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)
Setup: The Future Glimpse Phenomenon faded from Linkon City as quietly as it had arrived. Life continued. Hospitals remained full. Missions kept coming. Paint dried on fresh canvases. Deals were made behind closed doors. Ships departed beneath distant stars. Months became years. For most people, the phenomenon became another strange memory in Linkon’s long history. For five men, however, there were some futures time refused to bury.
Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader
Genre: Angst, Fluff (with a special guest)
Writer's note: I'm so sorry for the long wait, but due to the ongoing issues with the game, it was a perfect opportunity to complete this long-awaited fanfic tiny series. So I hope you all enjoy.
Taglist: @moonvale909, @cayrelyra, @thekingswin @kingraspberry12-blog @abbylee0710 @sailorstar9
Part 1
At first, Zayne told himself it was nothing more than neurological residue.
The mind, after all, could respond strangely to intense stimuli. The Compatibility Vision had overwhelmed several sensory pathways at once. Visual memory, emotional recall, phantom touch. It made sense that he still felt the absent pressure of a ring on his finger some mornings.
It made sense that he sometimes heard children laughing in the quiet of his apartment.
It made sense.
It had to.
Zayne stood in his office at Akso Hospital with the cream-coloured envelope in his hand, reading your name beside another man’s.
...
The first fracture came with a wedding invitation.
Zayne received it during a quiet morning between surgeries, when the hospital corridors still smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain. His phone lit up beside a stack of post-operative reports, and for a brief moment, he expected it to be another consultation request.
Then he saw your name.
His thumb stilled.
Cream and gold filled the screen. Your wedding invitation.
For several seconds, he did nothing.
He simply stared at it, expression calm, posture composed, eyes unreadable behind his glasses.
...
Anyone passing by his office would have seen Dr Zayne, Chief Cardiac Surgeon, seated with his usual restraint.
No one would have known that something inside him had gone painfully still.
You were getting married.
Not someday. Not eventually. Not in some distant future he could pretend would never arrive.
Soon.
To someone else.
His first thought was not fair.
His second was worse.
That should have been me.
The thought cut so deeply that he closed his eyes, guilt tightening through his chest. He had no right to think that. No right to feel
wounded by a happiness he had never tried to claim.
He had seen MC first.
He had been pleased with that vision. Quietly pleased, even.
It had been soft, predictable, comforting. A life that made sense. A life everyone expected of him.
And then came the second vision.
You.
Snow.
A townhouse wrapped in winter light.
A silver ring on your hand.
Children laughing inside a home that had felt warmer than anything he had ever allowed himself to want.
He had stood beneath the arch afterwards, stunned and silent, while you smiled like someone gently closing a door.
Now that door had a date.
...
On the day of the wedding, Zayne arrived with MC beside him.
She looked pleased. Softly satisfied. Her hand rested in the crook of his arm, her smile gentle enough for anyone watching, but Zayne knew the slight lift at the corner of her mouth. She had always been good at looking kind while claiming victory.
“You’re quiet,” she murmured.
“I’m thinking.”
“About her?”
Zayne did not answer quickly enough.
MC’s fingers tightened on his sleeve.
“It’s a beautiful day for her,” she said, voice sweet. “She found someone who chose her properly.”
The words were soft.
The cut was not.
...
Then the music began.
You appeared at the end of the aisle, and Zayne forgot how to breathe.
You looked older than the girl who had once stood beside him beneath the Vision Arch. Not by much, but enough for time to have softened you into yourself. There was confidence in your shoulders now. Peace in your smile. The shy ache that used to hide behind your eyes had been replaced by something warm and settled.
He had never seen you like this.
Radiant.
Steady.
Walking towards your soon-to-husband
Valko
He was tall, bright-eyed, and almost offensively alive. His smile broke across his face before he could restrain it, too honest, too boyish, too full of joy. Time had not sharpened him. It had warmed him. There were faint laugh lines near his eyes, the kind earned by years of grinning at things no one else found funny. His once-wild energy had matured into something steadier, but not tamer.
...
When you reached him, Valko whispered something that made you laugh.
Something in Zayne folded in on itself.
He remembered the vision.
His older self standing outside that townhouse, dark hair touched with subtle silver. Your eyes softened by years. Children calling him Dad and Daddy. Your hand reaching for his as snow fell around you both.
But the ring on your finger now was not his.
The man holding your hand was not him.
Zayne made himself watch.
He watched you say your vows.
Watched Valko laugh softly when your voice trembled.
Watched him lift your hand and kiss your knuckles with a tenderness Zayne had once been too afraid to name.
Now he watched Valko slide a silver band onto your finger.
Zayne’s own hand curled at his side.
There it was again.
The phantom weight.
Cold. Cruel. Impossible.
...
He smiled when you looked at him after the ceremony. He congratulated you. His voice was even. His posture perfect.
“I’m happy for you,” he said.
And he meant it.
For one irrational second, the future returned in pieces.
Snow falling outside a townhouse.
Your hand cradling a baby.
A small boy running past the glass door.
A little girl laughing, calling him Daddy.
