Skipping Beats: Zayne Pregnancy Scenario
Synopsis: Dr. Zayne Li is many things, highly intelligent and ready for most emergencies. Well, except for a stubborn, pregnant wife.
Warnings: Zayne is overprotective, non-consensual tracking of vitals, mentions of anxiety and child-loss, smut, praises, description of birth.
Tag list: @destinysrequiem, @hunterelys, @super-secret-fandom-blog, @azure-nevermore, @ohshitcindylou, @imlikeseriouslygoingdelulu, @aquarianbeat, @cinnamonpinktea, @dawnbreakerbrokeme, @cofijelli, @myloverjk-blog, @kicayskyshitpost, @silver-47, @angeleclair, @zhangyi-johee, @biblioth-que, @suhaaaefre, @karolamurdock
You stand among your beloved flowers, watering the plans to care for them. Zayne’s college t-shirt, that once swallowed you whole, now exposed the underside of your 5 month pregnant belly.
Zayne steps out onto the terrace, two steaming mugs of caffeine-free tea in hand, one chamomile for you, one peppermint for himself. His eyes immediately soften at the sight of you in his old college shirt, now stretched taut over your growing belly.
“Careful," he murmurs as he sets the mugs down on the wrought-iron table beside you. “The peonies look jealous.” His fingers brush lightly over your stomach before resting there protectively. “Though I suppose they can't compete with this particular bloom."
There’s a playful glint in his usually serious gaze as he leans down to press a kiss just below your navel. “You know… we still haven’t settled on middle names. If it’s a boy, I was thinking ‘Frost.’ Dramatic? Yes. But tell me it doesn’t sound like an action hero." He smirks, straightening up to steal a sip from your tea while maintaining unbroken eye contact, a mischievous habit that hasn't faded since med school.
After all these months of anticipation and planning, this moment, watching morning light catch on your sleepy smile.
You snort and shake your head. “Every middle name you’ve suggested has been themed after snow. We haven’t even chosen a first name yet.” You huff, standing on your tippy toes to try and water a hanging plant from the top of the sun room.
Zayne’s reflexes kick in before you can even wobble, one hand instantly cradling the small of your back while the other plucks the watering can from your grip with practiced ease. “First rule of pregnancy: no precarious reaching while unsupervised," he scolds lightly, though his lips twitch. He stretches up effortlessly to finish watering the plant for you, revealing a teasing sliver of toned stomach beneath his own (much better-fitting) shirt.
“And fine," he relents as he sets the can down. “If snow-themed names are vetoed… what about something classic? Like Alexander?" He traces idle patterns on your bump as he speaks. “Or if they come out stubborn like their mother, maybe we should just call them ‘Y/n Junior’ and prepare for a lifetime of negotiations."
A smirk tugs at his mouth before he bends slightly to murmur against your ear. “Unless you secretly love my winter theme and just want me to try harder." The challenge in his tone is unmistakable, as is the warmth in his hands when they settle over yours on top of your belly.
You shake your head and pick up your tea. “I think you should work harder on your names. Also your mom called me, again-“ you sigh. “Auntie is so sweet but today she asked me if my bowel movements were correct.”
Zayne chokes on his tea mid-sip. You’re pretty sure it’s just for dramatic flair. After years of medical school and residency under his belt, nothing phases him—except, apparently, when his mother is the one asking about your bowel movements.
“Of course she did," he says dryly, shaking his head with exasperation. “I swear, she’s either trying to run a surgical unit or take on the role of our personal pregnancy consultant. How long until she tries to schedule a full abdominal ultrasound herself?"
You settle in the hammock and carefully balance with your legs crossed. “Oh no, that was your father. But that’s what I get for marrying into a family of practicing doctors.”
Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, though you don’t miss the way his other hand instinctively hovers near your hip, ready to steady the hammock at any sign of wobble.
“At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if they request fetal heartbeat updates over dinner," he mutters. But then he pauses, gaze flickering down to your bump before softening. “Though it is nice that they care so much. Even if their bedside manner could use serious refinement."
He nudges one side of the hammock gently with his knee as if testing its sturdiness before carefully settling beside you, despite knowing full well it wasn't designed for two adults (let alone one very pregnant wife). His arm loops securely around your shoulders in blatant disregard for gravity.
