𝐵𝒴𝐹: 18+ blog. Please read the Lookout's rule board. Please know that ageless blogs/individuals under 18+ will be blocked from my blog if found interacting with anything of my posts that are outside my sfw content.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝓀𝑜𝓊𝓉'𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇: Mid 20s, graduate RN, she/her, Jamaican. I consider myself an amateur writer with writing being a hobby of mine, but I have come to appreciate that people enjoy my writing!
𝐿𝑜𝑜𝓀𝑜𝓊𝓉'𝓈 𝑅𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝐵𝑜𝒶𝓇𝒹 (Rules)
𝑅𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓇𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 (Masterlist)
𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹𝓈
𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹𝓈 (Fandoms)
Love and Deepspace (current obsession)
Genshin Impact (not up to date with the game any more)
Black Butler
Stardew valley
Fields of Mystria
Solo Leveling
JJK
MHA
Demon Slayer
𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 (Who I mainly write for)
Love and Deepspace: All love interest; mainly Zayne (my main husband), Sylus and Caleb
Fields of Mystria: All male love interest (Mainly Hayden, March and Caldarus)
Solo Leveling: Sang Jin Woo, the shadows (They're my babies), etc
JJK: Nanami Kento (husband)
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
Setup: They say the Operating Theatre is the most controlled place in the hospital. Precise. Quiet. Unshakable. So why... Why does everything start to feel just a little off the moment you step inside? Maybe it’s the way the OR team suddenly seems… livelier. Maybe it’s the way Dr. Zayne’s usually untouchable composure shifts, just enough to be noticed, never enough to be addressed. Or maybe... It’s the way your presence lingers in places it shouldn’t. In glances that last a second too long.In explanations that were never meant to be said out loud. In a quiet room meant for rest… that becomes anything but. Because sometimes, even the steadiest hands can falter. Even the calmest minds can spiral. And sometimes… The only way to stop everything from falling apart is something you were never supposed to do.
Pairing: Zayne x Student nurse! Non-Mc! reader
Genre: Fluff, slight hurt/comfort, crack
Writer's notes: Gosh, it has been awhile and I just finally able to write this chapter. Hospital work isn't for the faint of heart. Anyways I hope you all enjoy.
First Previous Next
You were trying very hard to be normal.
Very. Hard.
This was your first proper OT rotation block.
Final year. Big deal. Important. Serious. Professional.
You were absolutely not going to embarrass yourself.
"Do not touch anything blue," the charge nurse reminded your small group.
"Yes, ma’am," you and your batchmates chorused.
Your eyes were already everywhere.
The lights. The trays. The rhythm. The silence.
And then
"This is Dr. Zayne, one of our attending cardiac surgeons," the charge nurse said.
One of your batchmates leaned closer to you immediately.
"Wait… that’s him?"
"That’s him," another whispered back, eyes wide.
"He was a junior resident like… what, two years ago?"
"Yeah," someone else murmured.
"He moved up fast."
"That’s insane," another breathed.
"Cardiac attending already?"
"I heard he’s ridiculously smart," one added.
"Like scary smart."
"And fast," another said.
"Like he just… skips levels or something."
"God," someone muttered softly, "no wonder everyone listens to him."
You swallowed.
Oh.
That explains… a lot.
Your brain short-circuited.
Oh.
Oh no.
The room shifted.
Subtle. Tiny.
But you felt it.
The OR team, which had been composed, efficient, and almost intimidatingly serious
Changed.
Zayne’s gaze swept the group, clinical, aloof, routine. It then paused.
On you.
A fraction too long. Something softer slipping through the usual steel.
Then-
His expression reset. The familiar, unyielding stare dropped back into place like a shield.
Not just slightly.
Collectively.
A scrub nurse’s shoulders shook once like she swallowed a laugh whole. The anaesthetist leaned over the drapes like he’d just found live entertainment. A circulating nurse whispered, not quietly enough
"Cardiac’s got a type."
"God-among-men just got promoted and immediately lost his mind," someone whispered.
"Shh, he’ll hear you."
"He always hears me."
"Doctor," The scrub nurse sing-songed, "your very important academic collaboration has arrived."
"Careful," the anaesthetist added. "He’s an attending now. His ego might freeze the room before his Evol does."
Zayne didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.
"Maintain sterility," he said, tone flat.
"Yes, sir, Attending Cardiac Physician," someone echoed under their breath.
"We will," she replied sweetly. "Emotionally? Can’t promise."
Another voice chimed in, "Should we brief her on your favourite sutures too, sir?"
"Or your favourite student nurse?"
"Quiet," someone laughed.
He ignored all of them. His ears, however, were pink.
You blinked. The charge nurse continued, oblivious or pretending to be.
"Final year student nurses. Observing today."
Zayne nodded.
Professional. Composed.
"Understood. Maintain sterility. Do not cross the field."
His voice didn’t change. But his ears?
Still slightly pink.
You saw it again.
One of the scrub nurses saw it too. Her grin widened behind her mask.
"Doctor," she said sweetly, "we’ll behave."
He ignored her.
You bit your lip. You were not going to smile. You were going to be professional.
You were failing.
The first surgery you observed with him felt like stepping into a different world.
Controlled. Precise.
Beautiful.
You stayed strictly outside the sterile zone, documenting timestamps, retrieving packaged sterile supplies when asked, watching the scrub nurse’s movements like your life depended on it.
You were good.
Focused.
Still a little fast in your head, but grounded.
Because he was there.
And he was…
Different.
You had seen him before on the hospital wards.
Calm. Controlled.
But here?
He was sharper. Faster.
There was a rhythm to him that felt almost like choreography.
"Suture," he said.
Already knowing it would be there.
Because his team moved with him.
And for some reason as you blinked, you can help but get the feeling that he was…
Showing off?
No.
That would be utterly ridiculous.
But the way his movements were just a little more fluid.
A little more deliberate. The way one of the nurses muttered under her breath
"He’s unusually insufferable today."
"He preened," another whispered.
"Surgeons don’t preen."
