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k/kay | 28 | recent: evermore (sylus) | m.list | me | main: astaegmatism

[cno-inbminor]

hello!

🍜 a few things/rules! 🍜

this is an 18+ blog (some my fics include explicit smut). 

minors, please do not interact. 🔞

my works mainly exist in the forms of scenarios/drabbles. i typically don’t write hc’s

if you want to see which requests i have, please refer to the ‘request’ tag 

this is a no-brainer, but i will not put up with anyone that sends me anything remotely offensive. 

i will either ignore you or be very firm on where i stand in my answer to the ask. this also includes anything that’s stirring the pot -- i really don’t want to get involved in any drama. 

questions:

are your requests open? 

yes. however, i’m pretty busy with school, so the timeline on getting these done (as well as new wips that come along) is very up in the air. 

rules for requests?

send me a member/character, preferred genre, and a couple of details of what you want it to include. i will not write psychological/horror!au’s on this blog (this includes yandere!characters and anything involving rape). if you ask for something that i don’t feel comfortable writing for, i’ll let you know. 

edit: i’m starting a list of things that i might be tentative on and will largely depend on how i feel in the moment/what inspiration comes up.

love triangles

anything with heavy messy drama

what are your forms of writing?

as mentioned earlier, i usually write scenarios/drabbles. i’ve never written hc’s before (and i don’t think i’d be very good at it either). i also don’t write smau’s, simply because i don’t have close to the amount of creativity it takes to come up with one and execute it well. those are on another level that i greatly admire!!

what else about you?

you can refer to this post!! and my main is astaegmatism, so all follows/likes/replies are from there. 

thank you for reading all this!! overall, we’re here to have a good time!!! so remember to get good quality sleep, stay hydrated, eat your vitamins, and remember you are very loved and appreciated. feel free to drop an ask anytime!

[cno-inbminor]

entropy (pt. 1)

a/n: basically, i have a problem. also, please pretend that you/reader can make music and composed “weightless paradise”.

plot: a peek at the beginning and end of their arranged marriage. (I intend to write more for this!)

cw: currently angst/no comfort, non-mc!reader, hunter!reader, mc is in a coma, medical inaccuracies(?), caleb/mc/reader all from wealthy families, again please pretend that reader can compose music for like two minutes bc ‘weightless paradise’ kills me every listen and aided my tipsy self into writing this, UNEDITED (will review later)

-

The ceremony in Skyhaven is a small affair – an expected event for their friends and family. But there are a close few who seem to understand that this is nothing but a formality, at best. Your newly wedded husband ambles around like a robot with its hinges severely chafing against each other, his smiles practically squeaking at their upturns just because he can’t be seen scowling at the guests. You suppose you have your parents to thank for the endless years of practiced platitudes, that the hours spent staring yourself to death in the mirror to perfect the idyllic smile, both with and without teeth, were for this moment. And then your parents receive the never-ending compliments of how well-mannered you are, how graceful you seem to be. Very few have seen the cracks beneath your façade, and they will continue to remain few.

Caleb’s suit is perfectly tailored to his figure, to draw gazes away from the poor concealment of his dark eye circles. More care was taken for your makeup, to smooth out your skin and paint you as a doll that anyone – truly anyone – would be proud to have on their arms. Not a single strand is out of place, but none of it is enough to distract the few from realizing that something about the dress doesn’t seem quite right. The gown had been selected more for its opulence and status than how it fit you – and though it complemented you to some degree, something was missing.

In your eyes, you suppose it’s the fact that maybe – just maybe – they’re beginning to understand that the bride shouldn’t have been you.

Caleb would agree with enough vehemence and passion to power the sun for another millennium.

Your dinner is half-eaten, and you sneak a glance over at him as soft music plays from a live string quartet. He’s doing better, you suppose, based on the fact that most of his food has been cleared away and into his stomach. But anyone could tell how much he is trying to avoid looking at you, and the seconds are quickly disappearing before he has to engage with you in a first dance.