His children.
No.
Not his.
Never his.
...
Greyson’s voice softened. “Doctor Zayne?”
Zayne looked down at the chart and realised he had written the same word twice.
“I’m fine,” he said.
He was not.
...
That night, alone in his apartment, he sat at the edge of his bed and pressed his thumb against his bare ring finger until the skin reddened.
A part of him died quietly there.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just a small, private death.
The kind no monitor could detect.
Then he buried it.
...
When your daughter was born, her name was Lumi.
Valko sent a photo in the group chat, his grin bright and helpless as he held the tiny newborn against his chest. You were beside him in the hospital bed, exhausted and glowing, your fingers curled around Valko’s wrist.
Zayne stared at the picture longer than he should have.
Lumi had your softness around the eyes and Valko’s bright, mischievous gaze.
She was beautiful.
She was not his.
Another small, waiting part of him died once again.
Years later, you invited him and MC for a holiday gathering.
Your home was warm.
Too warm.
Zayne arrived with MC at his side, carrying a carefully wrapped gift for Lumi and your younger son, Hunter. Snow fell lightly outside, softening the modern townhouse framed by climbing ivy.
There were garlands across the doorway, tiny shoes by the entrance, children’s drawings on the wall. Valko opened the door with a baby balanced against his hip, grinning like mischief had learned how to wear a wedding ring.
...
“Doctor Zayne! Come in before she accuses me of scaring away guests again.”
You appeared behind him, laughing.
And for one impossible second, Zayne forgot how to breathe.
It was the vision.
Not exactly.
Worse.
...
The townhouse. The winter light. The sound of children running through the hall.
A little boy, Hunter, darted past him, chasing a giggling girl, Lumi, with soft curls. A baby, Milo, reached for Valko’s collar, babbling happily as Valkokissed his tiny fingers.
“Daddy, she took my snowman biscuit!” Hunter complied adorably.
“Because you left it unattended, rookie mistake,” Valko said solemnly.
You swatted his arm. “Do not teach our children theft strategy.”
“But look how advanced they are.”
The children laughed.
Zayne smiled.
He smiled because he had to.
He smiled while the life he had once glimpsed unfolded in front of him with another man standing in his place.
The ring on your finger caught the light when you reached for Valko’s hand.
Zayne stopped breathing.
...
The vision overlaid itself onto the present.
In his memory, it had been him standing there. His hand reaching for yours. His children calling for him. His ring beside yours in the morning light.
But reality was colder.
Valko reached for you instead.
You passed him a mug, and he bent to kiss your temple without thinking, as naturally as breathing.
You smiled.
That smile.
Older now. Softer. Full of years shared and trusted.
Zayne felt the phantom pressure of a ring around his bare finger.
MC said something beside him, but he did not hear it.
All he could hear was Lumi calling, “Papa, help me hide!”
Valko laughed and knelt, letting both children tumble into his arms.
...
Zayne watched from across the room.
A spectator.
A guest.
A family friend.
The life he had seen was happening in front of him, almost detail for detail.
Only he had been removed from it.
Later, after the gathering ended, Zayne returned home alone. MC had gone ahead after an argument too quiet for anyone else to notice.
He took off his coat.
Hung it neatly.
Washed his hands.
Then stood in the silence of his house until the restraint finally cracked.
His hand pressed over his mouth.
His shoulders shook once.
Then again.
No sound came out.
...
Zayne had spent his life learning how to steady his pulse, how to control panic, how to keep his hands calm while holding another person’s heart.
But there, alone in the dark, he could not control his own.
Because the life he had searched for without ever admitting it had existed.
It had been real.
It had simply belonged to Valko.
And he had been too much of a coward to reach for it when it still had his name.
Xavier learned about your wedding from Tara.
She said it gently, as if softness could make the words less cruel.
“You got the invitation too, right?”
He looked down at the card in his hand.
Your name.
With someone else’s name.
A date.
A promise.
“Yes,” Xavier said.
His voice was quiet.
...
He attended with MC beside him, both of them dressed in pale colours beneath a canopy of flowers and light. MC talked easily with the other guests, glowing in that effortless way people always noticed.
Xavier noticed you.
You were smiling before the ceremony even began, nervous and radiant, fingers curled around your bouquet.
Valko was waiting for you with a nervous grin he tried and failed to hide. He shifted on his feet, then laughed at himself when the officiant gave him a look. The guests chuckled.
You laughed too.
...
Xavier’s chest tightened.
He remembered a different garden.
Sunlight.
A little girl with platinum-blonde hair and ocean-blue eyes clutching his sleeve.
A baby boy with your soft curls and his eyes clapping under a warm sky.
Aurora and Lucien.
Names gifted by a vision and stolen by reality.
When Valko took your hands, Xavier felt the stars shift out of reach.
MC leaned closer. “It’s sweet, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Xavier said softly.
And it was.
That was the cruelest part.
It was sweet.
...
Valko loved you openly, with no hesitation, no ancient sorrow held between his teeth, no endless waiting dressed up as patience. His joy was obvious. Almost boyish. Almost annoying.