"That was preening."
"Let him," the anaesthetist murmured. "He’s in his courtship era."
"I am not," Zayne said flatly.
"You are," three voices answered at once.
"Scalpel," he said.
"Already in my hand, Doctor Zayne," the scrub nurse replied, far too pleased with herself.
By day three, the OR had changed. Not because of you.
(Okay. Maybe a little because of you.)
Because now they had material.
They were still efficient.
Still precise. But now
There was laughter.
Quiet. Contained.
But there.
"Student nurse, you good?" one of them asked when you paused mid-note.
"Yes," you said quickly. "Just processing."
"Don’t process too long," someone teased. "We move fast here."
"Blink twice if he’s intimidating you," another added.
"He intimidates everyone," a third said. "It’s part of the job description."
"He’s less scary today," the anaesthetist added lazily. "Must be the company."
"Doctor," the scrub nurse called, "you’re smiling with your eyes again. It’s unsettling."
"Focus," Zayne said.
"We are focused," she replied. "We’re focusing on you."
"Except when he’s showing off," another muttered.
"He is showing off," the scrub nurse said decisively.
"He is not," Zayne replied.
"You requested that instrument before I even reached for it," she shot back.
"Efficiency," he said.
"Mm. Romantic efficiency," she hummed.
"Focus," he repeated.
"We are focused," she said again, clearly not.
"She’ll keep up," another added easily.
You blinked. Warmth bloomed in your chest.
Zayne said nothing. But his gaze flicked to you
Checking.
Always checking.
The case later in the night was different.
Protocore syndrome.
You had only studied it. Never seen it.
The patient was stable at the start. Routine.
Until the room got a little too comfortable.
The anaesthetist tilted his head, eyes flicking between you and Zayne.
"Careful," he drawled. "He only does that sequencing thing when he’s trying to impress someone he likes."
A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the team.
"Doctor," the scrub nurse added sweetly, "should we document this as part of the teaching plan? Optimal technique while smitten?"
"Add it to the syllabus," another voice chimed in. "Week three: cardiac finesse and emotional compromise."
"We could publish," the anaesthetist continued lazily. "Case study: surgeon performance improves under romantic observation"
"Focus," Zayne said.
Too fast.
"By her," someone finished anyway.
A beat.
"Dangerous," the scrub nurse murmured, delighted.
"Continue," the anaesthetist said. "I’m invested."
"He only looks at someone like that when he’s already"
"Focus," Zayne repeated.
Sharper.
He subtly shifted his gaze as he blinked. Once. Twice.
Three times.
The anaesthetist went still. "Four," he whispered.
"Five," the scrub nurse mouthed.
"We’re witnessing something," another nurse added.
The anaesthetist leaned in slightly. "He only looks at someone like that when he’s already"
"Enough."
Immediate. Clean. Controlled.
Yet still too fast.
The line was cut before it could land.
But not before his gaze slipped.
To you.
And stayed.
A fraction too long.
Your pen stalled mid-note.
Then
"Suction," he said, voice flattening.
"Already here," the scrub nurse replied, far too pleased. "Noted."
"Documented," the anaesthetist added.
A small laugh escaped
Then died.
"Pressure’s dropping," anaesthesia cut in.
Everything snapped back.
Vitals shifted. Subtle.
Then sharp.
Zayne moved instantly, with precision returning like a switch flipped.
"Adjust. Now."
The room tightened. More Focused than ever before.
But something had already slipped.
You felt it. The temperature.
Dropping.
His Evol responding before his thoughts could stabilise.
His attention sharpened, but not fast enough to erase that fraction.
That glance. That lapse.
The patient dipped.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Enough for everyone to feel it.
Enough for him to know.
He corrected immediately.
Of course he did.
The surgery was a success.
Recovered. Stabilised.
Saved.
But the atmosphere didn’t quite return the same. And when it ended
He left. Immediately.
No debrief.
No lingering.
Gone.
You found him in the break room.
Empty. Lights dim. Cold.
Too cold.
His Evol was flaring.
Frost creeping along his arms. His breath uneven.
You stepped in slowly.
"Zayne?"
He didn’t respond. His mind was elsewhere.
Spiralling.
You approached carefully. Not rushing. Not loud.
"Hey…"
You reached for his hand.
Slow. Visible.
You waited. A second.
He didn’t pull away.
Your fingers intertwined with his. Warm against cold.
He inhaled sharp, like the contact startled him back into the room.
"I should have seen it," he said suddenly, voice low, controlled by effort. "The progression. The instability window."
You blinked.
He was… opening up. To you.
"I don’t", he stopped, blinked once, twice, recalibrating. "I don’t miss variables like that."
"You didn’t miss it," you said softly.
"I did," he replied immediately. "For a fraction. That is sufficient."
His thumb twitched against your hand, almost returning the hold, then pausing like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
"It was one second," you murmured.
"It was one second too long," he corrected.
A beat. Quieter
"I was… distracted."
The word sounded unfamiliar in his mouth. He blinked again, slower this time, gaze lifting to you with something unguarded.
"I do not", he exhaled. "I do not typically… lose sequence."
You felt your chest tighten.
He was telling you. He didn’t even seem to realise he was.
"Zayne," you said gently, squeezing his hand once. "You still saved them."
His gaze dropped briefly to where your fingers were intertwined. Then back to your face.
"You are… easier to speak to," he said, almost like a conclusion he hadn’t planned to share. "I am not certain why."
Your breath caught. No response.
His breathing didn’t steady.
You stepped closer. Your other hand is lifting
Hovering
Then gently cupping his cheek.
Cold. Frosted.
Your thumb brushing lightly.
"You saved them," you whispered.
His eyes flickered. But the storm didn’t stop.
You hesitated. Just a second. Then
You leaned in.
Soft. Careful.
Your lips are brushing his.
Warmth. Stillness. A grounding point.
You pulled back immediately. Eyes wide.
"I’m so sorry I-"
He moved.
Faster than you expected.
