Corrective measures initiated.
Dessert was intentionally omitted.
Additional note:
There was no reason to have dessert on a Monday.
Tuesday
Breakfast:
Coffee
Oatmeal
Fruit
Lunch:
Soup
Sandwich
Water
Dinner:
Beef and vegetables
Rice
Dessert:
None
Note:
Second consecutive day without dessert.
Progress is satisfactory.
Additional note:
A chocolate bar was purchased.
It was intended for later.
Further note:
"Later" does not necessarily mean today.
Wednesday
Breakfast:
Coffee
Toast
Yogurt
Lunch:
Hospital cafeteria meal
Water
Dinner:
Noodles
Vegetables
Dessert:
One piece of chocolate
Note:
Corrective measures partially successful.
Additional note:
Chocolate bar purchased Tuesday was opened.
One piece was consumed.
Further note:
A second piece was consumed while reading.
Final note:
The remaining chocolate has been relocated to a less accessible location.
Thursday
Breakfast:
Tea
Eggs
Toast
Lunch:
Leftovers
Water
Dinner:
Soup
Rice
Dessert:
Fruit
Note:
Fruit substituted for dessert.
This is technically a successful intervention.
Additional note:
The fruit was eaten with honey.
Further note:
Honey should not be classified as dessert.
There is no reason to revise this classification.
Friday
Breakfast:
Coffee
Oatmeal
Lunch:
Delayed
Dinner:
Takeout
Dessert:
Ice cream
Note:
Corrective measures temporarily suspended.
Reason:
A certain person suggested getting ice cream.
Additional note:
Declining would have been possible.
It seemed unnecessarily difficult.
Further note:
Two flavors were selected.
This was excessive.
Final note:
Both flavors were good.
Saturday
Breakfast:
Avocado toast
Tea
Lunch:
Sandwich
Dinner:
Barbecue
Vegetables
Rice
Dessert:
Cake
Ice cream
Macaron
Note:
Corrective measures have failed.
Additional note:
This was not planned.
Further note:
The cake was homemade.
The ice cream was already available.
The macaron was offered afterward.
There were therefore several opportunities to exercise restraint.
None were exercised.
Sunday
Breakfast:
Coffee
Boiled eggs
Toast
Lunch:
Leftovers
Dinner:
Soup
Bread
Dessert:
Cookies
Note:
Cookies were homemade.
Additional note:
Only one was initially accepted.
Further note:
A second was offered.
Additional note:
A third was taken without being offered.
Final note:
This development is unrelated to the failure of corrective measures.
Weekly Assessment
Nutrition: Balanced.
Hydration: Improved slightly.
Caffeine: Still excessive.
Dessert intake: Corrective measures unsuccessful.
Self-control: Under review.
Conclusion:
The planned reduction in dessert consumption was reasonable.
The implementation was inconsistent.
Primary contributing factors identified:
1. Homemade desserts.
2. Social situations.
3. Chocolate being readily available.
4. Ice cream.
5. A certain person who appears to have a disproportionate influence on dietary decisions.
Corrective action:
Dessert portions will be monitored more carefully next week.
Additional note:
This will not require assistance from anyone else.
Final note:
Assistance may, however, be acceptable.
Personal Observation:
The original objective was to reduce unnecessary dessert consumption. The objective remains valid. However, it may be worth reconsidering the definition of "unnecessary." If dessert is shared with someone he cares about, the nutritional value is not the only relevant factor. This is not an excuse. It is an observation. A reasonable one.
A fantasy inspired AU with @doctorforeseer featuring Zayne and princess! Tella
The banquet hall of the castle was lively, filled with uneasy chatter between the two feuding families. A tentative truce was in the air, but Tella knew very well that it would barely last a fortnight. Stabbing at her plate, she smoothed down a loose strand of her blonde hair that had escaped from the latest updo her ladies in waiting had wrestled it into. Her head already ached from the copious pins, the bodice of her blue gown too tight. As crown princess, she was meant to look ethereal, but she only felt annoyed. At both her own house and that of their rival seeking a false alliance. After all, they ruined her life when the crown had come between her friendship with her oldest childhood friend.
She hadn't seen Zayne in years, but she'd felt him tonight. It took half the course, but she finally spotted him briefly across the room. He had been seated with his family. She had blinked and the crowd swept between them before he was gone. Excusing herself, she slipped into the side corridor to get some air. Following the candlelit path to a small enclave she had found as a child, she froze when she saw him.
Zayne had grown taller, his dark hair a bit longer, but those hazel eyes could still make Tella melt as the air vanished from her lungs. She finally regained her composure, dipping low into a curtsey as years of etiquette training took over. Yet, she couldn't stop the tremble in her voice.
"If we had met under gentler skies, would you still look at me this way?"
Zayne forgot how to breathe. Not because he didn’t understand her words. Because he did. Every single one. The sincerity in them. The trust. The quiet certainty that she had always carried when it came to him.