Xavier envied him for it.
He envied the courage of being obvious.
When you said your vows, your voice trembled.
Valko whispered something that made you laugh through the tears.
The crowd softened.
Xavier smiled too.
When the officiant declared you married, the room erupted.
Xavier clapped with everyone else.
His palms felt numb.
...
Later, when you hugged him, you whispered, “I’m glad you came.”
He smiled gently.
“I am too.”
It was not a lie.
That made it worse, as inside, something dimmed.
When he heard you were expecting your first child, he was on a late patrol.
Jeremiah mentioned it while checking equipment.
“Did you hear? She and Valko are having a baby.”
Xavier looked up.
For one foolish heartbeat, he saw the baby from the vision.
Lucien.
Tiny hands. His eyes. Your curls.
Then reality returned.
...
“Oh,” he said. “That’s good.”
Jeremiah watched him carefully.
Xavier adjusted his gloves.
“That’s really good.”
Later in the day, he went and visited you and Valko. He congratulated you with the same soft sincerity he always carried. He brought carefully chosen gifts, star-patterned blankets, and small glowing mobiles for the nursery.
Valko teased him mercilessly.
“Trying to make my baby a sky nerd before birth?”
Xavier chuckled.
“Consider it an early education.”
You laughed.
The sound warmed the room.
Then hollowed him afterwards.
...
He completed the patrol with perfect focus. He returned his reports on time. He even answered MC’s messages with his usual gentleness.
Then, much later, he sat alone beneath the pale glow of his room and stared at his hands.
He wondered if there was a version of himself somewhere who had not hesitated.
A version who had said your name before you let go.
A version whose child had been real.
Because once, in another possible life, that nursery might have been his to prepare.
When your daughter Lumi was born, Xavier visited with a gift wrapped in silver paper. Valko opened the door looking sleepless, delighted, and utterly ruined in the way new fathers often were.
“She’s tiny,” Valko whispered, as if announcing a miracle.
You were asleep when Xavier first saw the baby.
Lumi rested against Valko’s chest, one tiny fist curled into his shirt.
Valko looked down at her with such fierce, melting warmth that Xavier had to look away.
That was the second death.
Not jealousy alone.
The realisation that Valko had become the kind of father Xavier had only seen in a vision.
Years later, he visited your home during a summer evening celebration.
Xavier almost did not go.
MC insisted.
“You’ve been distant enough,” she said lightly, though there was an edge beneath it.
So he went.
...
The moment he stepped into your garden, his breath caught.
The garden was lit with tiny lanterns.
Children ran barefoot across the grass, chasing floating lights Valko had rigged purely to make them squeal.
...
Lumi ran across the grass, pointing at the early evening sky.
“Daddy, look! The stars are waking up!”
Xavier froze.
The world shifted beneath him.
Not with Evol.
Not with danger.
With memory.
That line.
That exact breathless joy.
Only this time, she was not holding his sleeve.
She was tugging Valko’s hand.
...
Valko scooped her up dramatically. “Stars? Already? Without my permission?”
She giggled and pressed both hands to his cheeks.
You stood nearby with your younger child, Milo, on your hip, smiling at them as your wedding ring glimmered beneath the garden lights.
Xavier watched from the edge of the patio.
A spectator.
A distant star.
The future had not disappeared.
It had simply moved beyond him.
That night, after he and MC returned home, he stood alone by the window.
The city lights blurred.
He touched his bare ring finger.
For years, he had told himself the vision was only a possibility. Something kind. Something impossible.
But the universe had not lied.
It had shown him happiness.
Then waited until he was too late to recognise it.
...
His grief arrived quietly, like moonlight through glass.
No sound.
No collapse.
He did not cry loudly.
...
He simply lowered himself to the floor, back against the wall, and covered his eyes with one hand.
The grief overcame him quietly.
Like nightfall.
He had spent lifetimes waiting for fate.
But fate had opened one door he had been too afraid to walk through.
Now he could only watch its light from outside.
Rafayel almost did not attend the wedding.
Not because he did not want to see you happy.
That was the problem.
He wanted to see you happy too much.
MC chose his suit, fussing over the collar with a smile.
“You look like you’re going to your own funeral,” she teased.
Rafayel laughed.
It sounded convincing.
“It’s a wedding. Same thing, depending on the couple.”
...
Rafayel hated how beautiful your wedding was.
That was the first thought he had, and it made him feel monstrous.
The colours were perfect.
Soft ivory. Warm gold. Hints of sea-glass blue in the decorations. Light spilled through the venue like paint diluted with sunlight.
It was the kind of scene he would have wanted to capture.
If it had not been killing him.
MC stood beside him, commenting on the floral arrangement with a pleased smile.
Rafayel barely heard her.
He was watching Valko.
The man looked infuriatingly alive. Restless, playful, grinning at guests one second and blinking too quickly the next as if trying not to cry before you even reached him.
But when he saw you, the joke dissolved.
You were beautiful in a way that made colour feel insufficient.