In his defense, both you and he spent several hours bickering with your respective parents/guardians – not that you were aware of each other’s battles -- on taking away the traditional aspects of a wedding ceremony. If it was going to be a small group of people, there was no need to remove the garter in front of the crowd, no need for wedding games, and definitely no need for anything as intimate as a first dance. You had cried and begged until your eyes were swollen and voice hoarse, but they would not let up.

“—please welcome our lovely couple to the floor for their first dance!”

Your head snaps up, but you school your expression to a small smile on instinct, even as Caleb offers his hand to you with the air of a man walking towards his death. You control your touch to be as featherlight as possible but close enough to fool most of the guests.

Your heels clack loudly against the floor, the sound even more pronounced now that the quartet has paused in their playing. Nothing was planned for the routine – in fact, the only instructions that had been given to you two were to “look affectionate” and “not step on each other’s toes.” It would be almost three minutes of his hand on the small of your back, your head resting by your hand on his shoulder, and your free, mirrored hands fighting the urge to rip away from each other. Three minutes that you had written and composed, gone unapproved and unseen by your parents until now. You had given the sheet music to the string players weeks ago, and a small part of you was eager to hear it live. Caleb didn’t care what the song was. Again, if it were up to you two, this dance would’ve been removed from the itinerary entirely.

The first few notes play, and you take the chance to whisper in his ear, “Consider this my apology.”

As expected, when you pull back, he directs all his confusion into his eyes, only for you to see. “You’ll see,” you mouth before laying your head on his chest – as scripted.

The song starts off almost innocent, naïve, and pure. But there is an undertone of melancholy, nostalgia, and yearning. Before long, the strings begin to crescendo into something a little more bittersweet, yet still painting a vision of a past laid in sweetness and affection still. But as they continue to swell, the course changes and spins into something heart-wrenching, as if they’re reaching for something so deeply loved. The affection once depicted was never enough to describe the depths of their love for the thing – for the person -- that kept them anchored to their own utopia. The song comes to the climax, releasing and resting for half a measure before returning to the motif from the beginning, and it paints how the end of dreams often rushes you into reality. You may not be ready for it to end, but it must.  

After the last note plays, you lift your head and join the crowd in light applause. You ignore the murmuring beginning to permeate, guests discussing with each other if that was an appropriate song for a couple’s first dance – not because they understood your intentions with it, but because it sounded more…sad than anything else. Instead of first heading back for the table where you and Caleb sit, you lift your dress and jog towards the quartet, giving each one of them a hug and a hushed “thank you” in their ears. It sounded much better not coming out of a music software, no matter how advanced they’ve become these days.

The rest of the night passes in a blur until it’s time for the sendoff. Despite how tired you two are, you both plaster on your best smiles for the cameras, pretending to be a happy couple riding off into the sunset on their horse-drawn carriage. Though as soon as everyone disappears into the distance, you and Caleb drop the grins and sag into the cushions, your breathing hidden between the clip-clops of the horses’ hooves on concrete.

There’s nothing to say between you two – only a silent, mutual relief that this was finally over. They would be moving into a house big enough for them to create even more distance, bedrooms on opposite ends of the mansion, a master bedroom decorated with a false image of marital bliss. This was the most you had to interact with each other in a romantic context, and it should be the most you will ever need to do for the rest of this…union, if you can even call it that.

“You knew?”

Caleb’s voice startles you from the starry sky you had stared off into, and you almost give yourself whiplash to look back at him.

“About?”

“Her.”

“Ah,” you reply, looking away from dark and cloudy amethysts. “Yes, and I’m--” you begin before pausing, casting a glance at the coachman to see if he was eavesdropping. Your volume drops a little bit before continuing, “—sorry. I hope she recovers soon.”

“How?”

A man of few words.

“I caught my parents whispering about it one night. You forget that I did a year as a ‘study abroad’ at the DAA, too, and remembering how the two of you were whenever she visited the campus, I put the pieces together.”

