Word Count: 5,247
Warnings: anxiety, overthinking, worrying, talks of infertility, self worth worries, zayne being literally the most perfect man to walk the planet
AO3 Link
"If my wife is an overthinker, then I'll be an over-explainer; I have no problem putting her mind at ease."
The first time Zayne realized she was an overthinker, they were sitting in his car, parked outside her apartment building. The rain had come in early that evening, drumming against the windshield in a steady rhythm. It was the kind of rain that blurred street lights into soft halos and made the world feel smaller, quieter.
She had been staring out the window for the past three minutes, her fingers idly tracing patterns into the condensation forming on the glass.
“You’re thinking too hard about something,” Zayne said, his voice cutting through the hush of the car’s interior.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening slightly. “I—what?”
He turned in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “You get quiet when you’re overthinking. And you do this thing with your fingers.” He gestured vaguely to the absentminded movement of her hand against the window.
She glanced down, like she hadn’t even realized she was doing it. A small, embarrassed smile flitted across her lips before she sighed. “It’s nothing.”
He waited.
She sighed again. “Okay, fine. It’s just... I had a really nice time tonight.”
Zayne frowned slightly. “That’s what you’re overthinking?”
“Yes.”
He blinked. “You’re overthinking something good?”
She huffed, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, curling into herself. “Because what if this doesn’t work? What if I like you more than you like me? What if I say something stupid and ruin everything? Or what if I’m not what you actually want, and you just haven’t realized it yet?”
There it was. The spiraling. The way her thoughts tangled into each other like threads pulled too tight.
Zayne inhaled slowly. He could have told her not to worry. That she was being ridiculous. That none of those things would happen. But he already knew that wouldn’t help. She wasn’t the kind of person who needed vague reassurances. She needed facts. Proof. A detailed breakdown of exactly why her fears were unfounded.
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel once before turning to her fully. “Alright. Let’s go over the variables, then.”
She blinked. “The variables?”
“Yes. First, you said you had a nice time tonight.”
“I did.”
“Well, so did I. That cancels out the first worry—this isn’t one-sided.” He tilted his head slightly. “And the second one, about saying something stupid? Statistically speaking, everyone says something dumb at some point in a relationship. I myself have said incredibly stupid things before.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Like what?”
He exhaled through his nose, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. “When I was in med school, I was so sleep-deprived that I once called my professor ‘Dad’ in the middle of a lecture.”
Her lips parted, and then, despite herself, she snorted.
Zayne grinned. “Exactly. Embarrassment is inevitable. If you say something stupid, I guarantee it won’t be worse than that.”
She let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. But then her shoulders tensed again, the deeper worry still sitting in the back of her mind. “And the last part?”
“That you’re not what I actually want?” He shifted slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make her really hear him. “I don’t go on dates for fun. My job is too demanding, my time too valuable, to waste it on something I don’t care about.” He held her gaze, steady and sure. “If I didn’t want this—didn’t want you—I wouldn’t be here.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft patter of rain against the windshield.
She inhaled, her fingers still wrapped in the sleeves of her sweater. “You really have no problem over-explaining things, do you?”
Zayne’s lips twitched, his hazel-green eyes warm despite the dim lighting. “Not if it helps.”
She exhaled a quiet laugh, and he could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her expression, finally unwinding.
Later, when she climbed out of the car and lingered at the door for just a second longer than necessary, he rolled down the window and called out, “By the way.”
She turned.
“I’m going to kiss you next time,” he said. “Just so you don’t overthink it when it happens.”
Her breath hitched, but this time, it wasn’t worry in her eyes. It was something softer, something lighter.
And when she smiled before slipping inside, Zayne knew—this would not be the last time he had to explain things to her.
And he didn’t mind one bit.
It started with a text message.
She had sent it while he was finishing up rounds at the hospital—just a simple, Hey, are you free later?
Zayne had responded a few minutes later, something casual, something easy. Yeah, want me to pick you up after my shift?