Valko stood at the altar, rocking slightly on his heels, trying and failing to look composed. The moment you appeared, his face changed completely.
Not into awe.
Into recognition.
As if some restless part of him had finally found where it belonged.
Rafayel hated how much he understood that expression.
...
Rafayel’s hand tightened around his programme.
He remembered another studio.
A future painted in warmth.
A little girl with purple hair holding up a sketchbook.
A toddler with paint on his fingers.
Serina and Arien.
Your wedding band catching the afternoon glow while you laughed with a brush tucked behind your ear.
That vision had felt like art made flesh.
Now he watched you walk towards a different canvas.
...
During the vows, Valko’s voice broke halfway through a joke.
You cried.
He cried worse.
The guests laughed softly.
Rafayel smiled with them, one hand tucked into his pocket so no one would see his fingers trembling.
...
At the reception, you asked him to take a photo with you.
“Come on, Raf,” you said warmly. “You’re not escaping.”
He laughed because he knew how to perform happiness.
“Me? Escape attention? Never.”
Valko slipped an arm around your waist for the photo. You leaned into him with ease.
The camera flashed.
Rafayel smiled.
A masterpiece of a lie.
When news of your pregnancy reached him, he was in his studio.
Thomas said it casually, flipping through exhibition schedules.
“By the way, she and Valko are expecting. You should send something nice.”
Rafayel’s brush fell from his hand.
A smear of blue ruined the canvas.
Thomas stopped talking.
Rafayel stared at the colour bleeding across the half-finished painting.
Blue like the sky in the vision.
Blue like the shadows in a home that had never been his.
“I will,” he said after a moment. “Of course I will.”
He sent a custom mobile for the nursery, all soft shapes and tiny painted stars.
...
You sent him a picture of Valko trying to hang it, standing on a chair while you scolded him for nearly falling.
Rafayel laughed at the photo.
Then he sat on the studio floor and cried so quietly even the canvas seemed to look away.
When Lumi was born, you sent him a picture of her.
Her tiny hand wrapped around Valko’s finger.
...
Rafayel stared at the image until the screen dimmed.
Then he opened a blank canvas.
For three hours, he painted nothing.
Years later, you commissioned him for a family portrait.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” you said gently.
He smiled too quickly.
“Comfortable? Please. I was born for this level of artistic suffering.”
You laughed.
Valko leaned into frame behind you. “Should I wear something dramatic? Maybe a cape?”
“No,” you said immediately.
“Cruel woman.”
...
Rafayel watched you both bicker with a kind of tenderness that made his ribs ache.
When you arrived at his studio with Valko and the children, Rafayel felt the world tilt.
The same golden light poured through the windows.
The same scent of paint and lavender settled in the air.
Lumi ran in first, clutching a sketchbook almost too big for her small hands.
“Uncle Raf! I drew you!”
...
His brush slipped.
For one second, he was back in the vision.
Papa, I drew you.
That was what the child in the vision had said.
Only now the child was yours and Valko’s.
Not his.
Only the word had changed.
Not Papa.
Uncle.
The smallest alteration.
The cruelest one.
He crouched and accepted the drawing with a flourish.
“A masterpiece. I’m clearly outmatched.”
The child beamed.
Hunter toddled behind her, fingers already smudged with marker despite your best efforts. Valko followed with a laugh, older now, broader in presence, softer in expression. Time had touched him beautifully. His grin still carried mischief, but fatherhood had warmed it into something protective. A few silver strands threaded through his hair, and his eyes held the tired brightness of a man who had spent years being loved loudly and loving louder in return.
Valko laughed as he stood beside you, holding Milo against his chest while you adjusted the baby’s collar, your wedding ring flashing under the studio lights.
...
Rafayel could barely breathe.
Rafayel looked at the four of you.
His throat tightened.
The composition was perfect.
That made him want to ruin it.
The vision returned with brutal clarity.
The studio walls filled with layered canvases. Your laughter across the room. Children’s hands covered in paint. His own older reflection, softened by time, watching a life he had never imagined he could deserve.
Except now he was behind the easel.
Watching.
Not living.
...
Valko crouched beside Lumi and whispered, “Make sure Uncle Raf gets my good side.”
Lumi giggled. “Daddy, you don’t have one.”
You laughed so hard you leaned against Valko’s shoulder.
Rafayel smiled.
Painted.
Captured the light.
Captured the love.
Captured the exact life the universe had once shown him, now rearranged around another man.
When the portrait was finished weeks later, you cried when you saw it.
Valko wrapped an arm around you and kissed your hair.
Rafayel watched his own hands tremble.
That night, after everyone left, he covered the portrait with a sheet and sat in the darkened studio.
Then the grief came.
Not elegantly.
Not poetically.
...
It came ugly and breathless, cracking through his chest until he bent over with his hands in his hair.
He had always believed beauty was something to chase.
But he had been given beauty once.
A living, breathing future.
And he had stood still until someone braver painted himself into it.
Sylus read the wedding invitation once.
Then twice.
Then set it on his desk like it had personally offended him.
Luke found it later.
“Oh,” he said.