In all honesty, the one in white today should’ve been Emcee, had she not fallen into a coma several months ago from a rare complication in her heart condition. But with Caleb’s father stepping down and greedy, decrepit investors and board members who only saw stability in traditional, archaic standards, a discrete deal was made between your families. Your family and its lineage was one of few that manufactured weapons and other various components for the Hunter’s Association, and Caleb’s had both the military history and family business in producing navigation systems for the Farspace Fleet’s aircrafts.

Caleb remains quiet, and you expect it to stay that way. It doesn’t bother you.

The silence continues to hover like a storm cloud, even as if you gather all your things from the venue and slide into the back of a limousine, courtesy of Caleb’s parents. You just wanted to get away and couldn’t even be bothered to change out of your dress. The vehicle takes you to your new shared home, one that you had been slowly moving your belongings into over the last few weeks. As soon as you step in, you’re greeted by cold, stagnant air. Furnished by an interior design magazine, dusted by the two maids who came weekly and were under a strict NDA, the house opens, welcoming you into its cage.

Caleb has enough manners to help you up the stairs and towards your bedroom. But because you had been in such a hurry to get home, you realize in sheer horror that you’ll need help with the dress.

Shit, shit, shit, how could you be so stupid?

You take in a sharp breath before calling out, “Hey, Caleb?”

The man might’ve made it ten steps into the hall when he heard your voice. He looks back with a raised eyebrow, the rest of his body language insinuating that he wanted nothing more than to go back to his room.

“Don’t kill me, but…I need help with my dress.”

The raised eyebrow lowers and joins the other in a furrow, and his gaze turns accusatory. “I just need you to undo a few hooks and undo the bow on the ribbons in the back,” you quickly interject. “I can’t reach some of them, and I’d really like to sleep in my pajamas. Please? I promise it’ll be the last thing I ask from you.”

It’s not an exaggeration. You really have no intention of ever asking Caleb for anything outside of what’s obligatory. There are several events and fundraisers that you’ll have to attend for image’s sake, but that’s about it. He would go on with his life, and you would go on with yours. He’ll go do whatever Colonels do, and you’ll go do whatever Hunters do. Simple.

Caleb has long clocked the discomfort you’ve been experiencing all night in that dress. He was surprised when you insisted on leaving the venue in it and hadn’t thought far enough to predict that this might happen. With a heavy sigh, he spins on his heel and walks back into your room. Your back now faces him, though your eyes meet his in the body-length mirror in front of you.

“There’s this one,” you point out while reaching around. He follows your instructions and undoes the hooks with alarming dexterity, never fumbling while undoing the bustle of your gown.

“And the bow” is the last part that will free you from the binds of this dress. “It’s double-knotted. If you can undo that and kind of pull at the ribbons going through the corset, I’d really appreciate it.”

Your quiet breathing is the only sound aside from the scratch of Caleb’s fingers trying to pry apart the knot. Ten seconds in, you catch onto some light cursing and can’t help but chuckle. “I think they worried in thinking that the dress would fall or something.”

“Seriously, this is just ridiculous,” he murmurs before exclaiming, “Got it!” when the knot finally gives out. Caleb deftly pulls it open and undoes the bow before loosening its hold around you, just enough that it doesn’t completely fall off (and you’re holding its weight from the front anyways) but enough for you to slip out of without difficulty.

“Thank you, Caleb.” You attempt to pour as much gratitude into your words as you can, knowing that this was more than he ever wanted to do for you. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

He shrugs – a gentleman, really. “It’s okay.”

Your features soften. “No, it’s not,” you disagree in a gentle tone. “But we’ll do what we need to do, and I’m sure Emcee will wake up sooner than later. Plus, with our jobs, we’ll never really see each other until we have to.”

Caleb hovers, awkward because he doesn’t really know how to respond. It might be a little too rude to say, “Yeah, that’s the best part!” or “Yeah, I really hope she wakes up soon. Tomorrow, preferably, so we can end this.” So, he settles for silence.

An apologetic look. “Good night, Caleb.”

“Good night,” he greets back, hesitating slightly before adding your name to the end.

Little did you know that was just the beginning.

