasmine. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the stone pathways.

A gentle breeze stirs the leaves, blending with the soft murmur of a nearby stream. The warmth of the sun seeps into your skin, soothing in a way that makes you want to stretch out like a cat.

Zayne exhales slowly, looking out over the landscape, and you take that moment to strike.

You turn to Zayne, eyes sharp with intent. “Okay, husband.”

Zayne blinks, clearly thrown off by the shift in tone. “...Yes?”

“You gave me a day off from being a mom. Now it’s your turn to take a break from being a dad.” You fold your arms, nodding to yourself. “And a husband, actually.”

His brows lift slightly. “A break from you?”

“No, no, no, not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hands. “I mean, you’re off-duty—no responsibilities, no taking care of things, no thinking. Just pure relaxation.”

Zayne hums, gaze lingering on you, already amused. “And what exactly does that entail?”

You straighten your back, suddenly all business. “It means I will be handling everything for you today. Just like you did for me.”

“Everything?” His voice dips slightly, a clear invitation for mischief.

You narrow your eyes. “Yes. Everything.”

Zayne tilts his head, amusement sharpening in his gaze. "So…" His voice is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the words before even saying them. "You’ll help me shower?" He lets the question linger, watching your reaction before continuing just as unhurriedly. "Get me dressed?" His lips curve slightly as he leans in, lowering his voice. "Or… the other way around?"

You gape at him. “Stop making everything dirty!” You playfully smack him.

He chuckles, unfazed. “I’m just making sure I understand. Because if we’re talking about last night… you’re the one who made the sheets dirty.” His gaze sharpens, amusement deepening. “Several times, in fact.”

Your face burns. “Zayne—”

“I don’t mind, of course.” He leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “I rather enjoyed it.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “You’re the worst. Why do you always pick the worst times for this?”

Zayne exhales, the amusement in his gaze softening. His fingers tighten briefly around yours before he tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, deliberate—like he’s letting himself melt just a little.

When he pulls back, his forehead brushes against yours.

Zayne studies you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he finally resigns. “Alright. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

And that is your cue to go all in.

The moment you spot a tea and refreshment station, you immediately step in front of him, blocking his path. “Ah-ah! What would you like to drink?”

Zayne crossed his arm over his chest, his stance relaxed yet watchful. His gaze flickers from you to the steaming teapot, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression. “I can pour my own tea.”

“Not today, you can’t.” You pick up a cup, already pouring. “This is a father-free, husband-free zone. You are simply a man on vacation.”

His expression is caught between mild disbelief and reluctant amusement. He exhales through his nose, watching as you present the cup with both hands.

“Your tea, my dear guest.”

Zayne takes it, fingers brushing yours, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something sarcastic—but he only watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he murmurs, “Thank you.”

That only encourages you more.

When you find a shaded bench, you brush off the surface with a dramatic flourish. “Your designated relaxation zone, sir.”

Zayne huffs. “You’re getting carried away.”

“No such thing.”

At dinner, it only gets worse—or better, depending on how you look at it.

By evening, you find a cozy restaurant, and over a warm meal, the sky deepens into a rich blue.

The moment your food arrives, you reach across the table and start placing things onto his plate like a doting parent. “Here, eat this first. Oh, and this too. You need more vegetables.”

Zayne watches you, unimpressed. “I am capable of serving myself.”

“Not tonight, you aren’t,” you declare, dropping a perfectly portioned bite onto his plate before taking your own.

Zayne picks up his chopsticks. “I—”

You immediately nudge it closer. "No reaching."

He exhales through his nose, giving you a flat look—but doesn’t argue, quietly amused as you continue to over-serve him, refill his drink before he even thinks about doing it himself, and pull his plate closer every time he tries to reach for something himself.

By the time the meal is halfway done, he leans back slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unreadable in his expression—something soft, warm, and just a little bit too fond.

His eyes linger, and suddenly, the playful rhythm between you two shifts into something quieter.

Your antics falter under the intensity of his gaze. "...What?"

Zayne’s lips curve just barely. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing—you know that look.

Still, you press on, determined to see this through. “You’re not allowed to look at me like that. You’re on vacation.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. If anything, his lips twitch, like he’s considering his next move. Then, deliberately, he leans in closer—just enough that you can feel the coolness of his breath against your skin. His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

“Strange,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Didn’t realize looking at my wife was against vacation rules.”

Your stomach flips. You shove him lightly, face burning. “Zayne.”

He chuckles, finally relenting, but the glint in his eyes lingers. “Right. My mistake.”

He doesn’t stop looking, though. And even as you continue to fuss over him, making sure he does nothing for himself tonight, you realize—this was never about you repaying him. Not really.

It was just an excuse to take care of him for once.

Then after you both finish, just as you step outside, Zayne’s gaze flickers upward. Before you can ask, a firework bursts overhead.