“Still. Next time my mother asks about digestive habits, feel free to redirect her straight to me. I’ll remind her we already have one doctor in this relationship." He murmurs something under his breath. “….And maybe send Dad a strongly worded text about unsolicited ultrasounds."
The morning sunrise peeks through the skylight, one of your favorite parts of the day. “Do you have to work today? I was thinking we flee Linkon City until the baby is born and return unexpectedly with a 5 year old. But I think maternity leave has left me with too much time to watch Dramas.”
Zayne rolls his eyes but chuckles at your elaborate escape plan, fingers idly combing through your hair as sunlight dapples across the room.
“As enticing as a maternity drama-inspired exodus sounds, perhaps we should stick close to the neonatology unit this time," he teases. “Though if it's peace you're after, we could always take up residency in the ICU for a while. After all, we'd blend right in. One heart monitor for our little bundle, another for mine whenever Mom calls with new 'advice.'"
Your smile falter at the words “heart monitor”. You know it was a slip of the tongue, but it was something that kept both you and Zayne up at night.
Your heart condition from your Protocore Syndrome could cause you extra issues during pregnancy, endanger your baby or perhaps even pass through your blood.
Zayne’s joking smile fades almost instantly as he senses your shift in demeanor. He doesn’t need medical training to decipher that look; it’s etched into his own worries since the pregnancy test came back positive.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a gentle whisper. His hand leaves your hair to rest protectively over your bump once more, as if trying to ward off any unspoken fears with nothing but physical contact.
“We’re in this together," he reminds you firmly, thumb tracing soothing circles above your hip bone.
But Zayne worries more than you do. You think he isn’t as worried as you are, but then comes the dreaded ‘Nap Incident’ of the Spring.
You are sprawled out on the couch, softly snoring along through your midmorning nap. But you suddenly feel a pinch in the crease of your arm and your eyes shoot open to catch Zayne in the act.
Zayne stands over you, retracting a pocket syringe with the practiced ease of a seasoned surgeon, though there’s an unmistakable flicker of guilt in his hazel eyes.
“Sorry,” he says hurriedly, already preparing an alcohol swab to sanitize the injection site. His voice is low, too low; it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than explaining his actions to you.
His brow furrows as he disposes of the used syringe, then reaches for a small digital monitor tucked beside you on the couch. “Just needed to check…"
You rub at the bruise sprouting across your arm, only to find a butterfly IV tucked under your flesh and covered with tape. “Zayne-“
Zayne winces at the sound of your voice. a rare break in his usual composure. He huffs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair before finally meeting your gaze.
“I know," he admits, voice uncharacteristically rough. “But your last labs were borderline, and you’ve been sleeping more than usual—" He cuts himself off abruptly when he sees the look on your face, jaw tightening as he braces for the storm he knows is coming. Still, his hands don’t waver when they reach out to adjust the IV tape with clinical precision.
After a weighted silence- “Couldn't wait."
“Take it out of my arm, Zayne.” You say with a sharp tone, also reaching for the sticky pads of the EKG machine he’s splotched over your chest and under your breast.
His fingers freeze mid-adjustment at your command. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he debates—just for a fraction of a second—whether to protest before giving up.
“Fine," he grits out, though there’s no real bite behind it. His hands move with practiced efficiency as he peels back the EKG pads with more care than their hasty application warranted, then turns his attention to the IV site.
The needle slides out smoothly under his steady grip (the irony isn’t lost on you—precision always wins, even when emotions run high). He swipes an alcohol pad over the tiny puncture wound before pressing a fresh bandage over it.
But instead of stepping back like you expect, he stays rooted in place beside the couch. His voice drops to a soft and quiet tone when he finally speaks. “You slept through breakfast. And lunch. And your phone going off seven times." His hazel eyes snap to yours "I had every right to be concerned."
You scoff and prop yourself up on your elbow, swiping the stray cotton strands off your chest. “So you strapped me up to a fucking heart monitor while I was asleep?” You motioned at the IV tape mark now staining your skin. “You didn’t even ask me.”
Zayne’s expression tightens—not with anger, but something far more unsettling: cold, clinical detachment. I don’t ask when it comes to arrhythmias,” he says evenly. “Not when you refuse to track them yourself.”