Kieran peered over his shoulder. “Oh.”
Sylus looked up.
...
“Finish that thought and I’ll make sure both of you regret developing language.”
Neither twin said anything.
For once.
Sylus attended your wedding like a man attending a negotiation.
Calm.
Composed.
Untouchable.
At least, that was the performance.
...
He attended because not attending would have been cowardice, and Sylus had never tolerated cowardice in himself.
You looked surprised to see him.
That almost made him laugh.
As if he would miss the execution.
...
MC stood beside him, dressed beautifully, her smile sharp enough to suggest she noticed more than she said.
“You’re quiet,” she observed.
“Weddings are dull,” Sylus replied.
“They’re romantic.”
“That explains it.”
MC laughed, but Sylus did not.
His eyes were on Valko.
...
Valko was everything Sylus should have found irritating. Too bright. Too expressive. Too quick with his grin. The kind of man who turned solemn moments into something warm simply by refusing to let joy behave.
And yet, when Valko saw you, all that playfulness narrowed into devotion.
Pure.
Unhidden.
Dangerous in its honesty.
His grin softened. His shoulders dropped. His entire expression opened.
Sylus hated him then.
Not because Valko was cruel.
Because he was not.
Because the man looked at you with the exact warmth Sylus had once seen in himself inside the vision.
...
A courtyard of glass and steel.
A little girl with crimson eyes and silver hair.
A small boy toddling after her.
Raven and Ash.
Your ring catching sunlight as you held tea.
His hand finding yours with years of trust between you.
Sylus flexed his bare fingers.
Nothing.
No ring.
No future.
...
Sylus watched him take your hand.
Watched you relax.
Watched you trust him.
That was the first cut.
The vows were the second.
At the altar, Valko stumbled over one line of his vows.
You laughed softly.
He groaned, then pressed his forehead against your hand.
“Sorry, sorry. I had this planned. You’re just very distracting.”
The guests laughed.
You smiled at him as if he hung the moon badly but tried his best.
The ring was the third.
...
He had seen that same ring before.
In another life. Another courtyard. Another sunlight.
On your hand.
Beside his.
When Valko kissed you, the room cheered.
Sylus smiled.
Slow. Polished. Perfect.
Inside, something went very still as its coldness settle behind his ribs.
He could have given you the world.
Valko had given you sincerity.
Somehow, that was worse.
When he heard about the pregnancy, Luke and Kieran were arguing in the hallway about what gift to send.
“Boss, do babies like drones?”
“No,” Kieran said. “Babies like soft things.”
“Drones can be soft.”
Sylus stopped walking.
“What baby?”
Both twins froze.
Luke winced. “You didn’t hear?”
...
No.
He had not.
You were pregnant.
Sylus gave no reaction.
“Send something expensive,” he said.
Then he walked into his office, closed the door, and stood there with one hand braced against the desk.
The phantom ring returned.
Smooth. Cool. Cruel.
...
When his extravagant gift was sent.
It ended up too extravagant.
You called him immediately.
“Sylus, this is too much.”
“For a child? Hardly.”
“It’s a baby, not a royal heir.”
“Debatable.”
Valko’s voice called from the background, “Tell him I accept tribute on behalf of the tiny ruler.”
You laughed.
Sylus closed his eyes.
That laugh stayed with him for the rest of the night.
...
When Lumi was born, Valko sent a video.
He was holding her against his chest, whispering nonsense while she slept. His eyes were red with exhaustion, but his smile was unbearable.
“Look at her,” Valko whispered in the video. “She’s perfect. She’s so perfect.”
You laughed weakly from somewhere off-camera. “You’ve said that twenty times.”
“I’ll say it twenty more.”
...
Sylus closed the video.
Then opened it again.
Then hated himself for watching until the end.
Years later, you brought your family to an Onychinus event. It was formal enough to require appearances, informal enough for children to sneak biscuits from silver trays.
Your daughter spotted Mephisto first.
Her eyes widened.
“Daddy, bird!”
Valko crouched beside her. “That, my darling chaos gremlin, is a very dramatic bird.”
Mephisto cawed, offended.
Sylus should have laughed.
He almost did.
...
Then your son toddled after the crow, clapping.
“Win, win!”
The words hit like a blade.
Raven and Ash.
The courtyard.
The glass canopy.
A little girl with mischief in her eyes.
A toddler echoing laughter.
Only now, they were not his children.
They were Valko’s.
And you stood in the centre of it all, wearing a ring Sylus had once felt against his own hand in a future that had dared to feel real.
Valko looked at you over the children’s heads.
You smiled back.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No guarded distance.
...
Sylus understood then.
You had not settled.
You had chosen.
And worse, you had chosen well.
That night, long after the guests left, Sylus remained alone in his office.
The city glowed beneath him.
Power. Wealth. Influence.
All of it at his feet.
None of it enough.
He flexed his left hand.
The phantom ring returned.
...
This time, he did not curse.
Instead, he laughed.
Low. Bitter. Broken.
It turned into something else before he could stop it.
His head dropped back against the seat, eyes closed, breath uneven.