His hand came up firm at your waist, fingers spreading just enough to anchor you in place.
He stepped forward as you stepped back.
Once. Twice.
Until your lower back met the cool edge of the breakroom counter.
Cornered. Not trapped. Grounded.
His body aligned with yours, close enough that the cold radiating from him wrapped around your warmth instead of fighting it. Pulling you back in.
This time
Not soft. Not careful. Not asking.
His mouth found yours again with intent heat against warmth, breath catching where yours had barely steadied.
Deeper. Slower at first, then not.
Like he was mapping the moment in real time. Verifying. Testing. Memorising.
Your fingers fisted in his scrub top, grounding yourself as his grip tightened just enough to keep you there.
The cold of his Evol met the heat of your skin, a sharp, electric contrast that made your breath hitch harder.
Your thoughts scattered. And then
Oh no.
Oh no no no
Your brain came back online at the worst possible time. You were kissing him.
You were kissing him./ You were kissing him
Zayne./Zayne.
The Dr. Zayne./ Me, Dr. Zayne
The man you had been quietly, helplessly, catastrophically in love with for. Your brain made a noise. Somewhere between a scream and a squeal. Internally.
*THIS IS BAD. THIS IS SO BAD. I MESSED UP. I MESSED UP
Your body froze for half a second. Your lips are barely pulling back. Panic is flooding in fast. Your fingers loosen in his shirt.
"I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry, I didn’t", you started, breath uneven, words tripping over themselves.
He didn’t let you finish.
His grip tightened. Just enough. Grounding. Silencing.
And then
He kissed you again. Not to stop you.
But to answer you.
Heat meeting warmth with unmistakable certainty. Your words dissolved instantly. Your thoughts scattered again. Completely gone this time. All that remained was sensation.
The way his breath warmed your lips. The way his hold adjusted was subtle and precise, as if he were calibrating pressure.
The way he didn’t pull away, even when he should have.
Soon. He noticed.
The way your grip tightened in his scrub top. The way your breath hitched not in hesitation, but in something softer.
The way you leaned in instead of away.
Data. Clear. Consistent.
You liked this. You like him as well.
The realisation hit him like a shift in equilibrium.
His grip changed
just slightly. More certain. Less restrained.
His mouth moved against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he was no longer verifying…
But responding. Matching.
Your warmth. Your willingness. Your choice to stay.
A low exhale escaped him, controlled slipping into something far less structured.
And for the first time, He wasn’t just confirming the moment.
He was allowing it.
He exhaled against you, low, unsteady, like the control he always carried had slipped somewhere between the first kiss and this one. Only then
Gradually. Reluctantly
Did he slow down? Not fully.
Never fully.
His forehead resting against yours, closer than before. Still holding you. Still not letting go. Breathing uneven
Like he hadn’t decided whether to stop… or continue.
"…You kissed me," he murmured.
"I," you tried.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Like confirming data.
You blinked at him. Still processing. Still floating.
He exhaled slowly.
"I need to take you out," he said.
You froze. Your brain tried to reboot.
Failed.
"…Huh?"
"A date," he clarified, equally calm. "With intention."
Your brain offically stopped. Completely.
You stared at him. Then nodded.
Once. Then again. A little faster this time.
Like your body had decided before your brain could catch up.
"Okay," you breathed out, far too soft.
You were still floating. Very much not fully back in your body.
But in his eyes You looked so cute and dreamy. Soft.
His.
He tightened his hold on your hand slightly. And for the first time that night
Hospital work sucks... Understands why Zayne always wears sunglasses tho... Need a pair for myself after being inside for too long, only to have the morning sun glaring at my eyes. How does he even have the time and energy to do anything after work?
Warm Hands, Measured in Heartbeats- Chapt 2: Statistically Impossible
Setup: A year after an accidental collision in the surgical wing, what began as statistically improbable encounters has quietly evolved into something far more deliberate. Now in her third year, rotating outside the hospital, you still find yourself orbiting Dr. Zayne — through aligned lunch breaks, borrowed office space, and touches that linger a fraction too long. You treat him like everyone else, like a friend, like a work buddy… except you don’t. Not really. His once perfectly structured office has begun softening under your presence, and somewhere between regulated lighting adjustments and carefully calibrated affection, both of you are realising something dangerously inconvenient: this is no longer a coincidence.
Pairing: Resident! Zayne x Student nurse! Non-Mc! reader
Genre: Fluff, slight crack
Writer's notes: Alright, lovelies, I decided to make this chapter and probably the rest of the chapters cuter and more self-indulgent. I had this idea to make Non-MC ADHD-coded, and since Zayne uncannonically austisic-coded, I thought it would be a cute interaction to write on. So I hope you all enjoy.
Previous Next
Three months after your first collision in the surgical wing, the hospital began folding strangely around you.
You were on a different ward now.
Different team. Different routines.
And yet.
You kept seeing him.
Near the lifts.
In the corridor between imaging and pharmacy.
At the exact moment you stepped out for your five‑minute break.
Never planned.
Never arranged.
Just… aligned.
Once, in the lift, you both stepped forward.
Then both stepped back.
"You first."
"No, you’re—"
You entered together anyway.
You tapped your badge against your thigh without realising.
Adjusted your sleeve.
Shifted your weight twice.
He watched.
Not critically.
Not curiously.
Just… cataloguing.
Outside imaging, he handed you a pen you hadn’t realised you’d dropped.
"You checked your pockets twice."
You blinked.
"Oh."
Your fingers brushed.
You both pulled back too quickly.
And once — most alarmingly — he looked at the juice box in your hand and said:
"You skipped lunch."
It wasn’t a question.
"How do you know that?"
"You forget when overstimulated," he replied calmly.
Your heart did something structurally unsound.
It was becoming a pattern.
The first time he invited you into his office was not romantic.
It was practical.
You had been hunting for an empty study space after your shift, case study notes half-organised, highlighters uncapped, tabs sticking out at questionable angles.
One notebook upside down.
One page colour-coded beautifully. The next a disaster.