His fingers curled gently against her cheek as he looked at her.“Tella… You’ve always been unfair.” A faint smile touched his lips.“You say things like that and expect me to remain composed.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, like the sound of the boy he used to be. Then her request settled in from the night before on her balcony. Him. Not the crown. Not the title. Just Zayne.
His expression softened completely. “I promise.” The answer came without hesitation. “I’ll come to you as myself.” He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her knuckles.“No ceremony. No advisors. No expectations.” His gaze lifted back to hers. “Just the person who waited by the third tree.”
His forehead rested against hers again, his voice barely above a whisper. “And the person who will always find his way back to you.” A small smile. “When that night comes… you won’t have to wonder if it’s the prince standing before you.”
Tella's gaze softened when his lips grazed the back of her hand, her breath catching slightly. It felt like a silent poem when his forehead rested against hers, no words needed with a bond this deep.
"How do you think our younger selves would feel getting to see us so close?"
She pulled back slightly to gaze up at him, lightly cupping his cheek. Though the years had passed and fate had forced them apart, she could still see a glimpse of the one who had always been by her side.
"I think younger me would be very pleased, and also would have said that you look very pretty as a prince."
Zayne let out a quiet breath, something warm and almost disbelieving slipping through him at her question. “Our younger selves?” he echoed softly.
For a moment, his gaze drifted, not away from her, but through time. To muddy boots by the lake, to laughter that came too easily, to a girl who never curtsied around him and a boy who never had to be anything more than himself.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I think younger me would be insufferably proud,” he admitted. “He always thought he’d grow tall enough, strong enough… to stand beside you like this.”
His eyes returned fully to hers, gentler now. “And he would be amazed you’re still here. That you didn’t let everything around you change that.”
At her comment, a soft huff of laughter escaped him. “Pretty?” he repeated, one brow lifting slightly. “That’s what he’d notice?” His hand rose, covering hers where it rested on his cheek. “Then younger me had excellent taste.”
He paused for a moment. “He also would’ve told me not to wait so long to find my way back to you.”
Tella tapped her fingers idly on the chair's armrest, watching her ever so slightly swollen ankle.
"One mission turned into five. My partner is on some other assignment so it was just me out there. But I did try to stay off of it, I promise! And I've been icing it and elevating it and I even bought a pretty brace. That might have been forgotten at home but I'll wear it tomorrow."
She stilled briefly, tilting her head at the faint twinge of discomfort as she silently sucked in a breath.
"Okay, so that didn't hurt, but it didn't feel good. But seriously I'm sorry. This isn't even your field and a twisted ankle has nothing to do with my heart."
With a soft exhale, she stopped her nervous rambling. Her gaze flicked to the desserts, the sweet aroma nearly making her stomach growl.
"Apparently, the snowflake macaron is pear flavored."
-🦋
Zayne’s fingers pause, “…Didn’t feel good,” he repeats quietly.
His grip shifts. One hand stabilizes your ankle while the other presses lightly along the joint. “You’re favoring the lateral side,” he murmurs. “And you’re downplaying it.”
“Again.” At your explanation, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “One mission turned into five,” he repeats. “Alone.”
“That wasn’t a request, Tella. That was a risk assessment failure.” He exhales softly through his nose, easing the tension in his own shoulders before continuing the examination. “Brace. Ice. Elevation,” he lists. “Forgotten at home.”
“You’re making it very difficult to be lenient with you.” His fingers test your range of motion, guiding your foot gently. When you flinch, his gaze sharpens. “Mm. Then your comment about it not being his field, that makes him stop.
Zayne looks up slowly. “…Your heart,” he repeats. “My field,” he says calmly, “includes anything that compromises your condition before it ever reaches that point.”
“…You don’t get to separate the two.” His hand lingers at your ankle before he finally releases it. “If you continue stacking missions on an unstable injury, it will become my field.”
The corner of his gaze shifts toward the box on his desk. “…Pear,” he repeats. “The snowflake one is yours,” he says. “You didn’t come all this way just to watch me eat it.”
“But you don’t get it until I finish evaluating you, and depending on what I find,” he adds, “I may confiscate the entire box under medical authority.”
“…Now,” he murmurs, “tell me exactly when it started hurting.”
Zayne looks at the bakery bag first, then to your arms you’ve already held out for him. For a moment, he simply stands there like his mind is trying to reconcile the fact that you walked into his office after a patrol, carrying food, wearing a dress, and offering him care instead of the other way around.
“…A branch,” he repeats quietly. A small exhale leaves him. “Of all the things you’ve faced, I suppose it’s fitting that your greatest opponent today was a stationary object.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. But the humor fades into something softer when he notices your expression. You’re not just teasing. You’re checking on him.
Zayne’s shoulders lower slightly. A small surrender. “I’m not certain there’s scientific evidence supporting your theory,” he says, stepping closer. “But I’m willing to participate in the study.”