For once, there was no audience.
No twins.
No MC.
No empire of shadows to command.
...
Only him, alone with the truth.
Because he could not blame Valko.
Could not blame you.
Could not even blame fate.
...
He had seen happiness once and treated it like a threat.
Now it belonged to a man brave enough to make a fool of himself just to make you laugh.
Sylus leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, silence swallowing the room.
For the first time in years, control brought him no comfort.
Caleb kept your wedding invitation tucked inside his desk drawer for three days before replying.
He told himself it was because of scheduling.
Fleet duties.
Travel clearance.
Mission reports.
Anything but the truth.
...
When the day finally came, Skyhaven's skies were impossibly clear.
The ceremony overlooked the upper terraces, where clouds drifted lazily beneath floating platforms and sunlight washed the glass railings in pale gold.
Beautiful.
Of course it was.
You deserved beautiful.
MC stood beside him, quietly commenting on the decorations while guests filtered into their seats.
Caleb heard none of it.
His eyes stayed fixed on the altar.
On the man waiting there.
Valko.
Valko shifted his weight from one foot to the other every few seconds, running a nervous hand through his hair before immediately regretting it.
His tie sat slightly crooked.
He straightened it.
Then crooked it again.
Caleb almost smiled.
Then he watched Valko’s hands.
They were shaking.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
From excitement.
From loving someone enough that even happiness became overwhelming.
...
The music began.
Everyone stood.
Then...
There you were.
Caleb had seen you in uniforms.
Covered in grease while repairing equipment.
Half asleep after long shifts.
Laughing over burnt coffee.
Smiling despite exhaustion.
He had never seen you like this.
Radiant.
Peaceful.
Walking towards someone who looked at you like you'd hung every star in the sky.
Valko’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
He laughed once under his breath, embarrassed by himself.
Then quietly wiped them away before you reached him.
When you finally stood before him, he whispered something only you could hear.
You burst into soft laughter.
The tension melted from both of you instantly.
...
Caleb looked away.
His chest hurt.
Not because the moment was grand.
Because it wasn't.
It was ordinary.
Comfortable.
The sort of quiet happiness built over years instead of destiny.
...
An open-air deck.
A pale-blue sky.
Children laughing somewhere nearby.
A silver ring catching the afternoon light.
Your hand reaching for his.
Skie.
Orion.
Lyra.
The names echoed through his memory.
Then reality pulled him back.
The officiant smiled.
"You may kiss your bride."
Valko stepped forward.
You met him halfway.
The applause drowned out everything else.
Caleb clapped too.
His hands felt strangely heavy.
Months later, Gideon found him in their usual coffee shop.
The same one overlooking Skyhaven where, years ago, he'd laughed and convinced Caleb to try the Compatibility Vision with you.
The same table.
The same window.
The same city.
Only neither of them were the same people anymore.
Gideon stirred his coffee absentmindedly.
"She called."
Caleb looked up.
"She's pregnant."
Silence.
The words settled between them like snowfall.
...
Gideon waited.
"Say something."
Caleb looked out the window.
The floating transports drifted lazily between the towers.
People hurried through their ordinary mornings.
Life continued.
"What is there to say?"
His voice sounded almost detached.
"...Congratulations."
That was what there was to say.
So that was what he said.
...
When Lumi was born, he visited.
MC had insisted they bring a gift.
A soft hand-knitted blanket.
Practical.
Warm.
The door opened before he knocked twice.
Valko stood there looking utterly exhausted.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
Hair a complete mess.
Shirt buttoned incorrectly.
And smiling so brightly it almost hurt to look at him.
"Colonel!"
He beamed.
"Come witness my greatest mission failure."
Caleb blinked.
"...Failure?"
"I genuinely believed I was prepared."
He leaned conspiratorially closer.
"I was catastrophically wrong."
From somewhere inside the house, you laughed.
"You've been saying that for three days."
"Because I've been wrong for three days!"
...
You appeared in the living room, the baby sleeping peacefully against your chest.
Everything about you looked softer.
The way you smiled.
The way you held your child.
The way your husband, Valko, instinctively crossed the room the second he noticed the blanket slipping from your shoulder.
He tucked it back into place without interrupting the conversation.
Without thinking.
Without asking.
Just...
because he'd noticed.
Then the baby stirred.
Before you could even adjust your hold, he was already there.
"I've got her."
His voice dropped automatically.
Gentler.
Quieter.
Practised.
He lifted his daughter with impossible care, resting her against his shoulder.
She settled almost immediately.
"There we go, little moon..."
...
Caleb watched the entire exchange without speaking.
There was no performance.
No attempt to impress anyone.
This was simply who Valko had become.
A husband.
A father.
The life Caleb had once watched himself living.
Only someone else had grown into it.
When he finally left that afternoon, he sat inside his car for nearly twenty minutes.
He never started the engine.
Years passed.
The invitation this time was for the holidays.
Everyone was coming.
Friends.
Colleagues.
Family.
When Caleb stepped onto the upper terrace, his heart stopped.
Pale-blue sky.
Glass railings.