Your thoughts felt like static ricocheting off fluorescent lights.
You turned a corner.
There he was.
"You look overstimulated," he observed.
You froze.
"I—" You paused. "I look what?"
"Your speech rate has increased," he said.
"You are pacing without direction. Your breathing is shallow."
You glanced down.
You were pacing.
And chewing the inside of your cheek.
"Oh," you said faintly.
A beat.
"I have a quiet office," he added.
Not pity.
Solution.
That was how you ended up inside Dr. Zayne’s newly acquired office.
It was modest.
Structured.
Symmetrical.
The desk aligned perfectly with the shelving.
Chair legs parallel.
Blinds angled to eliminate glare.
No visual clutter.
No unpredictable noise.
Your breathing slowed the moment you stepped inside.
He noticed.
He adjusted the overhead light one notch lower without commenting.
You exhaled.
He logged the correlation.
You perched on the spare chair, then shifted, then tucked one leg beneath you, then untucked it, then rearranged the highlighters into a neat row… before scattering them again mid-thought.
He moved a stack of journals slightly to clear more surface area.
Not because you asked.
Because you required expansion room.
"Walk me through it," he said.
You jumped three steps ahead.
Backtracked.
Corrected yourself mid‑sentence.
"Wait, that’s not what I meant."
"Clarify," he anchored softly, not impatiently.
When your knee bounced, he rested his palm flat against the desk.
Counter‑pressure.
Not touching.
Just introducing steady counter-pressure into the environment.
The vibration reduced gradually
You stabilised.
He did not comment.
By the end of the hour, your mind felt less like a thunderstorm and more like organised rainfall.
"You didn’t need to help," you said.
"I prefer regulated environments," he replied.
You tilted your head.
"You are a regulated man then, Dr Zayne," you said.
"Yes," he agreed.
The simplicity of that answer made you smile.
It became a refuge.
Over the past few months, Zayne had noticed that you were affectionate by default.
Not careless.
Calibrated.
A quick hug for an exhausted nurse.
A soft shoulder squeeze for a friend.
A gentle poke to an intern when you lacked verbal energy.
You always paused half a second before initiating contact.
Scanning.
Waiting for approval.
Consent through micro‑expression.
Zayne noticed the pattern immediately.
And noticed something else.
You did not do it to him.
With him, you were polite.
Measured.
A deliberate half‑step distant.
You greeted him verbally.
Never physically.
He did not want indiscriminate affection.
He wanted inclusion.
The realisation unsettled him more than it should have.
A year has passed since your first clinical rotation.
You were a third‑year now, rotating mostly outside the hospital.
By then, you treated him like everyone else.
Like a friend.
Like a work buddy.
You greeted him the same way you greeted the others.
You stood beside him at the nurses’ station.
You included him in conversations without hesitation.
The distance was gone.
But the calibration was not.
Somewhere between exhaustion and comfort… You stopped overthinking him.
The first time you poked his sleeve absentmindedly while saying, "Doctor," you did not register it.
He did.
You poked your friends too — quick, efficient taps when words felt like too much.
With him, your finger lingered half a second longer.
When you handed him a file, your fingers lingered.
When his cuff folded inward, you smoothed it flat without asking.
When a stray thread appeared near his collar, you fixed it mid‑sentence — and stayed close while finishing your explanation.
You did hug him once.
It happened after a long shift, when relief softened your edges.
Quick.
Careful.
But you did not pull away immediately.
You rested there just long enough to feel his stillness.
Your affection with others was expressive.
With him, it had steps.
Initiate.
Pause.
Adjust.
Linger.
Shoulder aligned with his.
Sleeve brushing his coat.
Thigh pressed lightly to his when seated.
You checked his expression mid‑contact.
Always.
And when he did not retreat — when he subtly leaned a fraction closer instead — the lingering increased.
Your affection with him was no longer cautious distance.
It was deliberate closeness.
Integrated.
Continuous.
He no longer felt excluded.
He felt chosen.
That destabilised him far more.
His office had once been immaculate symmetry.
But that changed when you began leaving things.
A spare pen permanently living in his holder.
A sticky note in your handwriting tucked between journals and surgical texts.
A cardigan draped over the spare chair.
At first, he folded it.
Then he stopped, because you seemed to prefer it unstructured.
He reorganised the left drawer so there would always be space for your belongings.
Left space intentionally empty.
Unlabelled.
Reserved.
Your lunch breaks began aligning.
You spoke in tangents.
He ate in sequence.
Rice first.
Vegetables second. He removes all the carrots and gives them to you.
Protein last.
Always clockwise.
Always consistent.
When you forgot what you were saying, he resumed the thread precisely where you had dropped it.
"You were explaining the referral pathway," he would say.
Your face would light up.
"Yes. That."
His office truly began changing.
The once pristine symmetry softened.
Not disordered.
Integrated.
"Doctor Zayne," you said one evening, peering into his drawer.
"Is that chocolate again?"
"You did say that you prefer milk chocolate," he said carefully.
You blinked.
"You remember that?"
"You mentioned it twice," he replied.
A pause.
"Inconsistent retention would be inefficient."
Your heart did something unregulated.
He pushed the drawer open slightly.
You reached in without hesitation.
He watched your shoulders lower.
He recorded the environmental stabilisation.
His office no longer felt solely like a controlled system with only him inside.
It felt calibrated.
For you.
Somewhere between chaos and endurance, you had caught feelings.
It did not arrive dramatically.
It arrived inconveniently.
And became apparent to you one day at the nurses’ station.
"You’re not scheduled near cardiothoracic today," a friend sing-songed while updating charts.
"Good," you replied too quickly.
"You sure? You two have matching lunch breaks more often than couples."
"Absolutely not," you said immediately.
Too immediate.
"We are not—" You gestured vaguely. "It’s academic."
"Mmhm."
"Sure it is."
You rolled your eyes.
But later, alone in the stairwell between wards, the defensiveness replayed in your head.
Absolutely not.
You thought about the way you straightened his sleeve without thinking.