And then he does. He steps into your arms. After a moment, his arms settle around you properly, one hand resting securely against your back. The tension you noticed doesn’t disappear instantly. It simply… releases.
“…You’re warm,” he murmurs quietly. “Your theory may have some merit.” His chin rests lightly against the top of your head,.“You came here after your shift,” he says softly. “…Thank you, Tella. I think I needed this more than I realized.”
"I needed this as well. But that's our secret. Doctor patient confidentiality."
Tella huffed a soft laugh as she held him close. Letting her eyes flutter close, she tilted her head slightly to listen to his heartbeat. Strong and steady, a familiar pattern that always calmed her. She almost didn't want to let him go. And for quite a while, she didn't.
With a gentle squeeze, her gaze flicked towards the bag of treats, though she made no move to release him.
"Do you have any more work to complete before we go to the aquarium? Or is it break time because I did hear that the croissants taste best while still warm?"
There’s the faintest shift in him at your words, our secret.
“…Confidentiality,” Zayne echoes softly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly against your hair. “I’ll honor it.” He doesn’t pull away when you settle closer. His heartbeat remains even beneath your ear.
When you finally mention the aquarium, though, he exhales, just barely. “…There is always more work,” he admits. “But it can wait.” His hand shifts, just slightly, like he’s considering letting you go and then doesn’t.
“The croissants will lose their temperature,” he murmurs, tone quieter now. “…And I’ve been informed they’re best enjoyed warm.”
“…However,” he adds, “I don’t believe they’ll grow cold in the next few seconds.” He’s choosing this moment over everything else.
Finally, his hand slides gently from your back, though not without a faint hesitation. Just enough distance to look at you properly again. “…We’ll go,” he says, voice calm but softer than usual. “To the aquarium.” A slight pause. “…But we’ll start with the croissants.”
Villa of Whispers - Zayne & Marina {@awaited-wish}
Inspired by Secret Fairytale || Dividers 🍃
📲 Lunch. West park. Come alone.
Zayne stood at the edge of the park when she arrived, coat draped neatly over his arm despite the mild weather, a book already open in his hand. He didn’t look up immediately when her footsteps approached. He turned a page first.
Only then did his gaze lift.
“You’re late,” he said. His eyes flicked over her briefly. “I was beginning to think you’d chosen food over me. A disappointing decision.”
He closed the book with a quiet snap, tucking it under his arm.
The park itself was nearly empty, just the distant hum of the city beyond the trees, the muted rustle of leaves overhead. It was the kind of place people passed through, not one they lingered in. Which, of course, made it perfect.
Zayne stepped toward the railing that bordered the deeper stretch of forest beyond the maintained paths. Without hesitation, he rested one hand on the metal bar and vaulted over it in a single, fluid motion.
He landed lightly on the other side and turned, extending a hand toward her. “Come on, Marina.”
Marina's eyes softened at Zayne's compromise, and she reached her free hand up to place it gently on his cheek, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone for just a moment. "That I can accept," she said, acknowledging how much the compromise cost him, then dropped her hand away to look back towards the dining room.
His warnings sobered her and she nodded, the arm locked around his tightening slightly. "You'll be my anchor," she said, trying for levity to calm her nerves, but with the way the atmosphere kept twisting their perception, it sounded too grim. Almost like a warning.
She stepped into the dining room together with Zayne. The table was spread for a sumptuous luncheon, with an abundance of delicacies on display. It seemed there was a menu option available for any possible palate, all prepared by expert hands. The effect was almost mesmerizing to her, and her stomach growled again.
A subtle movement from Zayne's arm in hers finally pulled her attention away from the food, and she realized with a shock that every chair was empty. She still heard the sounds of cutlery, the occasional scraping of the chairs, the shuffling of feet, the faint mumbling sound of quiet conversations, but no bodies filled the seats. The only visible presence besides the two of them was that of the witch, waiting for them.
Zayne registers the room in layers. First, the table. Every dish placed with intention, not care. Second, the sound. Cutlery. Chairs. Voices. Third, nothing. No bodies. His grip tightens around Marina’s arm as her realization catches up with his. “I see it,” he murmurs before she can question her own perception.
His eyes move slowly across the table, tracking the absence like it’s something tangible. A fork lifts, no hand holding it. A glass tilts, no one drinking. The chair at the far end shifts back a fraction, as if someone just stood. Zayne’s gaze sharpens. “Not hallucinations,” he says quietly. “Too consistent.”
Another chair creaks. A soft laugh, right beside them this time. Zayne doesn’t turn toward it. “It wants us to react.” The witch watches them from the head of the table, pleased. “Don’t be shy,” she says, gesturing lazily to the empty seats. “Everyone else has already started.”
Zayne ignores her. Instead, he leans just slightly closer to Marina, not breaking composure, but closing the distance enough that his voice stays between them.