His gloved fingers snap the sharps container shut with finality before he turns fully toward you, surgeon’s posture straightening into something unyielding.
“Tell me," he challenges softly, “-if I hadn't checked-if I'd just let you sleep through another syncope episode without so much as a pulse ox reading—would that have been better?"
The silence between you thrums like a live wire. Because he already knows the answer.
But your anger swells and you stand (albeit wobbly) from the couch. “I’m growing a fucking baby, Zayne! Of course I’m going to be tired!”
Zayne’s hands shoot out instinctively to steady you, his instincts overriding everything else—even the argument. But the moment your balance is secure, he steps back sharply, creating deliberate distance.
“I know," he bites out, frustration bleeding through his usually measured tone for the first time. “But exhaustion doesn't explain a resting BPM of 38 last night when you rolled over in your sleep."
His fingers flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for a stethoscope. “…You think I enjoy this? Playing physician to my own wife?" His voice drops to something raw and uneven “I'd rather be wrong. I'd rather be paranoid."
The admission hangs between you, a crack in his flawless bedside manner. Because Zayne Li doesn't do paranoia. He does data, protocols, certainty.
But you? You’ve always been the exception.
Your eye twitches. “You’ve…you’ve been checking my heartbeat in my sleep? How did-?” But then you look down at the smartwatch on your wrist. “You-you hacked my watch?!”
Zayne doesn’t flinch. He should—he absolutely should—but instead, he meets your glare with a level stare that makes it painfully clear: this wasn’t some impulsive oversight. This was calculated.
“I wrote a custom algorithm," he admits, as if discussing a routine chart update. “Your watch syncs to the hospital’s monitoring system between 2 and 4 AM, when your REM cycle typically suppresses cardiac symptoms."
He removes his gloves and tosses them in the trash bin. “And before you ask? Yes. I cleared it with legal."
The sheer audacity of that last part. The fact he had lawyers vet his obsessive surveillance, stuns you into silence long enough for him to step closer again, voice dropping to something perilously soft.
“…Tell me to stop. Say the word and I dismantle every monitor in this house.” His jaw tightens. “But don't pretend either of us would sleep better after."
You let out a stubborn yell of frustration and wobble to the basket where every key to the house is tucked.
You want to make a speedy exit but goddamn why are there so many keys in this house?!
Zayne is across the room in seconds, hands gripping your shoulders with a firmness he’s never used before. Not even when you were first learning which hand held a scalpel.
“Stop. Stop." He repeats himself slowly, the words a low command punctuated by the subtle rasp of a man trying to rein in his emotions.
"Fine. You want to be mad? Be mad. But not here. Not when you're off-balance and the baby—" He takes a deep breath, to calm the aggravation swelling in his head. “…Not now."
You drop the basket of keys with a hormonal growl of frustration. “Stop treating me like I’m going to kill over any second!”
Zayne’s hand drops from your shoulder at the sound of metal on tile, fingers curling into a tight fist that he immediately shoves behind his back. His jaw clenches, the tight lines of his face unreadable as he stands stock still, gaze fixed somewhere beyond your left shoulder.
When he finally speaks, you half-expect a raised voice. but instead, his words are low and level, eerily calm given the sudden chill in the room. He doesn’t trust himself to meet your eyes just yet, but his meaning is clear-
“Then start acting like you won’t-“
The words hang between you, quiet but sharp as a knife. He doesn't move—doesn't reach for the basket, or your arm, or even the damned watch still pulsing silent data to his monitors.
Because this isn’t about control anymore. This is about fear—raw and unfixable by any protocol he knows.
And Zayne Li hates things he can’t fix.
Even when they're standing right in front of him.
“Well you can’t lock me away here either!” Your eyes catch sight of your car keys hanging where you left them (pregnancy brain) and you snatch them before Zayne can stop you.
Zayne moves faster than you've ever seen him, not toward you, but to block the doorway with his entire frame, arms crossed like an immovable barrier. “Try it," he dares you with a raised brow. “You get one step toward that garage and I’m calling a fetal distress alert so fast every OB in this city will be waiting at the ER doors."