But by the time he pulled up outside her place, she was already pacing the sidewalk, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
He could see it before she even got in the car—the slight crease between her brows, the way she kept worrying at the inside of her cheek with her teeth. He knew that expression now. Knew the way her body language shifted when she was spiraling, thoughts looping over themselves in an endless, tangled mess.
She climbed in, shutting the door a little too carefully, like she was afraid of making too much noise.
“Hey,” he said, glancing at her as he pulled away from the curb. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, fingers tightening in the fabric of her skirt. “It’s stupid.”
Zayne exhaled through his nose. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t mind stupid.”
She huffed, a tiny, almost-there laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. For a few moments, she just stared out the windshield, like she was trying to put her thoughts in order.
Finally, she murmured, “I think I annoyed you today.”
His brows lifted slightly, glancing at her again. “When?”
“This morning. When you were at work. I texted you first, and I don’t know, you just took longer to respond than usual, and your reply seemed kind of... short?” She bit her lip, looking away. “And I know you were busy, I know that, but my brain just kept thinking, what if I was being annoying? What if I’m one of those people who doesn’t realize they’re texting too much, and I—”
Zayne took one hand off the wheel and reached over, slipping his fingers beneath hers and prying them loose from where she was gripping the hem of her skirt. He laced their fingers together, squeezing just enough to make her pause.
“You weren’t annoying me,” he said, voice steady, certain. “I was in the middle of rounds when you texted. I answered as soon as I had a second.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know that, but—”
“But your brain still decided to worry about it anyway,” he finished for her.
She let out a breath, tilting her head against the seat. “Yeah.”
He turned onto a quieter street, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. “Okay, let’s analyze this. If I was annoyed, what do you think I would’ve done?”
She swallowed. “Maybe not respond at all.”
“Right. But I did respond. And even if I was annoyed, what would the logical next step be?”
She blinked. “Um... you’d probably talk to me about it?”
“Exactly.” He brought her hand up briefly, pressing a kiss to the back of it without taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t do passive-aggressive things. I don’t do silent treatments. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to guess.”
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening in his.
Zayne glanced at her again, taking in the way her shoulders had dropped, just a little. It was always like this—her worries curling tight around her like vines, and him untangling them one by one.
A beat of silence passed, then she muttered, “I really need to rewire my brain.”
Zayne’s lips quirked. “Or you could just keep me around. I don’t mind doing the rewiring for you.”
This time, she actually laughed, a quiet, breathy thing, but real.
And when he finally pulled into the parking lot of the little café they liked, he didn’t let go of her hand, even after he put the car in park.
He turned to her fully, thumb stroking slow circles over her knuckles. “I’m not going to disappear just because you send me a text,” he said. “Or because you overthink. That’s not how this works.”
Her gaze softened. “No?”
“No,” he said, firm, final. Then, because he knew her, because he knew the way her mind worked, he added, “And if you ever actually are annoying, I’ll let you know in excruciating detail.”
She let out a startled, half-exasperated laugh, shoving his arm lightly. “God, you really don’t shut up, do you?”
His lips twitched. “Not when it comes to you.”
And later, when they sat across from each other at the café, her foot nudging his beneath the table, he could see it—the way she breathed easier, the way the storm in her mind had finally stilled.
And that was enough.
Zayne found her sitting on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by half-filled moving boxes, staring at an empty suitcase like it had personally wronged her.
She didn’t even look up when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. He could see it—her mind running laps around itself, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweatpants, the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“You’re overthinking,” he said, because he had long since stopped bothering with preambles.
She sighed. “I know.”
Zayne pushed off the door frame, stepping over a pile of bubble wrap as he crouched beside her. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go through it.”
She groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “God, I hate that you know me this well.”
His lips quirked. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
He nudged her knee with his own. “Talk to me.”
She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to the half-packed boxes around them. “What if this is a mistake?”
His brows lifted. “You think moving in with me is a mistake?”