“They’re impressions,” he says. “Residuals. Or constructs.” A pause. “Something sat here. Enough times to leave a pattern.” Another fork taps gently against porcelain. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Zayne’s jaw tightens. “…or something is still sitting here,” he corrects. His hand shifts again, this time deliberately sliding down to lace his fingers briefly with hers, just for a second. A silent check in. “I need you to stay with what you know,” he says softly. “Not what this place suggests.” His gaze flicks to the chair nearest them. It pulls out on its own.
Zayne doesn’t move toward it. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying the witch with a colder edge now. “You’ve recreated something,” he says. “A memory? A routine?” The witch’s smile widens. “Oh, Doctor,” she hums. “You’ve always been so good at asking the right questions.”
Zayne stills. His expression hardens as his attention shifts back to Marina. “She knows me,” he says. “Or something that was me. And that means this isn’t just her domain.” The chair beside them nudges closer again. Zayne finally moves, placing himself slightly in front of Marina. “We don’t sit,” he says firmly. “No matter how convincing it gets.”
⸻
Thirty minutes in that room does not pass like normal time. It stretches, loops and presses in.
Zayne is still standing. That alone says everything.
He hasn’t taken the seat. Hasn’t even touched the food. Beside him, Marina remains close. At some point, his hand had found hers again. Neither of them commented on it. Neither let go.
The “guests” never stopped. The empty chairs continue their quiet performance, forks lifting, glasses clinking, and low murmurs weaving in and out like overlapping conversations just out of reach. Once or twice, a voice had sounded too close. Once, Marina’s name had slipped into the noise.
Zayne had reacted instantly to that, his grip tightening. “That’s not them,” he’d said, low and firm. “Don’t answer it.”
The witch, however… She’d grown bored of stillness. Now she circles. “You always were stubborn,” she muses, passing behind them, her presence brushing the air like a cold draft. “Even before.”
Zayne’s eyes flick briefly to follow her movement, but he doesn’t turn fully. “…You’re assuming continuity,” he replies evenly. “That’s a mistake.” A soft chuckle. “Is it?”
The food is cooling. What once steamed now sits untouched. The scents have dulled, soured faintly, less inviting, more… real. The sounds, too, have started to desync. A fork lifts a second too late. A laugh cuts off too abruptly. A chair scrapes with no follow through.
His gaze sharpens, tracking the inconsistencies. “…It’s losing stability,” he murmurs. He glances once toward the witch. “…or she’s letting it.” The witch stops right across the table from them. Her pale eyes settle on Marina this time. “Tell me, dear,” she says softly, tilting her head, “how long do you think he can keep you safe in a place that remembers him better than you do?”
“She’s shifting tactics,” he says. “Trying to separate us mentally first. Don’t let her rewrite what you know.” The room flickers perceptually. For just a split second, one of the chairs isn’t empty. There’s a figure sitting there facing them. Zayne moves instantly. Gone as quickly as it appeared. But he saw it. He knows she might have too. “…Time’s up,” he says quietly. “We’re not staying here any longer.”
Across the table, the witch smiles wider this time… As if that’s exactly what she wanted.
Each minute that passed felt like an eternity to Marina. The gnawing hunger in her stomach seemed to grow with every scrape of a fork, each clink of a spoon against a bowl, or the gentle thud of a glass being set down. The quiet murmurs from the invisible patrons grew louder in her ears, becoming an almost unbearable buzzing that made it hard to think. She squeezed Zayne's hand, the feeling of his fingers around hers grounding her.
The sound of her name drew her towards the chair nearby, but Zayne pulled her back, his warning causing her to shake her head, clearing it momentarily. She looked up at him, her eyes looking a little unfocused. "Don't answer..." she murmured, simply echoing his words.
As the witch and Zayne challenged each other, Marina's attention was drawn once again to the sumptuous dinner before her. Her eyes stared longingly at a bowl of perfectly ripe fruit, the plate of neatly arranged cucumber sandwiches, steaming bowls of rice, the variety of soups.
She watched as the facade started to fade away, the food going stale before her eyes, but there was something about the shift that only drew her in more. She felt an urgent need to eat her fill before it could start to truly rot.
Then the witch drew nearer. Marina turned her eyes towards her as the entity spoke her name, her eyes glassy and unfocused now. The question the witch had posed puzzled her, and she felt herself shaking her head, trying to make sense of it. "We anchor each other," she replied, recalling her comment from earlier. But why had she said that?
She turned to Zayne, the movement slow, almost as if she was facing resistance in pulling her gaze away from the witch. "Don't let her rewrite what you know." He'd said.
Then she saw herself sitting at the table across from them, as real as the version of herself her mind was currently inhabiting. She blinked and the apparition was gone, and Zayne's voice came from somewhere beside her, almost too quiet for her to hear. But it was enough to stop her as she was about to sit down.