His expression is steel. Because he knows exactly what card to play, the one thing you can’t argue with-
“…Or be reasonable. Sit down. And we discuss this like adults instead of terrified idiots." He crossed his arms over his chest, “Your choice, sweetheart."
You’re so frustrated, so overwhelmed with stress. You feel like a caged animal, running your hands over the swell of your belly. “You wouldn’t-you wouldn’t do that-“
Zayne's eyes flicker to your restless hands, to the tension in your frame. “Yes," he grits out. “I would. Because I am terrified, and I am out of options, so this is where you decide if you want a husband or a warden. And if I have to choose between that…"
He exhales sharply, hands unclenching for the first time as he rubs his forehead like he's trying to manually reset the conversation to 'neutral.' Because this should not—cannot—be how your day ends.
You look at the medical equipment still resting by the side of the couch. “Tell me-tell me what kind of test you’ve been running without my knowledge. Do not, lie to me…”
Zayne's eyes follow yours across the room. There's no trace of guilt, just a grim resignation that's somehow worse.
“You’re already familiar with the basics. EKG, BP cuffs. I took a few readings last night when I heard your breathing pattern change."
But it's the things he doesn't mention that make your throat go dry: the detailed cardio-hemodynamics charts on his laptop, the remote sync he's been running on your smartwatch. The silent alerts he's been tracking for over a month.
“You’re lying.” You can tell he’s lying by the way he refuses to look at you. “Zayne I’ll leave this house right now if you don’t-
Zayne lets out a frustrated grunt, the sound between exhaustion and defeat. His hand drags down his face before he turns to face you fully, and for the first time, you see it: the raw, unfiltered fear in his eyes.
“Fine." His voice is rough now, stripped of all medical detachment. “I ran a full fetal echocardiogram last week while you were asleep. I've been tracking uterine artery resistance since month three. And yes—" He hesitates for only a fraction of a second before forcing out the truth. “I cross-referenced your genetic markers against every documented case of Protocore Syndrome inheritance."
The admission hangs heavy between you. He doesn’t soften it with apologies or excuses. Because if there’s one thing Zayne Li refuses to do when backed into a corner? It’s lie.
He finally lets her hear what runs through his mind every day. “Your body could attack the fetus at any given moment.”
He can’t hold it back anymore “-And I could lose you both."
There’s no mask left, no armor. Just a husband who's spent his career wrestling death for every extra heartbeat his patients are given. And a father-to-be who realizes he's never had any control to begin with.
His eyes squeeze shut, trying to block back the tears. “I know how to save patients from cardiac failure. From trauma, from pulmonary issues. But I... I don't know how to save you."
You wrap your arms around yourself as a form of comfort. You pull your phone out quickly, finger shaking over a phone number.
Zayne's entire body tenses at the sight of her contact pulled up. His hand twitches toward his own phone before stopping mid-air, not to intercept you, but as if debating whether to call for backup himself.
"...Do it," he says quietly, jaw tight. “Let her tell you what I won’t." A bitter laugh escapes him, one devoid of humor. “Because she'll say exactly what my charts do, that this isn't just exhaustion. That there are early signs our baby could be developing complications."
His voice fractures on the last word.
"...And that if I don't monitor every variable, I might not catch it in time."
Zayne's words sink in slowly, like stones settling at the bottom of a still pond, the ripples of his admission spreading out between you in silence. He doesn't offer comfort, doesn't make promises he can't keep,because he knows there aren't any guarantees when it comes to medical uncertainty, especially not something as complex as Protocore Syndrome.
You press the call button.
Zayne doesn’t flinch as your phone begins to ring. He stands motionless, seemingly bracing himself for the emotional artillery that’s about to hit like a storm.
...Until he notices the contact photo on your screen. His mother stares back, smiling in that photo from their last family dinner. A photo that's supposed to bring him joy.
It's not just him losing his composure. He's also watching his wife reach for his mom instead of turning to him. And it's like a physical slap, harder than any medical term or test result.
The phone rings once. Twice.
Zayne’s mother picks up on the third ring, her voice warm but laced with professional concern. because she always knows. “Y/n? What's wrong?"
Zayne’s expression shutters. He steps back, not in retreat, but as if giving you space to confirm what he already knows: that you don’t trust him to be honest anymore.