-

And years later, when Emcee has awakened and started completing physical and occupational therapy, when he finds himself anticipating public events meant to be attended together, accustomed to the way your frame fits against his in front of the cameras, when he finds himself questioning the emptiness of his queen-size bed, wondering if you were safe on your missions, lacking the urgency and desire to be by Emcee’s side 24/7 – for the first time, he feels the urgent need to seek you out.

Except your room is now missing all personal touches, furnished with its bare necessities, and holding almost nothing but a letter on your vanity. The escalation in his panic, the sinking of his heart into his stomach, the stuttering of his breaths, are all terrible companions that his misery loves as he picks up the letter with his name scrawled on the envelope. When did your handwriting become so familiar to him?

Too late, does he realize, that many things in life are subject to change, oftentimes in the most unexpected of ways. If you told him five years ago that he would be lying on your bed, once belonging to someone he never even imagined dating, let alone marrying, with pages scattered across the duvet and the song of their first dance playing from her speakers, he would’ve recommended an urgent psychological evaluation.

But perhaps he is the one that needs it now.

Numb, limbs leaden, in shock, and completely unable to fathom that the answer to life – to his life -- has now slipped through his fingers.

[cno-inbminor]

૮(˶╥︿╥)ა (இ﹏இ`｡)

You see this, miss maem?!!! This is me after that Zayne fic. Huhuhuhu it's literally 2 am, and am here fuming, crying, contemplating about this. Its so good, but so freaking rAaaahah... Fight me author (ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง(ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง(ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง

I'm gonna like this, and keep your username in my notes so i dont lose u coz it's a good sleeping pill now. My eyes will be swollen, my heart fuming, but I'll sleep good. ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

I love your thought process, and Zaynes complexity. Its hard finding stuff where he's like this? Red flag in a superficial level, all the fics in my like lists are: him as the whole forest, hehehe slutty spicy zayne, or tsundere softy.

I support every anons wanting zayne to suffer more. Preach bbs, don't stay in a rs that makes u question yourself. Tbh, id be a vv petty wife in this, gud thing my husband doesnt have a totga, ngsb 🤝 nbsb eldest children it's me I'm his almost totga, mf was too slow in admitting his feelings, I wasn't about to waste my time like sir no.

I'm just here wishing for u beautiful person to write more (or a next part nenhehe).

I'm sure we can talk it out! No fighting here LOL (I know you're kidding). We love all sides of Zayne! He and the LIs are all very complex, and sometimes it's nice to just explore certain aspects in standalones. Glad your husband wasn't too late in admitting his feelings -- it sounds like you guys are doing well together!

I'm terrible at fulfilling expectations so I want to say don't wish too much because I can go months or years between fics 😬 Thank you for stopping by <3

[cno-inbminor]

Sylus enjoys the teasing, the banter. He relishes in the scrunch of your nose, the playful defensiveness in your eyes, the words that spill off your tongue to counter his. The nature of a lighthearted, euphoric relationship as if the world isn't burning around them is a joy he never wants to take for granted. It's all a part of his love, your love.

But love is also respecting the days where maybe you'd like a little bit of quietude -- that instead of the jovial jabs and affectionate nips, you want silent cuddles and serenity. It may include laying together in bed with a show you tend to rewatch when the surroundings become a tad too loud, slouching on the couch with your head in his lap as you scroll through your feed, or sitting atop the roof of a skyscraper to gaze at the horizon.

No doubt it worries him at times, for he can practically hear the buzz of thoughts in your head. It's loud and full of tension, and he detests the way they school your expression into something empty and jaded. There are times when you seem so distant that he wants to shake you by the shoulders, demand that you tell him what's wrong so that he can fix it with a snap and a blink. Nothing and nobody should ever trouble his love like this.

But he knows you value your humanity. He knows that you take soft pride in getting through the hard days alone like you have something to prove (nothing, in his eyes) -- being able to take on the world in all your glory and knowing when to ask for his help. And he loves his warrior, so strong, even on days when you don't feel that you are. He's more than happy to be your silent shadow, forever attached to love and protect.