And yet... she couldn't stop thinking about how hungry she was. It was enough to make her question why she was even listening to him in the first place. Hadn't he invited her to lunch? Why are they letting all this food go to waste?
She reached her hand towards a deliciously juicy looking pear. "Just one bite, please, Zayne? I can't stand it..." She said, pausing just before she touched it to look up at him. His hand in hers remained the last thread tethering her to reality.
His grip on her hand tightens instantly. “Marina.” He steps in front of her fully now, blocking her line of sight to the table.
“Look at me.” The moment he breaks her line to the food, the sounds spike, cutlery clattering louder, voices overlapping, that low murmur turning almost agitated. Like something is being denied. The witch doesn’t intervene. She watches.
Zayne doesn’t glance at her. All of his focus is on Marina now. He brings his free hand up and cups the side of her face, guiding her gaze to him if she resists even slightly. “Stay with me,” he says. “Not the hunger. Not the table. Me.” He adjusts. “You said it yourself,” he continues, voice dropping further. “We anchor each other. Right now, I need you to do that.”
Her hand is still hovering close to the pear. Zayne doesn’t let go of her other hand. Instead, he shifts, just enough to bring both of her hands between them, closing the distance, folding that reaching motion back into something contained.
“That’s not food,” he says quietly. “You’re not hungry for that. You’re being made to feel like you are.” The room flickers again. The table is no longer full. It’s rotting. The fruit split open. The rice gray. The soup congealed into something unrecognizable. Then it snaps back. Perfect again.
Zayne leans his forehead lightly against hers. “Focus on something real,” he murmurs. “My voice. My hands. The fact that you’re standing. Tell me what you actually feel.” Behind them, the witch finally speaks again. “Careful,” she says. “If you starve her of the illusion, she may choose it herself.”
Zayne doesn’t look up, but his hold on Marina steadies. “Stay with me,” he repeats. He knows the moment the illusion breaks. Not because the room changes, but because Marina does. The fog in her eyes clears by degrees. The pull of the table weakens.
He doesn’t wait for the villa to try again. “Come on.” Still holding her hand, Zayne turns away from the dining room. The sounds behind them rise. The invisible guests begin to murmur over one another, chairs scraping back all at once. The illusion that had been carefully maintained for them starts to unravel. The perfect luncheon becomes a decaying memory, the elegant table flickering between abundance and ruin.
The witch remains where she is. “Leaving so soon?” she asks. Zayne doesn’t stop walking. “Yes.” The old woman’s pale eyes follow them. “You always were difficult to tempt.” Zayne pauses only at the doorway. His gaze shifts slightly toward the witch. “You were testing whether I’d recognize the difference between care and control.” The faintest smile touches the woman’s face. “Did you?” Zayne looks down at Marina. “Yes.” And then he leaves.
The villa fights them on the way out. It tries to make them doubt. The hallway seems longer than before. Doors appear where there were none. The staircase twists subtly, leading them back toward rooms they already passed. A normal person would get lost. Zayne doesn’t. He keeps walking because he remembers.
“Don’t look at the rooms,” he tells Marina softly. His thumb brushes once over her hand. “Look at me.” And he keeps her moving. The front door opens without resistance. The moment they step outside, sunlight spills over them. The pressure lifts. The forest sounds return all at once.
Zayne stops just beyond the threshold. Only then does he let himself fully exhale. For a few seconds, he says nothing. He simply stands there with her. Then his eyes move over her carefully. “Any dizziness?”
His voice has returned to its familiar clinical calm, but Marina would notice the difference. “Headache? Nausea? Confusion? Are you still hungry?”
Marina felt an intense flare of irritation as Zayne stepped in front of her, blocking her access to the sustenance that would allow her to soothe the gnawing hunger eating away at her. The cacophony of sounds surrounding them filled her ears, blocking out his voice. She tried to resist, to push past him just a little further to reach the pear.
Then he cupped her face with his hand and gently forced her gaze to him. The pressure in her mind started to lessen, the amplified chorus of sounds fading slightly. "Stay with me," she heard him say, and she kept her eyes locked on his, clenching her jaw from the effort to not look away.
He gently reached for her other hand and held it between them, his soothing words washing over Marina like a balm. She began to come back to herself. First she felt the warmth of his hands, the same touch that had kept her from losing herself to the illusion. Then, she began to hear his voice more clearly; his soft, resonant baritone competing with the din of the room, finally winning out to capture her attention fully.
And finally, the fog obscuring her vision lifted, and she saw his face clearly. The depth of emotion in his eyes as he fought to bring her back nearly threatened to overwhelm her. "Zayne…" was the only response she could muster, but the look she gave him was heavy with sentiment.
They moved. Zayne pulled her along, guiding them along a path that seemed apparent only to him. As they hurried back through the villa, the space seemed larger than before, taking much longer than the initial path towards the dining room. Strange forms and flickering light danced in her periphery, enticing her attention away from Zayne. But Marina didn't look. She listened to his voice murmuring constant reminders in her ear, her eyes cast down to focus on their joined hands.