“No! I mean—yes? Ugh.” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I want to live with you. I love being with you. But what if it changes things? What if I get on your nerves? What if I do something weird and you realize you actually hate the way I load the dishwasher or fold my clothes or—I don’t know, breathe too loud at night?”
Zayne blinked. “I already know you breathe too loud at night.”
Her hands dropped from her face. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve fallen asleep next to you plenty of times. Sometimes, you make this little noise when you exhale, like a tiny sigh.” He smirked. “It’s actually kind of cute.”
She gaped at him, horrified. “I do not.”
He shrugged. “You do. But see? I already know. And I still want you to move in.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, then huffed. “That’s not the point.”
Zayne tilted his head slightly. “Then what is the point?”
Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweatshirt. “I guess... I just keep thinking, what if I ruin it? We’re good right now. What if living together messes everything up?”
Zayne let the silence stretch between them for a moment, studying the way her breath had gone shallow, the way her knee bounced like she was trying to shake off the thoughts clinging to her.
Then he reached for her hand, unfolding her fingers from where they were gripping her clothes, lacing them with his. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s analyze this.”
She groaned again. “You and your analyzing—”
“Shh. I’m working.”
Despite herself, she let out a breath of laughter, small but real.
Zayne continued. “So, let’s start with facts. You love me.”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“And I love you.”
She swallowed. “Yeah.”
“And we already spend most of our time together anyway.”
She hesitated. “Well... yeah.”
“And I already know about all your little quirks.” His voice softened. “I know you keep the spoons separate from the forks in the dishwasher because it ‘just feels right.’ I know you have to have a blanket on you even when it’s hot. I know you like your coffee way too sweet, and I know that when you’re tired, you forget to drink it entirely and then complain when it gets cold.”
Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face.
“I know you,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier. “And you know me. This isn’t a risk, it’s a next step. And if something comes up, we’ll handle it. Together.”
She inhaled slowly, like she was trying to let the words sink in, like she was testing their weight in her mind.
Zayne squeezed her hand. “And for the record?”
She blinked at him.
“I want to live with you,” he said simply. “Not just because it’s convenient, not because it’s ‘the next step,’ but because when I come home after a 12-hour shift, I’d rather collapse into bed with you than spend the night wishing you were there.”
Her breath hitched, and for a second, he thought she might cry. But instead, she surged forward, pressing her forehead against his, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.
“You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she murmured.
He smirked. “Of course. That’s my job.”
She exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting her head so her nose brushed his. “I love you.”
Zayne’s smirk softened into something smaller, something real. “I know.”
She groaned, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you still want to live with me,” he said, smug.
She rolled her eyes, but when she sat back, the crease in her brow was gone, the tension in her shoulders finally unwound. She looked around at the boxes again, and this time, her expression wasn’t one of panic, but quiet determination.
Zayne stood, brushing dust off his knees before offering her a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s finish packing.”
She stared at his outstretched hand for a second before slipping hers into it, letting him pull her up.
And later, when they were surrounded by the last of the packed boxes, when she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping her too-sweet coffee while he flicked through the TV channels, she leaned against him and whispered, “I can’t believe I almost let my brain talk me out of this.”
Zayne hummed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Good thing I never shut up, huh?”
She smiled against his shoulder, and he could feel it—the moment she finally, finally let herself believe.
Her hands were shaking.
She hadn’t noticed it at first, too caught up in the chaos of the wedding preparations—her mother fussing over last-minute details, the makeup artist dusting powder over her cheekbones, the soft hum of music floating in from the reception hall. But now, standing in the bridal suite with her veil pooled over her lap, fingers clenched in the fabric, she realized—she was trembling.
Because Zayne wasn’t here.
And he was never late.
She kept staring at her phone, at the last message he had sent over an hour ago: On my way. Can’t wait to marry you.
No updates. No follow-ups. Just silence.
And her mind was already sprinting ahead, forming theories, catastrophizing, twisting his absence into something bigger than it was.
What if he had changed his mind?
What if he had gotten cold feet and didn’t know how to tell her?