[cno-inbminor]

I JUST FINISHED THE ZAYNE ANGST ONE AND I'M EMOTIONALLY DEVASTATED. LIKE?? I CRIED?? REAL TEARS?? YOUR WRITING ABSOLUTELY DESTROYED ME. PLS NEVER STOP WRITING LIKE THIS (and pls write more angst too 😭🙏) (idk if I'm just being dramatic or whatever but I love your writing SO MUCH).

Just gonna slide over a tissue box over to you -- thank you! My writing is inconsistent so I'll do my best LOL. I appreciate you stopping by!

[cno-inbminor]

Will be going through the followers list soon and blocking anyone that doesn't have their age in their bio or pinned on their blog

[cno-inbminor]

Little married life thought with Sylus

Thinking about you and Sylus are married and go to a fellow Hunter's wedding. He's still known as Skye to everyone, the very very attractive fruit vendor who still needs a little work at karaoke. Sylus finds the ceremony boring and lackluster (because how could it ever compare to yours?), and he's not exactly excited that the reception is at least six hours long. But you're having fun, keeping him engaged, and leaning into him for comfort.

"Reminds me of our wedding," you tell him during dinner. "Should we be one of those people who go and renew vows every few years? No, that's too much, way too much money."

"That's not--"

"The issue, yes, I know. Just seems wasteful right now."

"Say the word, and I'll make it happen. If you want to recreate our wedding, I'd be happy to."

A light tap on the shoulder, a quick kiss on the cheek.

After dinner, the host asks all the married couples to come to the dance floor to see who's been married the longest. Even though he didn't feel like getting up there, he can see how excited you are. Sylus finds your eagerness to show everyone that you two are married endearing and helps tug you up from the table. They start a slow song, and Sylus pulls you close with his hand splayed across your back, his other hand clasping yours over his heart.

The host tells couples to sit down if they haven't been married for longer than a certain amount of years. When the host says longer than five years, you start pulling back to sit down. But Sylus tightens his grip, and his eyes scream, "Humor me just this once."

Because in his mind, you and him have been married and bound together across worlds and centuries. You two would beat out every other couple here in a heartbeat -- but that'd be too hard to explain, and everyone would assume that you're lying. The longer he stays on the dance floor, the more you understand what he's trying to say. You're more than happy to receive the confused glances of your friends and coworkers until Sylus takes you back to the dinner table when the host says longer than ten years.

His hand feels so warm, and you can't tell if the heat in your cheeks is from the alcohol or just, him. Sylus remains highly capable of flustering you, even to this day. As you both sit back down, Sylus refuses to let go and pulls you closer to whisper in your ear, "If only they knew, sweetie." You can't help but smile, maybe giggle even, as he makes a show of kissing your entwined hands without looking away from you.

Extra: during speeches, he tells you quietly, sounding all smug, that he wouldn't mind recreating the night after your wedding reception on a daily basis.

[cno-inbminor]

i think you tied the loose ends in zayne pt 2 really well. thanks also for sharing your thought process with us in that one ask you replied to!

one grave disrespect that i haven’t seen anyone else point out tho is zayne making non!mc look pitiful to his colleagues to the point that grayson had to confront him. i get that he was going through something but it’s his duty as a husband to never make his wife lose face or dignity to other people. nobody should ever look at her and think, “poor lady, if only she knew.” that’s the one thing (that if he doesn’t rectify) would ultimately make me leave him if i were non!mc

thanks so much for sharing your work with us! you write so well

Thank you! I might have the wrong perception that Grayson, albeit nice and generally unproblematic, can be a bit of a gossip at times. But for him to even ask if anything would personally change is a red flag for sure.

[cno-inbminor]

Hi!

Just wanted to say I loved your Zayne fic! <3 and also to give some counterweight to the other anons (whose opinions are still valid ofc) but I actually thought the forgiving of Zayne was quite well done and natural!

I agree, that usually I want any man to suffer more when making their partners feel neglected, but that’s usually when they genuinely display apathy and a sense of entitlement towards their lover and especially when their attention sways towards someone else.