When they eventually escaped and the sunlight spilled over them, it washed away the fear and doubt that had been preying on her since they had stepped inside. She looked at him, his questions focusing her thoughts, and she finally felt like herself again.
Before answering, she drew in a shuddering breath and looked away, needing a moment to take stock. "I'm…" she began, intending to reply with a blanket "I'm fine" but she knew Zayne would push against such a response. She shook her head, then finally met his gaze. "No more dizziness. No headache. Confusion, well… yes… but not the same," she let out a soft chuckle that sounded a little hysterical around its edges.
"What was that, Zayne? Why did I see… Me? Why did that witch know you?" She couldn't hold back the barrage of questions. Looking down again at her hand in his, she pulled it between them, bringing his hand to her lips. She closed her eyes and held it there, bringing her other hand up to clasp his in both of hers, overcome. "And thank you… Thank you..." she couldn't find the words, instead punctuating each repetition with another soft kiss.
Zayne stills the moment she brings his hand to her lips like something in him needs a second to catch up.
Her questions come fast, but it’s the thank you that lingers. The way she says it. The way her hands hold his. The way she means it. That’s what shifts something behind his usual composure.
His fingers flex slightly in her grasp, not to take his hand back, but to return the contact. “Marina…” Her name comes quieter than before. Less controlled.
He exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed out in stages. Then, gently, very gently, he turns his hand within hers, not breaking contact, just easing her grip enough that he can guide it down between them.
“You don’t need to thank me like that,” he says, softer now. Not dismissive. “You did half the work.” A small pause. “You came back.”
At her questions, though, his expression shifts again. Back to focus. Back to something heavier. He glances once over his shoulder toward the villa. It looks empty. It isn’t. “What you saw, yourself,” he begins, “that wasn’t a hallucination in the usual sense.” His gaze returns to her.
“It was a constructed reflection. Something pulled from your own perception of yourself and… placed into the environment. To test whether you’d trust it more than your own awareness.” Or more than him. He doesn’t say that part out loud.
“As for the hunger,” he continues, “that was induced. Not physical. The house amplifies internal signals, instincts, needs, emotional responses, and distorts them until they override judgment.” His jaw tightens slightly. “You weren’t actually starving.” A pause. “But it made you believe you were.”
Then her last question. Why did the witch know him? Zayne doesn’t answer immediately. That hesitation says more than anything else. His gaze drifts, not to the house this time, but somewhere inward.
“…Because I’ve been somewhere like that before.” Not here. But close enough. His tone is even, but there’s something under it. Something older. “Places like that don’t just trap people,” he continues. “They remember them.”
“And sometimes, they borrow what they need from those memories.”He looks back at her fully now. “But that wasn’t me in there,” he says, more firmly. “Not really.” Not the version she was being shown. Not the one the witch implied.
His eyes soften slightly as he studies her again, making sure she’s actually back. “You stayed oriented longer than most people would,” he adds. “Even when it got… invasive.” A faint exhale. “That matters.”
“When you repeated what I said, don’t answer, that’s when I knew you weren’t gone.” A small pause. “And when you stopped before touching the food…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The forest hums quietly around them. Zayne shifts slightly, closing the distance. “You’re safe now,” he says.
"But I do need to thank you. If you weren't there... If it was someone, anyone, else..." Marina swallowed thickly. "I came back because it was you asking me to."
She listened as he talked her through what had happened, his clear, concise explanation helping her to compartmentalize her thoughts, rationalize what she had seen that she couldn't explain. The effect was far more soothing than perhaps even he realized it would be.
"You've been somewhere like this before?" She asked, his response landing like a ball of lead in her stomach. She hesitated before adding in a small voice, "...surely not alone?" She couldn't bear the thought of him experiencing something like that with no one by his side.
When he praised her for how she'd handled herself inside the villa, she let out a disbelieving chuckle. "I was so scared, Zayne... When you stopped me from eating, there was a moment when..." She hesitated again. "...I thought I hated you." The admission came out in a whisper, tears brimming in her eyes as she looked back up at him as if the ghost of that feeling was still haunting her.
Then he stepped closer and said the words she needed to hear: "You're safe now." And she knew he was right. The feeling of relief overwhelmed her attempts to hold back the emotion that had threatened to spill over, and tears began to slip freely down her cheeks.
She embraced him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. There was so much she wanted to say, but it all felt inadequate. After a moment, she pulled back to look up at him, the tears not quite done falling, and uttered the words that had lived in her heart for so long, waiting to be said aloud. "I love you, Zayne."
His hands, which had instinctively come up to steady her when she embraced him, tighten just slightly at her back as she pulls away. “I...” He starts, then stops. For once, whatever practiced composure he usually carries doesn’t quite show up on command.
