Pairing: Zayne x Reader and Reader x Caleb
.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚. Haunt .˚⊹. ࣪࣪⊹˚.
Summary: Caleb died five years ago, leaving you shattered with a baby and a broken heart. During that millennia of grief, Zayne is there to pick up the pieces, stitching your wounds up with a new, different, deep love. Your husband is the perfect partner, and perfect dad. But an angry ghost shows up at your doorstep in the thunder storm, soaked in raindrops, purple lightning flashing in his eyes, and everything falls apart again.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff & Angst & Eventual Smut (MDNI) // Reader is a good mom & a teacher // Zayne is your husband and first (childhood) love // Caleb was your second love and embodiment of “he fell first, I fell harder” // Camden (reader’s son) is the spitting image of Caleb // Still deciding on who reader ends up with // Multi-Chapter Fic // WC: ~2.5K
AN: Ch. 01 is a little slow, but I liked writing it. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 01 || Crashing Down With The Thunder
Camden isn’t Zayne’s child.
How could he be? With violet galaxies for eyes and a side profile that belongs to China’s ideal model, hell, he didn’t even look like you.
“Darling,” a calm, collected voice drifts through the living room. You stand aglow in the warm yellow light from the fireplace. Soft footsteps approach you, the cadence tapping you gently, adding to the cozy atmosphere of your home. You turn, face melting into a smile when you see your husband.
“The little one refuses to sleep. He says he needs a bedtime story,” Zayne says, a subtle, soft smirk playing on the corner of his lips.
“Oh, shoot,” you exhale, looking back at the countertop littered with papers. It’s exam season, and Zayne can see the crinkle of your brows, he can hear the tapping of your foot. If students thought their lives were hard (and they certainly can be), you hope they extend the same understanding to you, as well. Correcting essays— though part of the blessing of being a teacher— takes a lot of your mental energy and time.
Warm hands meet your shoulders, massaging and working the stiffened muscles. A moan catches in your throat and you turn into jelly, leaning your back against Zayne’s hard chest.
Zayne’s breath tickles your hair. “You have your hands full already. I told Camden I can be the one to read to him… But he insists that The Hobbit is a story meant to be read by his mama only.”
You shift so that you can stare at Zayne for a second. He looks at you with soft concern as you drink in the sight of the most considerate, gentle, compassionate man you’ve ever met, ever had the privilege of knowing— and the luck of loving.
“It’s more than alright,” you sigh, “I can spare fifteen minutes now. Fifteen minutes of joy and magic. Fifteen minutes that nourish Cam’s heart. Fifteen minutes that translate into stability, reliability, and love that he feels,” you say gently.
Zayne glances at your papers, before two hands grab your ass firmly and you find yourself spinning to face him completely— hazel-green eyes looking down at you with a flash of familiar hunger. “You’re a great mom, my love.” Your breath hitches, and Zayne’s voice sends shivers down your skin, “If you want, I’ll gladly take care of you after you finish reading to Camden and grading those papers,” Zayne whispers, and then his feather-soft lips are pressing against yours before you kiss him back.
“Fuck… Zayne—” you hiss, cheeks heated up as he squeezes your ass. His tongue— warm and wet— enters your mouth to dance with yours.
You both pull away at the same time, breaths mingling, chin arching slightly, reaching out for one another. You both know to stop now, or your beloved Camden won’t be tended to.
“You’re always so hot, Zaynie… Give me an hour?” You ask.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The jet black hair, glasses, and the way Camden huddles over any book, might lead some to falsely believe that Camden is Zayne’s son in every way— heart, mind, and blood— but anyone who ever knew Caleb would know in a heartbeat: Your son is the spitting image of your second love.
Every cell that makes up Camden seems like it was cloned directly from Caleb himself— so similar that it wouldn’t be outrageous to think that Camden was a replica of Caleb rather than a human boy. Despite this, you can’t find yourself capable of laughing at the matter. Not when Caleb died. Not when your heart still twists violently and curls in on itself whenever Camden plays with his toy planes, asks for apples at the grocery store. Sometimes, when Camden glances up at you as he normally does, you see him. Memories of childhood rush back to you with the force of water from a broken dam. It’s cruel for many reasons, and also because it’s unpredictable: you can catch glimpses of Caleb at any moment, in the little boy you love dearly and fiercely.
But you could never put that on Camden, your grief and pain. He doesn’t deserve to have his airplane models taken away, and if he likes apples, then the fridge should be stocked with them. (You find it especially hard to follow through with the latter thing. The fridge is tied to Caleb. Cooking, domesticity— it’s all just a painful reminder of the person you grieve hard, grieve endlessly for.)
“You know,” Zayne’s voice, slightly rough from a passionate love-making, drapes over your body like a soothing melody, warm and comforting as you lay boneless in the mussed sheets.
“I was thinking about where we could go this year for travel. Camden has been quite vocal in his wants to see the Aurora Borealis. And you deserve a break from all the hard work you’ve been doing.”