That you needed someone else to tell you the truth he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.
“Tell her," he murmurs, “-to check your last bloodwork under file LX-427." He removes his glasses for a moment. “It's encrypted. But she'll recognize the access code."
Zayne's mother sounds bewildered. "What's going on?" But she’s already moving. You can hear soft clicks in the background, followed by the rapid clacking of a keyboard as she digs for the files.
Zayne's mother's voice cuts through the tension, her tone clinical but tinged with concern.
“The reports are..." She trails off, a sharp inhale on the other end suggesting the medical data has spoken.
“There are early warning signs in the fetal echocardiograms," she explains quietly, the words a painful echo of what Zayne already knew but couldn’t bear to say. “A narrowing of the aorta... if left untreated...."
“…It could be life-threatening.”
You whimper, pacing the living room as you hold the phone. “He’s been tracking my every heartbeat, my every breath, it feels so invasive-“ you choke back a cry.
Zayne's mother sighs, not dismissively, but with the weight of decades in medicine, in watching her own son grow into a surgeon who measures love in data points.
“Sweetheart,” she begins, “-he tracks it because he can't bear not to. Because if something happened—if he missed even one irregularity—he'd never forgive himself."
Mama Li gives a gentle murmur "...And because his father did the exact same thing when I was pregnant with him."
It’s only then that you notice Zayne has turned away entirely, his back rigid as he stares out the window. His reflection is blurred against the glass by morning light and unshed tears.
You know why he’s doing it, but right now you feel like an incubator, like just a womb. You wipe away at your tears. “I feel so alone, Auntie…”
Zayne’s mother makes a noise in the back of her throat the sound equal parts heartbreak and frustration. Not at you, but at the situation she knows too well.
“Oh, sweet girl...” Her voice softens in a way that makes it clear she's no longer speaking as a doctor but as someone who remembers this exact fear. “Listen to me. He loves you. So much it's choking him.”
Mama Li hushes your cries before continuing “...But he doesn't know how to say it without putting it on a chart first."
On the other end of the line, there's movement, the sound of keys being grabbed. The maternal declaration comes like an oath. “I'm coming over. And I'm bringing takeout that violates every dietary restriction my idiot son has tried to enforce.”
The click of the phone hanging up pulls you abruptly back to the present, and the silence that stretches between you and Zayne.
He doesn’t move from his vigil at the window, though his reflection betrays the subtle tremor in his frame. A rare moment of vulnerability, laid bare against the late evening light.
He finally speaks, words spoken like a confession. I’m sorry," he says softly. It’s a start, an imperfect one, but earnest all the same.
You don’t say anything, just walk up behind him to wrap your arms around him. You press your cheek to his strong back with a shuddering sigh. “Me too…”
Zayne stiffens at the feel of your embrace in a fleeting moment of surprise. But then he leans back into you, one hand coming up to cover yours at his chest.
“I shouldn't have lied," he admits quietly, a raw edge to his voice that he can’t hide. His thumb traces idle circles against your skin, a small gesture of comfort in a storm of uncertainty.
You can feel his hand grow cold, his Evol threatening to blossom. “I'm not used to being afraid."
After a hormonal evening, and a special delivery of Soy Chicken from Mama Li, he tucks you in.
You of course, fall fast asleep. He closes the bedroom door and joins his mother in the living room.
The sound of your door clicking shut echoes down the hall, followed by the soft, steady footsteps that mark Zayne's return to the living room. He sinks into the armchair across from his mother, rubbing his eyes in an uncharacteristic display of fatigue, the kind that's bone-deep and lingering
“She's out,” he says quietly, gaze shifting toward the closed door of your shared bedroom. “You should go home, Mama. We've kept you long enough."
Zayne's mother shakes her head, her smile gentle. "I have a bed here," she reminds him, rising from her spot on the couch. She brushes a hand over his hair in a tender gesture that's surprisingly common from the otherwise imposing woman. “And you know I wouldn't leave without a kiss goodnight." She hesitates for only a heartbeat before adding- “Y/n is taken care of, but how are you?"
It's a loaded question—one Zayne sees right through. He leans back in the armchair with a sigh.