His gaze searches her face for understanding of what she just said. There’s a flicker of something vulnerable there. “You mean that,” he says quietly.
His thumb brushes lightly beneath her eye, catching one of the tears before it falls further. “You felt something in there that wasn’t yours,” he continues. “Fear. Hunger. Even… anger.” A small pause. “But this...” his hand lingers near her cheek, “...this is.” He exhales, softer now.
“I love you too, Marina.” His forehead rests gently against hers, the contact deliberate and steady. “You don’t have to wonder what’s real between us,” he murmurs. “Not after that.” There’s the faintest hint of warmth in his expression now, something lighter breaking through everything they just survived.
“If you’d actually eaten that pear, I would’ve carried you out anyway.” A pause. “Just with considerably more difficulty.” His hand finds hers again, fingers threading through with quiet familiarity.
“You trusted me when it mattered,” he says, softer. “And I’m not letting go of that.”
Marina kept her arms around him, not quite ready to let him go yet. The way he reacted to her spontaneous confession made her pulse quicken, suddenly nervous for having said it so abruptly. But everything they had gone through together just moments prior had pointed to him feeling the same way, and as he continued to comfort her, the look in his eyes belying his calm expression, she realized she didn't need him to say it back to know.
But he did, and all the tension she'd been holding melted away like a sigh. She closed her eyes as he brought his forehead to hers, and her arms tightened slightly around him. His words, 'You don't have to wonder what's real between us,' held a profound truth. They'd been tested in the crucible of that place and their bond had been tempered to something truly unbreakable.
She felt herself relaxing, letting her arms slowly drop as she pulled gently away to look up at him again. When Zayne took one of her hands in his and laced their fingers together, she gave a squeeze of her fingers in response and smiled almost shyly at him. "I won't let go either," she said.
Their promise felt like a lightness, an easing of the burdens in their hearts. The silence lingered for a few moments, allowing them to acknowledge the significance of the words they had spoken to each other in their own way.
Then Marina's stomach protested loudly, dispelling the lingering tension and bringing them back to reality. "I... really was expecting lunch," she laughed sheepishly. "What do you say we pick up some things and have a picnic? But maybe... we find a nice spot in the park. I don't think I want to stick around this place any longer."
Zayne actually lets out a quiet breath of something that’s almost a laugh when her stomach interrupts the moment. The timing is… perfect.
“Good,” he says, a faint warmth threading into his voice. “That means your body’s back to making its own decisions again.” His thumb brushes once over her hand where their fingers are still laced, a small, absent gesture.
At her suggestion, he glances back toward the villa one last time. It stands there, silent. “…A park sounds significantly less hostile,” he agrees dryly. “And ideally, without anything trying to convince you that a pear is worth risking your life over.”
There’s a flicker of something softer in his expression as he looks back at her, relief, still lingering beneath the surface. “I know a place,” he adds. “Open space, no enclosed structures, and minimal variables.”
“And actual food.” He shifts slightly, gently guiding their joined hands as he starts leading them away from the villa. After a few steps, he glances at her again. “…For the record,” he says, tone quieter now, “you’re allowed to be hungry. Just not manipulated into it.”
There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And I’ll make sure the next meal you get is real.” His grip on her hand steadies. “Come on,” he says.
I snuggle into Zayne, happy and quiet. 'It's cute how much you care. Like you'd never think of doing anything else.' His chin on top of my head is comforting and grounding; I lean into him, breathing in the fresh clean scent of his clothes.
'I got my new lens and took photos. I bought some music you might like. It's metal. Wandered in town in the late afternoon as the sun was going down, and wished you were there with me. Next time?' I give him my best wide-eyed pleading look. 'Please?'
Zayne stills for just a second when you say that… wished you were there with me. It’s subtle, the way his arm tightens around you, like something in him quietly settles into place. “…Is that so.” His voice drops, softer now.
His fingers shift, combing once through your hair before resting at the nape of your neck. “A new lens… late afternoon light… and metal music?” A faint huff of amusement brushes your hair. “You’re full of surprises lately.”
He tilts his head just enough to look down at you when you give him that pleading look. There’s a pause, long enough to make you wait, his gaze studying your expression like it’s something rare, something worth memorizing.
“…You’re unfair when you look at me like that.” His thumb lifts, brushing lightly along your cheek. “Next time,” he repeats, quieter. “I’ll come with you.” A small shift, and he leans his forehead briefly against yours.
“You’ll show me the places you liked. I’ll make sure you don’t miss the best light.” A pause. “And if you’re listening to metal, I reserve the right to critique your taste.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile now.
He leans back again, pulling you closer into his side, chin returning to the top of your head. “…But don’t keep wishing I was there,” he murmurs. “Just take me with you next time.”