But from Zayne’s pov; he never strayed in his loyalty and love towards non!mc, immediately noticed something was wrong and wanted to act on it! Unfortunately took some time due to a combination of unfortunate events and his dumb comment (which gave us the juicy angst, which you write so well!!).

But ultimately, I think he did suffer and stress enough!

Also once again, this is not to bash other’s opinions! But just to let you know I really did enjoy the conclusion <3

Thank you so much! I'm glad you think I write angst well bc I always worry I'm not being angsty enough. It's been fun reading through differing opinions on how things progressed in the fic!

[cno-inbminor]

i saw from ur “abt me” post that this blog has been around for ages. do u still have old fics (for any fandom) that u hold close to ur heart?

Ooohhh, the few that come to mind are a couple of my Haikyuu! and Genshin Impact scenarios over the last few years. (Please ignore the periods, they were to help with spacing.)

Repertum (Alhaitham x scholar!reader) is probably the most recent one before my LaDS fics. I spent a lot of time on that one and really liked how some of the writing came out. My beta helped tremendously, too, and we had a lot of fun bouncing ideas around and figuring out small, inane details. I remember we spent a chunk of time on Alhaitham's outfit alone LOL. .

Gravate (Childe x Lumine) might be my longest fic? I'm not good with writing multi-chaptered scenarios/fics, so the fact that it needed to be stretched out after a few chapters was huge to me. It was a little easier to write given that a few scenes were inspired by real events in my life! Again, also had a lot of help from my beta. .

Immergo (Oikawa x reader) was the first fic I posted after being uninspired for a while. Fell head first into the Haikyuu fandom and wrote about 14k words in a few hours. The writer's block had been real, so to finally write again was a relief and a joy. .

Domus (Akaashi x reader) was a fic that I didn't expect would do well, but ended up that way. Also based on real life events so things seemed to flow easier. The more I wrote for it, the more I began to cherish it. .

Ipsum Exitio (Ushijima, Semi, and Iwaizumi x reader at different times in reader's life). The monster I never finished but had all planned out. It was meant to be very slice-of-life, which was different from a lot of the other stuff I had written. I enjoyed writing a lot of it and figuring out how I could get my character portrayals conveyed. But grad school got pretty busy, and I just couldn't get back into it. I still think about it a lot!

[cno-inbminor]

i love your writing. thank you for all that you share with us! your writing feels so grounded. <3

Thank you so much! I appreciate that a lot <3

[cno-inbminor]

Hello! I read the other anon's ask earlier and I feel the same :(( I feel like Zayne got off easily and how in Y/n perspective it really does hurt to be the second choice and being settled by someone just because their first choice wasn't available. We know how a lot of men actually do settle for women just because they're finally ready to settle down, even if it's not with their actual love :(( so I feel quite sad for our MC.

Additionally, the part where Zayne updated her for a whole week after a few month/a month of not doing it just because EMcee wasn't available for him, that's actually so sad 😔 because Zayne really made it seem like he really DID settle because Emcee wasn't there for six years, he only just notice our mc after Emcee wasn't there and available.

Also related to the previous ask. I also appreciate you (current anon) for taking the time to give me your perspective on how the fic ended up!

I can understand where you are coming from, anon! (This response ended up being SO long, so I'm putting it under a read more.)

I think Zayne has a history of saying things in a way he doesn't mean ("Business Trip" is a good example) and is generally a private person. In the parts of the fic where it's from Zayne's POV, there is little to no thought given about MC -- and that's intentional on my part. In the fic, he mainly thinks about reader and deeply cares for her, but has been so overwhelmed with everything at work that he forgot the little things of what their normalcy was. Him coming home late at night to reader's bloodied heels is meant to trigger the realization that there's distance being formed aside from just two busy, working adults, one (him) who is severely overworked at times. For reader to not tell him anything about her own work, especially if it led to walking around with chafed heels, he realized something was really wrong. Reader's singular drunken rambling confirmed this a hundred times over for him, which only panicked him even further.