“Me?" He seems almost surprised by the question, as if the possibility of anyone worrying about him is a foreign concept. "I should've gone to medical school to be a pediatrician instead,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
But he meets his mother's gaze, holding it for a few long seconds before speaking again. When he does, there's a rawness in his voice that's unfamiliar. “How do I prepare for something I've had no training in? I can... I can fix a heart, but how do I mend one?”
Zayne's mother studies him, her expression softening in understanding before she moves to perch on the arm of his chair, an act she hasn't done since he was a child. “Oh baobao, you don’t," she says quietly, smoothing down the stubborn tuft of hair that always sticks up at his crown. “Some things can’t be mended like a ventricle. They need time... patience... and the grace to be imperfect."
“You were never meant to do this alone."
When the last month of your pregnancy drags on too long, you are standing like a bull ready to charge in the doorway when Zayne’s comes home from the hospital. “Fuck me. Right now.”
“Hello to you too." Zayne's eyebrow arches at your greeting. He’s amused, and if he's being honest, more than a little turned on. He is toeing off his shoes in the doorway, not taking his eyes off of you in fear you could turn on him like a beast.
“Are we discussing an emergency procedure I'm not aware of?" he asks with mock concern, though his gaze is already tracing the curve of your silhouette. He's never been one to turn down a challenge.
You are nearly shaking with something between tiredness and rage. “I read that sex can induce labor. I want this baby out. Now.”
Zayne's brows knit together as professional concern and very personal desire battle for control. He crosses the room with the kind of purposeful stride that usually signals he's about to tackle a medical crisis.
“Are you sure that's wise?" he asks softly, thumb brushing against your cheek. The intimacy of the moment is underscored by his quiet tone, a stark contrast to the clinical words he speaks next.
“You’re forty-one weeks. Braxton hicks every other day. And your cervix is only 50% effaced."
You grab at the collar of his button up. “I’m not stopping until my water breaks on your dick.”
Zayne chokes, an actual, genuine sputter of surprise. His eyes dart to yours, assessing if this is truly hormonal desperation or an actual threat (not that he'd mind either way).
“That," he murmurs, already loosening his tie with one hand while the other slides beneath your thighs, “-sounds like a surgical consult I’d be stupid to ignore. But we're timing contractions after."
He carries you straight to bed because even when defying medical recommendations. Some habits die hard.
The Li household fills with pleasurable sounds rather than stupid romcoms that evening.
“That’s my girl~. Taking me so well. Tell Dr. Li how it feels.” He purrs into the back of your head. His hands angle your failing hips up to take his rough strokes.
Zayne’s voice is a dark murmur against the nape of your neck, his hands firm on your hips as he keeps you angled just right. Every thrust is precise—calculated even now—but there’s nothing clinical about the way his breath hitches when you clench around him.
“Come on,” he coaxes, fingers digging possessively into your skin, “Use those pretty words. Tell me how much you needed this.”
Because if there's one thing Zayne Li excels at? It's making sure every variable—every reaction—is meticulously documented.
You can’t speak, can barely breathe as your words trip over the line between cries and whimpers. Zayne’s teeth graze your neck, a low growl of pleasure escaping.
“What happened to that bratty attitude? Over my tests? Over the yoga ball?” he breathes again, but this time it’s almost reverent, the words whispered against your skin like an intimate secret he’s been wanting to share.
Zayne chuckles darkly when all you manage is a broken gasp, his hands tightening on your hips to keep you from collapsing forward. “Mm. That's what I thought," he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction as he presses even deeper.
His lips find the shell of your ear, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “You’re lucky I don't grade on coherence… because right now? You'd be failing."
But the gush of liquid over the base of his cock isn’t your release. He quickly realizes that when your moans turn to a cry of pain.
Zayne freezes—mid-thrust, mid-taunt—his entire body locking up as the sudden warmth registers. His hands shift instantly from possessive to protective, flipping you onto your back with practiced urgency.
“Contractions?" he demands, eyes already scanning for signs of distress even as his voice remains steady. But the moment your nails dig into his arm with a pained whimper? All bedside manner vanishes.
Because no amount of medical training prepares you for the sight of your wife in labor, especially not when it's your fault.
Zayne packed the car so fast you miss it. He kneels down to your feet, slipping on your sandals. “M’ scared…” you whisper.