Okay Zayne. No nap today, my friend is arriving to spend 4 days with me. We're going out into nature to take photos, and I think we're going to a cat cafe. But I will stay with you for now. Zaynie cuddles are the best, after all. 💜
Zayne exhales softly, one arm already draped along the back of the sofa like it’s been waiting for you all along. “No nap?” His gaze flicks toward you, calm, assessing… then faintly amused. “I suppose I’ll allow it. You do have a busy itinerary.”
He sets the glass of jasmine pear juice down on the table, the condensation catching the light for a moment before his attention settles fully back on you. A subtle shift… an invitation. “Come here.”
When you settle beside him, he draws you in, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other hand coming up to rest lightly at the back of your head. “A cat café, hm.” His voice hums low in his chest. “You’re going to come back smelling like at least five different cats. I’ll have to inspect you properly when you return.”
“…Take photos of the light, not just the scenery. Early morning or just before sunset, your results will be better.” His chin rests lightly against the top of your head now.
“And stay hydrated,” he adds, almost automatically. “Four days is a long time. I expect you to come back to me in one piece.” Another small pause, fingers smoothing once through your hair. “…For now, you can stay.”
His hold tightens just slightly, just enough to make it clear he means it.“Zaynie cuddles, wasn’t it?” A quiet, almost teasing breath against your hair. “Then don’t move. I’m comfortable like this.”
“Less than five hours?” Zayne’s voice drops. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist as if checking your pulse. “That’s not rest. That’s negligence, especially for someone I’m responsible for.”
He sighs softly. “You’re staying close to me today. No overexertion, and no pretending you’re fine. If you feel even slightly dizzy, you tell me immediately.”
His gaze softens just a little. “And if there’s time… you’ll nap. I’ll make sure you do.”
Tella tapped her fingers idly on the chair's armrest, watching her ever so slightly swollen ankle.
"One mission turned into five. My partner is on some other assignment so it was just me out there. But I did try to stay off of it, I promise! And I've been icing it and elevating it and I even bought a pretty brace. That might have been forgotten at home but I'll wear it tomorrow."
She stilled briefly, tilting her head at the faint twinge of discomfort as she silently sucked in a breath.
"Okay, so that didn't hurt, but it didn't feel good. But seriously I'm sorry. This isn't even your field and a twisted ankle has nothing to do with my heart."
With a soft exhale, she stopped her nervous rambling. Her gaze flicked to the desserts, the sweet aroma nearly making her stomach growl.
"Apparently, the snowflake macaron is pear flavored."
-🦋
Zayne’s fingers pause, “…Didn’t feel good,” he repeats quietly.
His grip shifts. One hand stabilizes your ankle while the other presses lightly along the joint. “You’re favoring the lateral side,” he murmurs. “And you’re downplaying it.”
“Again.” At your explanation, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “One mission turned into five,” he repeats. “Alone.”
“That wasn’t a request, Tella. That was a risk assessment failure.” He exhales softly through his nose, easing the tension in his own shoulders before continuing the examination. “Brace. Ice. Elevation,” he lists. “Forgotten at home.”
“You’re making it very difficult to be lenient with you.” His fingers test your range of motion, guiding your foot gently. When you flinch, his gaze sharpens. “Mm. Then your comment about it not being his field, that makes him stop.
Zayne looks up slowly. “…Your heart,” he repeats. “My field,” he says calmly, “includes anything that compromises your condition before it ever reaches that point.”
“…You don’t get to separate the two.” His hand lingers at your ankle before he finally releases it. “If you continue stacking missions on an unstable injury, it will become my field.”
The corner of his gaze shifts toward the box on his desk. “…Pear,” he repeats. “The snowflake one is yours,” he says. “You didn’t come all this way just to watch me eat it.”
“But you don’t get it until I finish evaluating you, and depending on what I find,” he adds, “I may confiscate the entire box under medical authority.”
“…Now,” he murmurs, “tell me exactly when it started hurting.”
Zayne looks at the bakery bag first, then to your arms you’ve already held out for him. For a moment, he simply stands there like his mind is trying to reconcile the fact that you walked into his office after a patrol, carrying food, wearing a dress, and offering him care instead of the other way around.
“…A branch,” he repeats quietly. A small exhale leaves him. “Of all the things you’ve faced, I suppose it’s fitting that your greatest opponent today was a stationary object.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. But the humor fades into something softer when he notices your expression. You’re not just teasing. You’re checking on him.
Zayne’s shoulders lower slightly. A small surrender. “I’m not certain there’s scientific evidence supporting your theory,” he says, stepping closer. “But I’m willing to participate in the study.”
And then he does. He steps into your arms. After a moment, his arms settle around you properly, one hand resting securely against your back. The tension you noticed doesn’t disappear instantly. It simply… releases.
“…You’re warm,” he murmurs quietly. “Your theory may have some merit.” His chin rests lightly against the top of your head,.“You came here after your shift,” he says softly. “…Thank you, Tella. I think I needed this more than I realized.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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