What if she had missed the signs, what if he had only thought he wanted this but now, on the way to the altar, had realized—
Her phone buzzed.
She jolted so hard she nearly dropped it.
Zayne.
She fumbled to answer, pressing it against her ear so fast she barely registered her own breathless, “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” came his voice—calm, steady, warm. Familiar. “I need you to do something for me.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Zayne, where are you?”
“First, I need you to breathe,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, grounding cadence that always managed to cut through the noise in her head. “Deep breath in for me, okay?”
She swallowed, gripping the phone tighter. “Zayne—”
“Baby,” he murmured. “Breathe.”
Her throat tightened. But she did it. Inhale, slow and shaking. Exhale, a little steadier.
“Good,” he said. She could hear the faint hum of his car’s engine through the receiver, the occasional honk in the distance. “Now, I’m going to explain what’s happening, and you will not assume the worst until I’m finished. Deal?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.”
“There was a pile-up on the highway. No one’s hurt, but it backed up traffic for miles. I’ve been inching forward for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m about ten minutes from getting through the worst of it. I’m going to be late, but I am coming. I will be there. I am marrying you today.”
She blinked rapidly, staring at the floor. The knot in her chest loosened, but the panic hadn’t fully left. “But what if—”
“Nope,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “No what ifs. No spiraling. Tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”
She let out a shaky breath, pressing her fingers to her temple. “What if—what if this is a sign? That something’s off?”
Zayne exhaled through the receiver. Not exasperated, not frustrated—just knowing. Like he had already predicted this exact worry before she even spoke. “Alright. Let’s break that down. What would this be a sign of? That the universe doesn’t want us to be together?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, soft and unwavering, “the universe has thrown a lot worse at us, and we’re still here.”
Her breath hitched.
“Think about it,” he continued. “We survived me being in med school while you worked full-time. We survived the long shifts, the exhaustion, the nights where I fell asleep mid-conversation and you just laughed and pulled a blanket over me. We survived you almost backing out of moving in together, and me annoying the hell out of you by explaining, in painful detail, why you were overthinking it.”
That startled a breathy, half-laugh out of her. “You did do that.”
“And I was right,” he reminded her smugly. “And I’m right now, too. This isn’t a sign of anything except that traffic is shit, and I need to leave earlier next time.”
She sniffled, pressing her palm to her eyes.
His voice softened. “You still with me?”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, relief threading through his tone. “Now, tell me the truth—are you standing there in your dress, looking stupidly beautiful, worrying about the one thing you don’t have to worry about?”
She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Her dress fit perfectly, the veil draped like something out of a dream, the delicate lace covering her shoulders. And yet, none of it mattered. Not if he wasn’t here.
“I just—” Her throat went tight again. “I just want you here.”
“I know,” he murmured. “And I will be. But in the meantime, I need you to do something for me.”
She swallowed. “What?”
“Find my mom,” he said. “Tell her what’s happening, so she can keep everyone calm. Then, go to the mirror, look at yourself, and remind yourself that I am coming. Because this isn’t your worst fear coming true. It’s just a logistical nightmare.”
She exhaled, her heartbeat finally slowing from a frantic sprint to something steadier.
“And while you’re at it,” Zayne continued, a smirk creeping into his voice, “consider how dramatic of an entrance I’m about to make. Pretty sure me rushing in, still half in my suit, to marry you is going to be some next-level rom-com shit.”
She let out a choked laugh, rubbing her temple. “God, I hate that you’re making me laugh right now.”
“You love that I’m making you laugh right now.”
She sniffled again, but this time, she smiled. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good. Now go find my mom,” he said. “And keep breathing. Because the next time you hear from me, I’ll be at the altar, waiting for you.”
And for the first time since she had realized he was late, she believed him.
She sat on the edge of their bed, hands clenched into the fabric of her pajama pants, staring at the single pink line on the test.
Another negative.