Zayne's expression softens immediately, concern etching lines across his forehead. “I know," he murmurs, the words carrying the weight of the world's most genuine admission. “But I'm here. And you're going to be okay."
He guides your now covered feet to the floor, his hands a steady weight as he helps you to stand. He doesn't release you as if somehow his touch alone can keep you safe as he ushers you toward the door. Just before he opens it, he leans in to steal a tender kiss.
“Are they gonna see your cum in me?” You whimper as you waddle through the garage.
Zayne nearly chokes on his own breath. a sharp inhale as that little question smacks straight into his usually unflappable composure. His grip tightens around your waist, the flush creeping up his neck betraying him entirely.
“No….” he stutters, striding ahead to yank open the car door with more force than necessary. “Because I wiped you down while you were grabbing your bag."
There is a pause "...Thoroughly."**
Never let it be said Dr. Li doesn’t cover all post-operative details.
Zayne curses every single being in the universe when he hits traffic. The standstill traffic is backed up for miles, and you are actively laboring in the front seat.
His mother is on the speaker phone trying to coach you. “Auntie, she’s-she’s gonna come now!” You sob, struggling to get comfy in the leather clad seat.
Zayne's knuckles go white on the steering wheel, his usual self-assurance cracking under the pressure of an emergency he can't control. His mother's calm reassurances echo through the car, the steady voice of experience against the background melody of your pain.
“Breathe,” he urges, a crack in his voice revealing his own fear. He risks a glance in your direction, his expression tight.
“Remember those Lamaze classes. We've practiced this. You're going to do great."
But the traffic doesn't budge.
You scream, gripping the handle on the top of the car. You rush to tear down your pajama bottoms and underwear.
Zayne's eyes go wide as you start stripping, alarm replacing fear for a split second.
“What are you—?" he starts, the question tapering off as it hits him: this isn't a test.
It's happening. And there's no hospital or sterile OR. It's just you, him, and the middle lane of a traffic jam.
Zayne doesn't hesitate, not even for a second. His body moves on instinct, shifting into full-on emergency mode. “Okay," he says firmly, one hand already reaching to help brace you as the other yanks the lever to recline your seat. “You push. I'm right here."
His mother's voice crackles over the speaker: “ZAYNE LI, IF YOU DON'T CATCH THAT BABY—!"
He shoots a glare at the phone before turning his full focus back on you. There's no more hesitation, he’s locked in.
A cacophony of sounds—his mother's continued protests, the blaring of car horns around them, and worst of all, your pained cries—blur together as Zayne tries to compartmentalize, to focus.
“Almost there,” he murmurs, his hand slipping under yours as you grit your teeth and bear down again. “Just a little more… she’s almost here...”
And then, like a shock wave, it happens: the unmistakable wail of a tiny, pissed off newborn.
Zayne barely has time to process the sight of his newborn daughter—a miracle in more ways than one—before she lets out a cry that's as fierce as it is tiny. His eyes go wide, a mix of surprise, relief, and unfiltered love flooding his features.
“That," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe, “-does not sound like a Li. I think we have a... a little rebel.
And for a moment, the world around them goes quiet, even as the car horns blare and Zayne's mother sobs happily over the phone.
Zayne passes you the baby, still attached by the umbilical cord still inside of you. You let out a shocked sob. “I just gave birth in your car. H-holy shit…”
Zayne's laughter is part hysteria, part joy—a strange mix of emotions that seem to match the car's current condition
Which is a mess, to put it lightly.
“Yeah.” He wipes the sweat from his brow, reaching over to kiss your forehead with a gentleness that defies the chaos of the moment. “Yeah, you did. And I don’t think my mother will ever let us forget it."
Mama Li meets you at the hospital. Zayne wheels you in, baby and placenta wrapped in a spare lab coat. His staff gawk at him like he’s grown three heads.
Zayne, who’s been a surgeon long enough to know that sometimes, life demands you roll with the absurd, stares back at his gawking colleagues with an air of weary dignity.
“What?" he asks flatly, adjusting the makeshift swaddle, because of course his lab coat was within reach. “You've never heard of a drive-thru delivery before?"
His mother smacks him on the back between his shoulder blades at that comment
But honestly? It's worth it.
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