The way your body relaxed before your mind caught up inside his office.
The way you lingered near him longer than necessary.
You were not doing that with everyone.
You were doing it with him.
The realisation was quiet.
Soft.
Terrifying.
Oh.
Oh.
You pressed your hand to your own forehead.
You were in love with him.
And judging by how carefully he kept his boundaries — how deliberate he was — this was either the best decision of your life…
Or the worst.
Unknown to you, Zayne was also beginning to fall in love too
He was teased about it first.
"No cardiothoracic shadow today?" an intern asked lightly during handover.
Zayne did not look up from the file in his hand.
"Student nurses rotate externally, and it's exam week for them," he replied evenly.
"Ah. So you’ve noticed."
He turned a page.
"It would be inefficient not to."
A nurse smirked. "Your office seems quieter now that the students are having final exams."
"It is a workspace," he said calmly. "It is intended to be quiet."
They let it drop.
He did not.
Because they were correct.
It was quieter.
That evening, long after rounds ended, he remained seated in his office.
The left drawer was still partially empty.
The cardigan was absent from the chair.
The spare pen sat untouched.
The symmetry had returned.
He came to dislike it now.
He completed his lunch sequence alone earlier that day.
Paused automatically.
Waited for commentary that never arrived.
Your absence was measurable.
He leaned back in his chair.
Removed his glasses briefly.
Closed his eyes.
This was problematic.
He had evaluated every possible variable.
Professional boundaries.
Power dynamics.
Reputation.
The conclusion was precise.
He was in love with you.
You, with your restless warmth and contagious presence spreading slowly through his meticulously structured space, had become essential to his equilibrium.
Statistically speaking, this was ill-advised
Emotionally destabilising.
Professionally complex.
Bad.
Very bad.
He exhaled slowly.
He catalogued patterns naturally.
He had never struggled with emotional identification.
He struggled with what to do once identified.
Including himself.
He denied it because acknowledging it would require action.
Action meant risk.
Risk meant you.
And he was not accustomed to variables he could not calculate.
And yet.
When he pictured reverting to a version of his life in which you were not part of his office, his lunch breaks, his recalibrated lighting adjustments
Without your speech cadence.
Your stimming, whenever you're anxious.
The precise tilt of your head when confused.
The way your volume increased when passionate.
The internal resistance was immediate.
Unacceptable.
He rested his hand against the edge of the desk where you usually leaned.
Just briefly.
Then withdrew.
It was ill-advised.
It was inconvenient.
It was statistically unsound.
However...
He could not help it.
He did not want to.
Emotionally speaking.
He was already far beyond advisable — and accelerating.
You had already been integrated.
And he didn't plan to revert to a previous version of the system that didn't include you.
Warm Hands, Measured in Heartbeats- Chapt 1: Corridor Collisions, Second Left
Setup: Second-year clinical rotation was meant to be about competence, composure, and proving you belonged in a real hospital ward. It was not meant to involve getting lost in the surgical wing and quite literally walking into one of the hospital’s most talked-about senior residents. Before you even know his name, you meet him as simply a calm, kind doctor who helps you without judgment. Only later, through whispered rumours at the nurses’ station and the sharp reality of ward rounds, do you realise the composed stranger is Dr Zayne, the rising cardiothoracic prodigy everyone seems to orbit. And somehow, after that first collision, the hospital corridors start bringing you together far more often than chance should allow.
Pairing: Resident! Zayne x Student nurse! Non-Mc! reader
Genre: Fluff, slight crack
Writer's notes: This was a way overdue fanfic series that I'm so glad that I'm finally touching on cause it's more of a self-indulgent fanfic for me as a nurse myself. It's a slow burn, but our medical husband tends to shine in this type of fanfic, so I hope that you all enjoy.
Next
You were not lost.
You were simply… temporarily misaligned with the architectural intentions of the hospital.
The second half of the second year was supposed to feel empowering. You were officially a student nurse on clinical rotation now, no longer just theory and simulation labs.
This was real. Real patients. Real documentation. Real consequences.
And yet here you were, clutching a thin stack of case notes to your chest, staring at a corridor that looked identical to the last three you’d walked down.
Your brain was moving faster than your feet.
Okay. Ward B should be to the left. Or was that the imaging suite? No, imaging had the blue signage. This one was green. Green meant the surgical wing. Why were you in the surgical wing?
You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, and turned the corner with manufactured confidence.
And collided directly into a solid chest.
The stack of papers slipped from your grasp.
I’m so sorry-" the words tumbled out before you even looked up.
A hand steadied your elbow before you could fully stumble. Firm. Warm. Controlled.
"You’re fine," a calm voice said.
You looked up.
He was tall. Composed. Dark hair neatly styled. Expression calm in a way that didn’t feel cold, just… contained. His white coat was crisp. His gaze was steady, assessing without being invasive.
You had never seen him before.
At least, you didn’t think you had.
He released your elbow the moment he was certain you were steady.
"Student nurse," he observed, eyes flicking briefly to your badge. Not dismissive. Just factual.
"Yes, doctor," you managed, crouching immediately to gather the scattered notes before he could do it himself.
He crouched anyway.
Of course he did.
Your fingers brushed as you both reached for the same page.
It was nothing.
It felt like something.
"Are you assigned to this wing?" he said mildly.
Heat climbed up your neck.
"I was not," you replied carefully, choosing honesty over pride. "I appear to have made an unintended detour for Ward B."
One corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Ward B is two corridors back. Second left."
You stood at the same time. Too quickly.
"Thank you." You hesitated. "And… sorry. Again."
"No harm done."
There was a beat of silence that stretched just slightly longer than necessary.
You should leave.
You did not leave.
"How are you finding clinical so far?" he asked instead.
The question surprised you.
No one ever asked that and waited for a real answer.
"Overstimulating," you admitted before you could filter it. "But good. I like being useful."
His gaze sharpened… yet not unkindly.
"Usefulness isn’t the metric," he replied. "Competence is. And that develops with time."