Open air.
Sunlight.
He knew this place.
Not exactly.
But enough.
...
The vision returned before anyone even spoke.
Then—
"Daddy!"
Lumi sprinted across the terrace.
Milo, her younger brother, chased after her.
"We're faster this time!"
Tiny footsteps followed behind them.
Kendra, just barely a toddler, clung to your leg, giggling between half-formed words.
...
Caleb couldn't breathe.
Not because the children looked like the ones from the vision.
They didn't.
Not really.
But...
The rhythm was identical.
The feeling.
The laughter.
The life.
His eyes found their father.
Valko.
...
Time had changed him gently.
The restless young man Caleb remembered from the wedding had become steadier now.
His hair had grown slightly longer, the first silver strands beginning to appear near his temples.
There were faint lines around his eyes.
The kind earned through laughter instead of hardship.
His smile was different too.
Still playful.
Still bright.
But grounded by years of bedtime stories, scraped knees, midnight fevers, school concerts, and tiny hands reaching for his without hesitation.
He caught Lumi before she collided with him.
"Got you."
She laughed so hard she nearly hiccupped.
"Again!"
"You're trying to wear your old man out."
"You said you have superpowers!"
"I may have exaggerated."
Hunter tugged on his sleeve.
"Daddy... up."
Without missing a beat, Valko lifted him too.
...
You appeared moments later wearing his oversized coat.
Your wedding ring caught the winter sunlight.
"You know," you teased, "they're going to expect aeroplane rides every single time."
"They already do."
"And whose fault is that?"
He looked at you.
Grinned.
"Yours."
You rolled your eyes.
Then, without thinking...
...you reached for his hand.
He met yours automatically.
Neither of you looked down.
Neither of you had to.
Years had taught your hands where to find each other.
...
Caleb felt the world tilt.
In the vision...
it had been his hand.
His coat.
His children.
His future.
Now he stood ten metres away.
Watching Valko live it.
Not as the husband.
Not as the father.
Not even as someone still waiting.
Just...
Uncle Caleb.
The title came moments later.
The little girl waved enthusiastically.
"Uncle Caleb! Come play!"
He smiled.
The lie came easily now.
"I'll be right there."
He stayed until evening.
Helped clean up.
Carried boxes.
Played with the children.
Congratulated you both.
Smiled for photographs.
Then he left.
...
His destination wasn't home.
It was the coffee shop.
The same coffee shop.
The same window.
The same seat Gideon had occupied years ago.
Caleb ordered a coffee.
He never touched it.
...
Outside, Skyhaven shimmered beneath the evening lights.
He remembered Gideon's laugh.
"What harm could one little vision do?"
Caleb had thought the phenomenon showed people what might happen.
He understood now.
It had shown him exactly what happiness looked like.
Just not who it would belong to.
The laughter had been real.
The children had been real.
The home had been real.
The love had been real.
Only his place within it had quietly disappeared.
For a man who had spent his life mastering gravity...
...he had never understood what it meant to truly fall.
...
His elbows rested on the table.
His clasped hands touched his forehead.
For the first time since that second vision...
Caleb stopped fighting it.
No soldiers.
No missions.
No MC.
No Gideon.
No one waiting for him to be strong.
Just a man mourning the family he had once held for a few fleeting moments beneath an impossible sky.
And for one quiet night...
He truly let himself grieve.
By the time each of them understood what they had lost, Non-MC was no longer waiting at the edge of their lives.
She was loved.
Chosen.
Held.
Valko had become the husband they had once seen themselves becoming, playful where they had been guarded, brave where they had hesitated, warm where they had kept their distance.
He did not inherit their future.
He built his own with her.
And that was what made it hurt the most.
Because the life they had once glimpsed had not been impossible.
It had only required courage.
By the time they found theirs, she had already given her heart to someone who had never made her wonder if she was worth choosing.
Soo... We got Mr Werewolf man. Not gonna lie, he's hot and he's giving Daddy vibe like Sylus. Infold could have made him older like c'mon a chairman, not some random young CEO, a literal chairman at age 26.Besides that Duke Zayne and him are tempting me to reinstall the game
Funny request: Non-MC feels very strongly against swearing, so instead she whips out Shakespearean insults when she’s upset. She’s able to pull them out of thin air and somehow the person feels worse being called a joggerheaded rump-faced measle than being thrown a slur
Verbal Violence (Without Swearing)
Setup: You have always been strongly against swearing. No matter how angry, frustrated, or sleep-deprived you get, you refuses to curse. Unfortunately for everyone around you, this simply means your brain compensates by producing increasingly unhinged Shakespearean insults on command. What starts as harmless old-fashioned remarks quickly escalates into verbal warfare so devastating that grown adults need emotional recovery time afterwards. The boys eventually learn that if you ever smiles politely and starts speaking like a Renaissance playwright, someone is about to have their entire bloodline professionally insulted. The worst part? You doesn't even know where half of them come from. You just open your mouth, and the words arrive. Like divine judgement. Or a curse. Nobody's quite sure which.