She had known it before she even took it—had felt it in the hollow ache of her body, in the familiar weight of disappointment pressing against her ribs. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
The bathroom light was still on, its glow bleeding into the dim bedroom, casting long shadows along the walls. The clock on the nightstand read 2:13 AM, the kind of time that existed only for insomniacs and worriers.
She was both.
The floor creaked, and she barely registered the quiet rustle of blankets before Zayne’s voice, heavy with sleep, cut through the thick silence.
“Sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough-edged with exhaustion.
She didn’t answer.
The bed shifted as he sat up, and a moment later, she felt the warmth of him—his presence wrapping around her before he even touched her. A second passed, then another, and then his fingers brushed against her knee, tentative at first. Testing. Feeling out the weight of her silence.
Finally, he asked, “Another one?”
Her throat tightened. She nodded.
Zayne let out a slow breath, the kind that said I know. I know what this means to you. I know how much it hurts.
She clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her pants. “Two years.” The words felt heavy, bitter in her mouth. “Two years of tracking cycles, vitamins, doctor visits, stupid fertility teas—two years of getting my hopes up just to end up right back here.” She let out a short, sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only exhaustion. Only anger. “I think it’s time to admit it, Zayne. I might not be able to get pregnant.”
She felt his hand shift, fingers trailing slowly up her thigh before settling over hers, prying them loose from the fabric she had been clutching like a lifeline. He held her hand in both of his, running his thumbs over her knuckles in slow, methodical strokes.
“Okay,” he said. Just that. A quiet, steady acknowledgment.
Her breath hitched. “That’s all you have to say?”
“No.” His grip on her hand tightened, gentle but firm. “But I need you to tell me exactly what you’re afraid of before I tell you why you’re wrong.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. “I’m afraid that I’ll never give you a child,” she whispered. “That I’ll never be able to give us the family we wanted.”
Zayne exhaled slowly, then shifted forward, his presence overwhelming in the best way—warm, solid, here. He reached for her, guiding her between his legs so that she was sitting against his chest, her back pressed into the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, one hand slipping beneath her shirt to press against the bare skin of her stomach.
“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let’s break this down.”
She let out a half-sob, half-laugh. “God, you and your breaking things down—”
“Shh,” he hummed, kissing the side of her head. “I’m working.”
She sniffled, but she didn’t pull away.
His fingers traced slow, soothing circles over her stomach. “Fact number one: The ability to get pregnant does not determine your worth. It does not determine whether you are enough for me. You are enough. Always have been. Always will be.”
Her throat closed up.
“Fact number two,” he continued, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. There are options—treatments, specialists, other ways to have the family we want. And I say we because this isn’t your burden to carry alone. It’s ours.”
Her breath stuttered.
His arms tightened around her, his voice softening, dropping into that low, reassuring timbre that always made her feel safe. “Fact number three,” he whispered. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a baby. I married you because I wanted you.”
A sound broke from her throat, something fragile and small.
Zayne pressed his lips against the side of her neck, lingering. “A child would be a gift, but you—you’re the dream, sweetheart. You are my family.”
And that—that—was what shattered her.
The tears came fast, hot and silent, spilling over before she could stop them. She turned in his arms, pressing her face into his neck, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
Zayne just held her, one hand in her hair, the other still pressed to her stomach, as if anchoring her to the reality he was trying so desperately to make her see.
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, in the heavy stillness of a truth she hadn’t let herself believe until now.
And when she finally found her voice again, it was small, hoarse. “You always know what to say.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, his lips still against her temple. “Of course. That’s my job.”
And for the first time in two years, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—they were going to be okay.
The car ride home was silent, but not the kind of silence that came with comfort.
It was the too still, too fragile, afraid-to-breathe kind of quiet.
She sat in the back seat, her body turned slightly toward the impossibly tiny person strapped into the car seat beside her. One hand hovered over their daughter’s chest, not quite touching, as if she was trying to convince herself that the gentle rise and fall of breath was real.