You nodded, filing that away like he’d handed you something valuable.
"You’ll get there," he added.
It wasn’t flattery.
It was an assessment.
And somehow that made it warmer.
Footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor.
Two interns rounded the corner and immediately slowed.
"Doctor, the lab results-" one began, before noticing you.
You straightened instinctively.
"She made a wrong turn," he said calmly before they could speculate. "Ward B is two corridors back."
There was no irritation in his tone. No implication that you were careless. Just information.
The interns nodded and continued walking.
You realised what he’d just done.
He could have ignored it.
He didn’t.
It was small.
It felt enormous.
"You should head back," he said gently once the corridor quieted again.
"Right. Yes. Of course."
You took one step.
Then another.
Then, you turned back.
"Thank you. For not making that embarrassing."
The faintest shift in his expression.
"Everyone gets lost during their first time here in this hospital," he said. "Architecture isn’t intuitive."
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
"Good to know it’s not just me."
"It rarely is."
You walked away this time.
You did not look back.
But he did.
By the time you finally made it to Ward B, your heart rate had settled but your thoughts had not.
"You look like you saw a ghost," one of the RNs remarked as you slipped into the nurses’ station.
"I ran into someone in surgical," you said vaguely, setting your notes down.
"Oh?" An intern perked up immediately. "By chance, it's a male doctor? Tall? Looks like he hasn’t slept in three years, but still somehow perfect in every way possible?"
You blinked.
"…Possibly."
The RN gave a soft snort. "That’s most likely Dr Zayne. The new senior resident. Cardiothoracic."
The name settled slowly.
Zayne.
"He’s basically guaranteed the Chief position once the current chief surgeon retires in a few years," the intern continued. "Youngest on track in years. Scary brilliant."
"Patients both hate and love him," another nurse added. "Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s precise."
"He’s super strict," someone else chimed in. "But fair, despite coming off as cold."
You stared down at your notes.
Dr. Zayne.
The kind, slightly stoic doctor who had crouched to pick up your papers.
Of course.
Of course, he was hospital-famous.
You didn’t see him again until the ward rounds two days later.
You were standing slightly behind your assigned RN, trying to look attentive and not overwhelmed, when the small entourage entered.
Consultant. Registrar. Interns.
And him.
White coat immaculate. Expression composed. Voice low and steady as he presented the case summary before the consultant could even prompt him.
Your brain lagged for half a second.
That’s him.
Dr. Zayne.
The name finally attached itself to the face.
He didn’t look at you at first. He was in his element now, focused, analytical, every word measured. The warmth you’d glimpsed in the corridor was tucked neatly away beneath professionalism.
Then, briefly, his gaze shifted.
It landed on you.
Recognition flickered.
Not surprise. Not embarrassment.
Just awareness.
Your pulse jumped.
He gave the smallest nod before returning to the discussion as if nothing had happened.
But now you had a name.
And somehow that made the accidental collisions feel far less accidental.
Ward rounds concluded. The team began to disperse.
You stepped aside to make room.
And that was when you saw it.
As he turned slightly to speak to the registrar, a neatly wrapped chocolate bar slipped halfway out of the inside pocket of his white coat.
You stared.
He noticed.
Without breaking the conversation, he calmly adjusted his coat and slid it back into place.
Your lips twitched.
Scary brilliant senior resident.
With a hidden chocolate bar.
Sweets were the last thing you would have ever imagined him liking.
If someone had asked you to guess, you would have said black coffee. Maybe something bitter. Something severe.
Not chocolate tucked secretly into his coat like contraband.
The intern beside you leaned in. "He runs on hot chocolate and sweets. We’ve accepted it."
You bit back a smile.
Later that afternoon, while you were charting, one of the nurses nudged your elbow.
"Careful," she murmured lightly. "You’ll start scheduling your breaks around cardiothoracic rounds at this rate."
"I am absolutely not-"
She raised an eyebrow.
You dropped your gaze to your paperwork too quickly.
Across the ward, Dr Zayne was discussing discharge plans with a patient’s family.
Professional. Focused. Untouchable.
And yet.
When he finished and glanced up briefly, his eyes found you with unsettling ease.
Coincidence, you told yourself.
Hospitals were finite ecosystems.
Patterns emerged.
That had to be it.
It had nothing to do with the way your shifts suddenly felt slightly more anticipated when cardiothoracic rounds were scheduled.
Nothing at all.
You know, for the longest of while since I started writing, I always consider in adding my piece in the Zayne x Nurse Non-Mc as a little self indulgence. But make it a little different. I wanted to try a slow burn where Non-MC met him when she was a student nurse (where I'm from students start hospital clinical rotation in the second half of second year) and him as a resident. (He doesn't reach chief cardiac surgeon yet). And let their love gradually grow over the years until current day where they're newlyweds. I think it would be cute to write
Girly, i NEED to read your ficsssssssss. Come backkkkkkkkkkkk. Not complaining tho, i just miss u😔
I miss writing for you all too. It's just this month has been hectic with hospital work and the fact that I got sick twice (that last one is this one and it's two weeks straight and going) and haven't slept well for whole week :(
Okay this one is purely random as I just got back power in my house and was replying to a comment to one of my Rafayel x Manatee Non-MC fanfics.
So imagine, we all know of MC and the boys were destined tragic soulmates for so long, with MC jumping from boy to boy once their tragic life span had ended. You all also know that I write how Non-MC witness it all over and over again. But what if... What if Non-MC had her personal timelines with each boy but instead of tragedy, they're lives of fulfilment.
No seriously thinking about.
Non-MC and MC are two sides of the same coin of fate.
On MC side. The boys will be powerful figures in that lifetime but the down side you can never fall in love in this timeline especially to with MC (since she was a defect in terms of fate. Doing so can effect you other lifetime.
But on Non-MC side of the coin. They may not be some great and powerful figure in previous life time but their free to love and be loved up to the day they die, but the down side is if they fall in love in the previous lifetime and die too soon, they won't remember anything about their current timeline like they can in the tragic past life.