Pairing: LADS x Non-MC reader
Genre: Crack & Fluff
Writer's note: It surprised me how long I haven't posted anything, but I have a little spare time at work to complete this without disturbing anyone. It's not proofread, but I hope you all enjoy.
The problem began when someone cut in front of you in line.
A normal person would've said something reasonable.
You stared at the offender.
Then suddenly:
"You absolute toad-spotted hedge wombat."
The entire queue froze.
The man froze.
Luke froze.
Kieran physically stumbled into a display stand.
The man blinked.
"...What?"
You pointed.
"You heard me, thou crooked-nosed gravy goblin."
Sylus immediately lowered his sunglasses, purely intrigued.
As he now needed to witness this in 4K.
The man looked offended.
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
You gasped.
"Good heavens."
Then shook your head sadly.
"The fact that you must ask confirms my suspicions."
"What suspicions?!"
You looked him dead in the eye.
"That your thoughts arrive by horse and carriage."
Later:
Sylus was trying to interrogate a smuggler.
Trying.
The smuggler refused to talk.
Until you wandered past.
The man made a rude comment.
You didn't even stop walking.
"Thou hast the facial symmetry of a disappointed potato."
Silence.
The smuggler looked wounded.
Actually wounded.
Sylus, in pure amusement, watched as years leave the unfortunate man's lifespan.
Rafayel discovers that the insults become more powerful when you're sleep deprived.
This is unfortunate.
Because Rafayel enjoys bothering you.
One afternoon:
Poke.
"Nuuu."
Poke.
"Nuuu."
Poke.
Your eyes opened.
Slowly.
Rafayel immediately felt danger.
"You."
You pointed.
"You overgrown decorative sea cucumber."
"..."
"...What?"
"You heard me."
Rafayel sat up.
"Sea cucumber?!"
"At least sea cucumbers contribute to the ecosystem."
The betrayal.
The absolute betrayal.
Five minutes later.
"Poke."
"You damp crumpet of a man."
"..."
"Poke."
"You glitter-infested kelp noodle."
"..."
"Poke."
"You unfinished sketch."
Rafayel gasped.
"You take that back."
The worst part?
You don't even remember saying them.
Thomas later showed you security footage.
You watched yourself tell Rafayel he looked like:
"A wet peacock experiencing administrative difficulties."
You had no recollection whatsoever.
Xavier accidentally introduces you to one of his male coworkers.
Huge mistake.
Massive mistake.
Because the male made the fatal error of saying:
"I don't really get why Xavier likes stargazing so much."
You slowly lowered your cup.
Xavier immediately recognised the expression.
The co-worker did not.
"Oh no," Xavier whispered.
"What?"
"You've activated her."
"What does that mean?"
You looked at the male.
With the calmness of a thousand oceans.
"You unsalted pretzel."
The male blinked.
"...Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Xavier immediately walked away.
The unfortunate man wasn't surviving this.
"You speak with remarkable confidence for a man whose train of thought appears to require replacement parts."
"..."
"..."
"What does that even mean?"
"Exactly."
Three hours later the poor guy was still thinking about it.
Caleb's favourite pastime becomes writing your insults down.
He owns notebooks now.
Entire notebooks.
One day Gideon asks why.
Caleb immediately flips to page 47.
"There."
Gideon reads aloud:
Thou malformed cinnamon roll of poor judgement.
Silence.
Page 112:
You have the energy of an unattended casserole.
Page 203:
Your ancestors did not survive countless generations for you to make decisions this foolish.
Gideon was crying.
Actually crying.
One day you accidentally insult Caleb.
The room went silent.
Because that never happened.
You looked at him.
Hands on hips.
"Caleb."
"Yes?"
"You magnificent turnip."
"..."
"..."
The room then exploded.
Caleb nearly passed out laughing.
The hospital learns very quickly.
If you ever start speaking in Shakespearean English, somebody has messed up.
Badly.
One resident forgot a patient's chart.
Again.
Zayne watched the interaction.
The resident nervously explained himself.
You listened.
Nodded.
Patient.
Calm.
Professional.
Then:
"Thou art a PDF that failed to download."
Silence.
The resident froze.
The resident beside him froze.
The nurse station froze.
The patient in room 12 probably froze.
"What?"
You inhaled.
Zayne immediately looked away.
Because he knew.
He knew.
"You possess all the structural integrity of a soup sandwich."
The resident physically sat down.
Later:
Zayne asked:
"How do you come up with these?"
You frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"The insults."
"I don't know."
"..."
"They just arrive."
"..."
"Like divine revelation."
Zayne stared.
Then looked at the ceiling.
As if asking whatever higher power existed:
Why have you given this woman unlimited access to verbal violence?
Eventually the boys realise something horrifying.
The insults scale with your anger.
Mild irritation?
"Thou barnacle."
Moderate annoyance?
"Thou sentient paperwork error."
Maximum rage?
You become a legendary raid boss.
One unfortunate soul once made you genuinely furious.
Witnesses later reported hearing:
"Thou mayonnaise-scented harbinger of preventable disappointment."
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.
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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.