If I'm understanding game lore correctly, Zayne is also somewhat aware of different lifetimes/alternate universes like the one Dawnbreaker is in. With that in mind, combined with his more logical thinking and the suddenness of Grayson's question, he couldn't confidently say that *nothing* would happen -- really, a lot of things could happen. But him not "dwelling on the what-ifs" was his way of trying to say that it didn't matter if MC had stayed because he felt he would've chosen reader regardless. Zayne, in the fic, genuinely believes he would still pick reader over MC when it came to marriage. Let me know if I wasn't clear on that!

I can attest that I didn't do a good job of conveying that MC's return was more of just a coincidence, but because reader had always been a little insecure about it, the doubt started to fester -- even if they've been happily married for four years and together for a total of six. Even the week that MC is gone is also a coincidence because this immediately followed the night when Zayne found reader's shoes. Worried about reader's wellbeing and his passing prediction that she may leave him, pushes him to try and attempt other aspects of what their normalcy was. He already misses and craves the morning routine, and this event is the rotten cherry on top of his already melted sundae. MC is a good friend and a very important patient in a medical sense, given her heart condition. Zayne, if anything, is incredibly dedicated to his profession and patients.

For going the hurt/comfort route, this fic is in no way meant to be a "bitches be crazy" scenario. I wanted to emphasize the communication aspect, especially since it's implied that Zayne and reader had a very strong relationship before the events of the fic. Zayne had not done anything before to make reader doubt his love for her, but again, she was still a little insecure about it -- and that's okay. When given the chance (that he orchestrated, albeit a bit late) to talk and explain, he and reader came to an understanding. He recognizes how and why reader felt the way she did, didn't shift the blame to reader for misunderstanding his words, recognizes that he's been inattentive and didn't convey himself well, and tries to make amends. Reader is finally able to let the insecurity go because Zayne is clearly telling her that he did not settle for her.

I'm so sorry for how long this got, but I wanted to explain my thought process. As I mentioned earlier, I recognize that I rushed over certain details that would've helped solidify the fact that in this fic, Zayne truly no longer had any romantic feelings for MC -- I will keep this in mind for what I write in the future.

[cno-inbminor]

bro that part 2 to the zayne fic still pisses me off. like not in the you piss me off way, but in the why in heavens name did I read this thinking id see zayne actually suffer the way I want him to, kinda way. it reminded me of all the Chinese comics I read where the ml was literally making them doubt their self worth, and more 💩🤡 behaviors, only for the fl to take them back with open arms with a few tears and the man on his knees after 3 chapters.

anyway, love lots. may everybody never settle with a man who looks you in the eye and still see the ghost from his past.

Ah, I think I've come across some of those manhuas you're talking about. Those are very frustrating, and I avoid a lot of them for that reason. And it's like, REALLY problematic behaviors the ML is presenting, but FL is somehow able to look past it?? Wild.

I appreciate you taking the time to tell me how you feel and your perspective about the fic. I had a longer response, but it ended up coinciding a lot with how I would've replied to another ask addressing similar things. You will see it in the next response! And I agree with your sentiment -- I hope everyone is fortunate enough to have a partner that would choose them each time.

[cno-inbminor]

that’s nice and all(/gen) but i feel like zayne got off to easy :( need that man to suffer. for him to feel the way reader felt. (me personally? i would have left him)

Your feeling is valid! I felt like all the inner turmoil Zayne was feeling was enough for now, and they just really needed to talk about it. Had I gone the hurt/hurt route, reader would've left him for sure after some type of argument/confrontation.

[cno-inbminor]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication), mentions of alcohol and getting drunk , use of Y/N wc: 5.4k | part 1

a/n: thank you to everyone who has interacted with and enjoyed part 1! i sincerely hope that this final part does not disappoint. stay safe and hydrated, and i hope you all are well <3

You can do this for as long as you need to, no matter how draining it may be.

When you wake in the morning, you find yourself tucked into your blanket the way that Zayne would often do if he felt the material wasn’t doing enough to keep you warm. A pang of guilt makes itself known when you come to the realization, and it’s clear that Zayne had to leave early again. The side of his bed is cool beneath your fingers, but after a single grip of the cotton, you fling the blanket off your figure and get up to start your morning routine.