Barnacles, Mangroves, and the Sea God (Pt 3): Warm Mangroves & Poor Life Choices
Setup: Mating season is supposed to be rare. A dignified inconvenience. Carefully timed. Closely monitored. Surrounded by scrolls, schedules, and priests who take far too many notes. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the sea does not care about schedules. A certain sea god’s mating season does not arrive on time. It tiptoes in early. Quietly. With the kind of mischievous timing that suggests the universe is giggling. And, as if that were not enough, it arrives at the exact same time as yours.
Pairing: Rafayel x Manatee! Non-Mc! reader
Genre: Fluff, slight crack
Writer's notes: As you can see... I'm having way too much fun with this request turned mini series. I have one more fanfic for this request, so I hope you all enjoy.
Rafayel realises something is wrong before you do.
It starts as an itch beneath his scales. A restless warmth he knows all too well. His mating season, rare, inconvenient, and usually handled with extreme discretion, has arrived.
He is immediately annoyed.
This is not how this is supposed to happen.
Normally, he locks himself away in his bedchambers, buries himself in cold currents, or simply disappears until it passes. On especially unfortunate cycles, he has even offered minor blessings to the carefully selected ceremonial mates prepared by the temples, ensuring everything proceeds efficiently, reverently, and far away from his personal space.
But this time, he is not in Lemuria.
This time, he is hundreds of miles away, hidden in warm mangroves, with no priests, no schedules and currently with you.
The realisation settles slowly, then all at once.
Oh.
This could be… vastly preferable.
It became even more preferable as you become even more affectionate than usual.
You are already cuddly on a good day.
This is something else entirely.
You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the sea.
“Raf,” you mumble, pressing your face into his chest. “Cuddles.”
He blinks.
“We are cuddling.”
“More,” you demand, arms tightening. “I feel… inconveniently empty without you.”
Rafayel exhales slowly, heat rolling off him in waves.
“That is an alarming way to phrase that.”
You hum, satisfied anyway, nuzzling closer.
“You’re warm. Stay.”
He has no intention of leaving.
Between the two of you, the water grows thick with pheromones, bad life choices and even more poor self‑control.
The mangroves creak softly, as if bracing themselves.
Neither of you complains.
Your mating season does not go unnoticed.
A few hopeful merfolk drift near the mangroves.
You notice them first.
“Oh,” you murmur, half‑asleep. “I think they're supposed to be my herd.”
Rafayel follows your gaze.
He does not raise his voice.
He does not bare his teeth.
He simply looks.
The pressure shifts.
The water warns.
They leave.
Immediately.
You blink slowly, watching the retreat.
“Did you just scare them off?”
“Yes.”
“…So you’re my only option now?”
Rafayel smiles.
“Tragic.”
“Meeh,” you sigh, sliding closer on purpose. “Then you’ll just have to cuddle me whenever I ask.”
The water thickens again.
Rafayel hums, pleased.
“I was planning on it.”
Far away in Lemuria, the temples are very busy preparing for a mating season that will never happen.
Ceremonial plans are drafted. Suitable candidates are assessed. Ritual schedules are finalised.
This has never happened before.
They mobilise.
When Lemuria finally reaches the mangroves, they are hit with heat.
Warm water. Heavy air. Pheromones everywhere.
Some blushed feverishly.
Someone drops a tablet.
No one retrieves it.
In the shallows sits a nest.
Not symbolic.
A real one.
Woven mangrove roots. Sea grasses. Divine intent. Entirely too intimate.
And in the centre of it-
Rafayel and You.
Curled together, limbs tangled, warm, glowing, and catastrophically unceremonious.
Rafayel opens one eye.
“Well, aren't you all late.”
A priest squeaks.
“M‑my lord-... the ceremonial mate... the preparations-”
Rafayel tightens his hold.
“She’s here.”
You blink blearily at the crowd.
“Hi.”
Several priests avert their eyes. One whispers a prayer and immediately forgets it.
You tug Rafayel closer.
“They’re staring again. I don’t like it.”
“They’ll recover... eventually,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.
You frown.
“Also. You scared off my entire mating herd.”
“I did.”
“Meeh.” You press closer on purpose. “Then you owe me more cuddles. A lot more of them. Immediately.”
The pheromones spike.
The water gets worse.
Someone makes a strangled noise.
Rafayel laughs softly.
“You’re already getting them.”
“Not enough,” you insist. “You’re my only mate now. So be a useful one.”
“Happily.”
A very brave priest attempts to speak.
Rafayel looks up, now annoyed.
“This mangrove is a divine exclusion zone.”
He gestures lazily.
“My home. Her home. Our nesting ground.”
Silence.
Someone writes personally divined, unceremonious union.
Underlines it.
Adds another line.
The official report later reads:
The Sea God lives.
He has chosen.
Do not return without permission.
The last line was underlined twice, with a third line drawn for emphasis.
The truth becomes unavoidable.
The Sea God has chosen.
Not a priestess.
Not a ceremonial mate.
But you.
Unbothered.
Overly affectionate.
Comfortably nested while Lemuria argues logistics from a great distance.
“Meeh,” you sigh. “More cuddles.”
Rafayel obliges without hesitation.
The sea adjusts.
The mangroves hold.
And everyone eventually accepts that yes—
They are most definitely mating in those mangroves.
Some time after, the water begins to cool.
Pheromones thin.
Mating season passes.
You do not.
You crawl back into Rafayel’s arms the next tide.
“Cuddles.”
He blinks, performing surprise.
“Already? But the season has ended.”
You stare.
“And?”
“…I am shocked,” he says solemnly, pulling you closer.
“Meeh,” you hum. “Be shocked quietly.”
You return to your nap.
Rafayel does not move.
Later, a priest passes the mangroves, senses nothing alarming, and relaxes.
Then you murmur, half‑asleep:
“Mine.”
Rafayel smiles.
The priest leaves.
Some seasons end.
Some arrangements do not.
Rafayel presses a lazy kiss to your hair, utterly content.