Golden sparks shower through the sky, illuminating his face in warm light. You both pause, watching as another follows, then another, filling the night with color.

Finding an open spot, you settle onto a bench, the cool night air settling against your skin. Zayne sits beside you, his arm naturally draping over your shoulders as you lean into him.

“It’s been a while since we watched fireworks together,” you murmur.

Zayne hums. “Last time was during that festival, wasn’t it?”

You nod, remembering the way he’d pulled you through the crowd, how he’d kissed you beneath the exploding lights. “This is better, though. Just us.”

His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm. “You sound surprised.”

“A little,” you admit, tilting your head to look at him. “You always put thought into things, but this… feels different.”

Zayne raises a brow. “How so?”

You hesitate, searching for the words. “I don’t know. It’s quieter. Feels more like… just us, instead of something for us.”

You hadn’t realized how much you needed that distinction until now. It’s not about the grand gestures or the perfect plans—just the way he exists beside you, like breathing. Steady. Constant. The kind of presence that doesn’t need occasion or effort, only existence.

His lips twitch, amused. “And you prefer this?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I prefer you.”

Zayne goes still, your words catching him off guard. His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes—like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly.

Slowly, his expression softens. He exhales, gaze warm. His fingers tighten slightly on your arm, then slip down to lace with yours.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you. Then, almost absentmindedly, he murmurs, “It’s not difficult. Making you happy.”

Your breath catches, heart swelling at the quiet sincerity in his voice. You don’t know if it’s the fireworks, the atmosphere, or just Zayne himself, but you suddenly feel so full of love it almost aches.

You turn toward him, cupping his face as you whisper, “I love you.”

Zayne’s gaze softens. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you too.”

Then, with fireworks blooming overhead, he kisses you—slow and deep, the soft flashes of gold catching in his lashes, painting light across his skin as he seals the moment between you.

For the first time in a month, you feel like more than just a mom.

You feel like yourself again.

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

The moment you step inside your house, you barely bother to kick off your shoes before heading straight to the living room—where Serena waits, nestled in your mother-in-law’s arms.

“Ohhh, my baby!” You gasp, dropping your bag unceremoniously before dramatically reaching for her. “My sweet, precious angel—Mommy’s home!”

Zayne trails in behind you, setting the bags down with far more care. You don’t even glance back, laser-focused on your target.

His mother chuckles but carefully transfers Serena into your waiting arms. You cradle her close, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder, your heart melting as you press your cheek to her soft little head.

“I missed you so much,” you murmur, swaying gently. “Did you miss me? Huh? Did you miss your Mommy?”

Serena lets out a soft, sleepy coo, her tiny fingers flexing against your chest.

“I knew it!” you declare, holding her even closer. “You did miss me!”

From beside you, your father in law chuckles. “She was perfectly content.”

"She missed me," you insist, nuzzling into her as you rub slow circles on her back.

“She definitely missed me. Didn’t you, baby? You love me so much—”

Zayne moves to your side, exhaling softly. “I think you missed her enough for the both of you.”

You ignore him completely, dramatically gasping as Serena shifts in your arms. “Oh my God, was that a hug? Did you just hug me? You did, didn’t you?”

Serena, barely a month old, does nothing but stretch her little arms sleepily.

But you pretend it’s the most deliberate thing in the world.

“Zayne, did you see that? Our daughter just hugged me.” You press another kiss to her head, rocking her slightly. “She loves me so much, I knew it.”

Zayne sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous because I got the first hug,” you tease, grinning up at him before tilting Serena slightly toward him. “Say hi to Daddy, baby. He missed you too, even though he’ll pretend he wasn’t sulking about it.”

Zayne, ever composed, doesn’t react to the jab—just reaches out, his fingers grazing Serena’s back. Despite your antics, you don’t miss the way his touch lingers, how his thumb traces slow, gentle circles against the soft fabric of her onesie.

And when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Warm.

“I did miss you.”

His hand stills for a moment against Serena’s back. Then, his gaze flickers to yours.

Not just to Serena— but to you too.

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

Notes

Changing it to baby blues definitely makes the flip-flop much faster since it’s also much shorter than PPD. I actually got so into the research that I was like, “Huh? That’s interesting.” This was a fun one to write! Hopefully, y’all enjoy it as well! Actually, if there’s anything wrong, feedback would be welcome—this is a long one, I was planning to post the other req at the same time but hold that thought! I'll get there 🫶🏻😂 Not connected and more like a snippet (smut) but still on pregnancy theme!

You're reading the Pregnancy series! You're at Part 6

Part 0

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (Smut at the end)

If you're confuse how we got here How it all happen is the start of the Newlyweds series!

And if you want the continuation of them being parent! Here's how the Parenthood series start! Baby Girl

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

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