It’s a tiny hassle to make your own coffee and figure out a quick breakfast without Zayne – tiny in the sense that you had done it yourself before having moved in with him, and you shouldn’t be so reliant on a partner whose schedule is as crazy as his. There had been a time when things were more consistent and regular, but ever since Emcee returned…

Like clockwork, you step on the scale in your shared closet, letting the device gather all the numbers it needs. It gives you a chance to observe the sorry state of your feet. The bandaids that you slapped on are worn at the edges, your toenails looking a little rough, wrinkles and blisters decorating other parts of your toes. You feel the roughness on the balls and arches underneath. When you step off the scale, you move towards the counter and lean back against it so you can lift a foot up and get a better look at the backs of your heels.

The sight of them makes you wince internally, bloodied and skin peeling. Once pristine, the cotton pads of the bandaids are splotched with crimson, paint from yours truly. You take little care in replacing the bandages and dolloping some antibiotic ointment on them to make you feel like you’re doing something at least. After getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and deciding to buy coffee on the way instead, you’re out the door in your most comfortable pair of work flats.

As you walk towards the nearest bus station, your phone vibrates, and the music in your earbuds softens before returning to its original volume. The notification tone sends a spike of anxiety through your system, your fingers shaking as they push things around and fish your phone out from your bag.

Husband 💙: Have you left for work yet? I can come back and drop you off.

It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer. 

-

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

-

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

-

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

-

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

 “What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

-

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?  

 “...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you,  his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

Zayne did not settle for you.

[cno-inbminor]

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[cno-inbminor]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication), mentions of alcohol and getting drunk , use of Y/N wc: 5.4k | part 1

a/n: thank you to everyone who has interacted with and enjoyed part 1! i sincerely hope that this final part does not disappoint. stay safe and hydrated, and i hope you all are well <3

You can do this for as long as you need to, no matter how draining it may be.

When you wake in the morning, you find yourself tucked into your blanket the way that Zayne would often do if he felt the material wasn’t doing enough to keep you warm. A pang of guilt makes itself known when you come to the realization, and it’s clear that Zayne had to leave early again. The side of his bed is cool beneath your fingers, but after a single grip of the cotton, you fling the blanket off your figure and get up to start your morning routine.

It’s a tiny hassle to make your own coffee and figure out a quick breakfast without Zayne – tiny in the sense that you had done it yourself before having moved in with him, and you shouldn’t be so reliant on a partner whose schedule is as crazy as his. There had been a time when things were more consistent and regular, but ever since Emcee returned…

Like clockwork, you step on the scale in your shared closet, letting the device gather all the numbers it needs. It gives you a chance to observe the sorry state of your feet. The bandaids that you slapped on are worn at the edges, your toenails looking a little rough, wrinkles and blisters decorating other parts of your toes. You feel the roughness on the balls and arches underneath. When you step off the scale, you move towards the counter and lean back against it so you can lift a foot up and get a better look at the backs of your heels.

The sight of them makes you wince internally, bloodied and skin peeling. Once pristine, the cotton pads of the bandaids are splotched with crimson, paint from yours truly. You take little care in replacing the bandages and dolloping some antibiotic ointment on them to make you feel like you’re doing something at least. After getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and deciding to buy coffee on the way instead, you’re out the door in your most comfortable pair of work flats.

As you walk towards the nearest bus station, your phone vibrates, and the music in your earbuds softens before returning to its original volume. The notification tone sends a spike of anxiety through your system, your fingers shaking as they push things around and fish your phone out from your bag.

Husband 💙: Have you left for work yet? I can come back and drop you off.

It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer. 

-

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

-

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

-

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

-

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

 “What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

-

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?  

 “...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you,  his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

Zayne did not settle for you.

[cno-inbminor]

will the zayne mc part 2 be out soon?

It should be out within the next week! I've been writing and rewriting several parts because I wasn't happy with them. There's also a lot of pressure that I'm feeling with some of the anticipation for part two, and I'm afraid of putting out something that's disappointing. Thank you for your patience!