“This,” he murmurs, smug and unapologetic, “is the first mating season I’ve actually enjoyed.”
Barnacles, Mangroves, and the Sea God (Pt 2): Daily Life With The Barnacle Sea God
Setup: What started as a quiet mangrove hideaway meant to protect you from overly affectionate mer‑friends somehow turned into the permanent nesting site of Lemuria’s Sea God. Rafayel, bored with reverence and deeply enamoured with your softness, decided the warm shallows were preferable to a throne, and you were preferable to everyone else. Now, divinity naps, councils panic, and your daily routine consists of gentle poking, long cuddles, and learning, slowly, that the sea itself has decided this arrangement is final.
Pairing: Rafayel x Manatee! Non-Mc! reader
Genre: Fluff, slight crack
You have accepted your fate for a good while now.
Not dramatically. Not tragically. Just with the quiet understanding that your peaceful mangrove hideaway has been permanently compromised by a bored sea god with grabby hands.
Rafayel has accepted that this fate includes poking, lingering far too close, stealing warmth, and very deliberately pretending not to hear your warnings unless they sound sufficiently threatening.
The mangroves have accepted both of you, have shifted roots, adjusted currents, and quietly reinforced the area to accommodate divine weight and frequent cuddling. They will not be taking questions.
Rafayel announces his arrival every single time.
Not subtly. Never subtly.
“The Sea God has returned.”
The words roll through the water like a proclamation meant for temples and trembling followers, not a sleepy mangrove pocket where you are very deliberately pretending to be dead.
You do not open your eyes.
“Meeh.”
That is all he gets.
He sighs, long‑suffering and theatrical, before draping himself over you anyway. His tail curls around mangrove roots like he owns the place, his arm settling around your middle with practised ease. You shift, adjust, and settle more comfortably against him, cheek squished into warm skin.
He is a seaweed blanket now, you decide, drifting.
Rafayel, for his part, looks unbearably pleased.
You have perfected the art of sleeping through divine nonsense.
This does not stop him from trying.
One poke.
A pause.
Another poke, timed carefully when you almost relax again.
A gentle jiggle, clearly unnecessary.
“Nuuu…”
A lazy warning shot.
Rafayel smiles and pokes again.
That is his mistake.
You bite his fingers without opening your eyes.
“That was uncalled for,” he yelps.
“You were poking,” you mumble, already rolling back into him.
Rafayel watches you for a long moment, wounded dignity and fondness warring quietly.
Then he waits.
And then he pokes you again.
“Meeeh…”
The mangroves are no longer neutral territory.
They know your moods better than he does.
When you are annoyed, roots slide into place, subtly blocking his path.
When you are tired, they cradle you tighter, swaying gently to keep the water calm.
When you sigh and pat the water beside you, they part just enough to let him in.
Rafayel pretends not to notice.
He notices.
He has tried arguing with them exactly once.
It did not go well.
Rafayel is openly obsessed with your softness now.
There is no pretence of curiosity, no divine excuse. His hands rest at your sides with familiarity, thumbs pressing gently into warm give.
“Excellent buoyancy,” he declares.
You grab his wrist, stare him dead in the eyes, and say:
“One more and I’m sitting on you.”
He freezes.
Calculates.
Withdraws his hand with visible regret.
For approximately five minutes.
Meehh...
You have developed a precise vocabulary.
“Nuuu” is a warning.
“Meeeh” is irritation.
Silence is resignation, or a trap.
Rafayel knows all of them.
He ignores two out of three on purpose.
The third one he respects deeply.
Your mer‑friends eventually find the mangroves.
They are delighted to see you.
They are less delighted to see the Sea God wrapped around you like a smug shawl.
Rafayel is polite. Friendly, even. He greets them properly.
He smiles.
But he does not move.
One of them laughs and pokes your side.
You barely have time to protest before the water pressure changes.
Currents rise.
Space compresses.
Your friends are gently but firmly escorted out of the mangroves by divine force and excellent manners.
Later, you scold Rafayel.
“That was dramatic.”
“They were touching what is mine,” he replies calmly.
“You’re impossible.”
“Correct.”
Rafayel insists on bringing you offerings from Lemuria.
Rare pearls. Sacred silks. Artefacts steeped in history and reverence, each one presented with ritual solemnity.
You thank him sincerely.
Then you immediately arrange them beneath your head and along your side, testing each one before settling in with a satisfied sigh.
“This one is too sharp,” you mutter. “But this one’s nice.”
Rafayel watches with clear amusement as sacred relics become pillows.
His gaze flicks briefly to the edge of the mangroves, imagining a priest walking in on the scene.
The thought visibly delights him.
He adjusts one of the makeshift pillows for you and settles closer, smiling like someone who knows this will absolutely ruin the next council meeting.
You float effortlessly beneath him, your buoyancy keeping a Sea God comfortably afloat.
The priests freeze.
The warriors do not ask questions.
“Meeeh,” you mumble.
Rafayel hums and settles closer.
The official report later reads:
The Sea God lives.He is resting.Do not disturb him.
───
✦ The Condition ✦
Some time later, after many attempts to persuade their God to leave the mangrove to attend a very special meeting, Rafayel agrees to return to Lemuria.
Only after negotiation.
Only under one condition.
“She comes with me.”
You blink awake, completely out of it.
“…wait what?”
“And she will sit with me during meetings.”
A pause. You, now half awake
“…Sit where?”
“On my lap.”
“Meeh… I didn’t agree to this.”
“You can’t refuse me, my little Manatee.”
By the time you reach Lemuria, it’s too late.
Rafayel takes his throne.
You are settled onto his lap, water dulled, salinity lowered, his body warmed just enough to keep you tucked against him.
“Meeh…”
The meeting begins.
No one looks up.
This is recorded as a rare yet successful meeting.
The poking game never ends.
Now it is about patience.
Rafayel pokes once, then waits.
You do not react.
Another poke.
Then you grab him, hook an arm around his neck, and trap him in a decisive cuddle.