Zayne kept glancing in the rearview mirror, catching the way she barely blinked, the way her fingers twitched like she was fighting the urge to undo the buckle and pull their daughter into her arms.
“She’s okay,” he murmured, his voice breaking through the hush of the car.
Her gaze flicked to him, wide and uncertain. “What if she’s not?”
Zayne exhaled through his nose, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Then, statistically speaking, you will know before the car even stops.”
That earned him a glare, sharp but not real. He could see it—the way she wanted to be irritated, wanted to snap back that this is different, but she was too exhausted, too overwhelmed.
Still, she pressed her fingers gently to their daughter’s tiny chest, feeling the rhythmic little breaths beneath her palm.
The driveway appeared sooner than he expected.
It felt different, pulling up to the house with her in the car.
For years, it had been just them. Two people in a house that had once felt too big, too empty. And now, suddenly, it was as if the space had shrunk, like the walls had shifted to accommodate this new, impossibly small presence.
Zayne parked the car, then turned to look at her fully. “You ready?”
She swallowed. “No.”
His smile softened. “That’s okay. We’re doing it anyway.”
She let out a shaky breath, nodding.
He climbed out first, moving around to open her door while she unbuckled the car seat with careful, practiced motions that still felt foreign. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate as she lifted their daughter into her arms.
And then she just... froze.
Zayne didn’t rush her.
He watched as she stared down at the tiny bundle against her chest, eyes tracing every delicate feature like she was memorizing her for the hundredth time. Her fingers hovered over the soft down of their daughter’s hair, brushing lightly, reverently, as if the moment she pressed too hard, she would disappear.
“She’s ours,” she whispered.
Zayne stepped closer, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She is.”
For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
And then, finally, she tore her gaze away, looking up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper, something heavier.
“What if we’re not good at this?” she whispered.
Zayne didn’t answer right away. He reached out, his fingers settling over hers, pressing against their daughter’s impossibly small back. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of her words settle before he finally spoke.
“Well,” he said, voice low and warm, “if we’re bad at it, she’s got no frame of reference, so she’ll never know.”
She let out a half-sob, half-laugh, and he took the car seat from her hands before she could collapse completely.
Inside, the house felt... different.
The air was heavier, charged with something new. The walls that had once held only the quiet sounds of two people learning how to love each other now had to stretch, make room for the soft, uncertain presence of someone else.
She stood in the middle of the living room, their daughter still tucked against her chest, staring at nothing.
Zayne set down the car seat and moved toward her. “Sweetheart.”
She didn’t respond.
He touched her elbow, and she blinked, startled, like she had been somewhere else entirely.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t—she’s here, and I don’t know what to do.”
Zayne let out a slow breath, reaching out, slipping his arms around both of them. He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice soft and steady. “Okay. Let’s go over what we do know.”
She closed her eyes, her breath hitching. “Zayne—”
“Shh,” he murmured. “Fact number one: She’s here. She’s real. We did it.”
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
“Fact number two: She’s warm, she’s breathing, and despite all your worrying, she seems to be a very content baby.”
She let out a shaky laugh, barely more than an exhale.
“And fact number three?” He reached down, gently brushing his knuckles against their daughter’s tiny cheek. “We love her. And that’s the biggest thing, sweetheart. That’s the thing that matters most.”
She let out a small, broken sound, pressing her face into his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
Zayne held her tighter, cradling both of them, anchoring them in the moment.
And later, when their daughter was finally asleep in her crib, when the house was still and quiet again, she curled into him in bed, her fingers tracing absent shapes against his chest.
She let out a breath. “We’re really parents now.”
Zayne pressed a kiss into her hair. “Yeah.”
A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t uncertain.
It was warm. Steady. Full.
And then, quietly, she whispered, “What if she doesn’t love us?”
Zayne exhaled a quiet laugh, pulling her closer. “She will.”
“But what if—”
“She will,” he said again, pressing another kiss to her forehead, lingering there. “Because we love her. And because she’s got the most overthinking, stubborn, impossibly wonderful mother in the world.”
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