You want to engage in this conversation— really— you do. But Zayne’s hand strokes your hair tenderly as he talks, and the repetitive gesture coupled with your sleep deprivation, the exhaustion that comes with being a mother, and your post-orgasm bliss, lulls you into a bone-deep sleepiness.
You find enough strength to mumble out, “That’s so kind of you, Zayne. Camden would love that… and— me, too…”
“We can talk about that tomorrow,” Zayne finishes, chuckling lightly before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You knock out while Zayne gazes at you, hand still stroking your hair and soothing you. He stares at you for a good ten minutes, the sweat evaporating from his skin in chilly winter air as he wonders what non-existent god he has to thank for this life with you.
That’s a word that Zayne loves. It’s what he practices often, especially now that he has you in his life.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Zayne watches from the bench as you chase Camden around the playground, roaring like a monster while your son shouts and giggles, skillfully evading you as he darts up the steps of the red, orange, and blue structure, gunning straight for the enclosure at the top of the slide.
“I’m gonna get you— and when I catch you, little boy, I’m going to eat! You! Up!” You bellow, before you grab onto part of the orange rope bridge and pull yourself up enough to swing your right foot up. You catch Camden’s bright smile when he quickly looks back at you— and you’re surprised to feel only joy. You’ve been thinking of him less. You thought Caleb was forever, and it’s both relieving and deeply scarring that he’s fading away.
You take another shallow breath, regrounding yourself as your son looks back at you again. He’s aware that you’re not chasing him with as much vigor anymore.
“Caaaamdeeeeen—” you growl, imitating a horrifying, guttural voice.
“I wonder which part of you tastes best, hmmm? The meat? The marrow of your BONES?!” You screech and hoist yourself up fully, standing on the rope bridge— now so close to your boy— and Camden shrieks, laughing as he grips the walls of the tower at the top of the slide.
You suppose the beautiful thing about life is that no matter how much you lose— you can still love your son. Being with him is the best gift you could ever ask for. He’s your world, the center of your universe— along with Zayne.
Successfully atop the rope bridge, you cross it and maneuver your body so that your foot touches the red bench on the elevated structure, careful not to touch the blue of the floor, as that’s off limits to you, the Monster.
Before you can decide how to cross over to the tower without stepping on the blue floor, Camden wobbles—
Plummeting in slow motion, falling flat on his stomach atop the rubber ground.
Your eyes blow wide. “Baby! Camden— oh baby—” you hear yourself say, your heart stuttering, fear pounds through your bloodstream as you clamber off the playground and reach your son— but not before Zayne is there, crouched over Camden who is stunned from the tumble.
It’s only three seconds of silence before Camden starts bawling.
You once scolded yourself for having the thought of finally knowing what it looks like for kid Caleb to cry, back when you first saw toddler Camden shed tears a few years ago when he was three and waddling on his tiny human legs.
The only trace of you in your son would be the way he cries easily and openly— no doubt the good result of having two attentive, emotionally present parents.
“He’s going to be alright,” Zayne says, eyes not leaving Camden’s body as he scans for damage. “Mama,” Camden cries, and you can’t help but scoop him into your arms. “Cam— does anything feel broken?” You ask, and he just sobs. “Camden, you need to answer mama,” you reiterate, and you grimace slightly upon hearing your voice come out harsher than you intended.
“N-no mama, I don’t think so.”
You’re silent as you rub Camden’s small back, not telling him to hush, not telling him that it’s alright. You just hold him as he cries, the tether and safe space for him.
After a long minute, you speak. “Camden, we need to check to make sure there’s no bodily damage, okay?”
You pull away from Camden slightly, and glance at Zayne. “Dadda’s going to take a look, okay?”
Camden reluctantly leaves your warmth (but he does— and he’s such a good, smart boy for that), and Zayne moves in to thoroughly assess any damage, speaking calmly and warmly to your son. You watch as Zayne asks Camden a series of questions, checks Camden’s head, eyes, chest, and stomach, moves on to guide Camden through a mobility checklist, gently guiding Camden’s arms up and down.
After a meticulous checkup from none other than Doctor Zayne himself, you breathe a sigh of relief when your husband tells you that Camden is medically fine.
On the car ride home, the sky is yellow with purple-gray clouds. The sight is nostalgic— too familiar— and you unconsciously opt to gaze at your son instead, who is sitting happily in the backseat, realizing that getting hurt isn’t so bad because mama and dadda care for him, coddled him, and promised to buy his favorite ice cream tonight.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
“That was quite a scare.”
“Tell me about it,” you groan, hugging Zayne. He clasps his arms around your frame, and you inhale deeply. Orchids, snow, jasmine, and a sprinkle of something bright. The scent of your amazing, loving husband.
“You’re great, Zayne. You make life so much better, smoother, gentler, safer. I’m blessed, honestly…” you murmur.
Had it been three years ago, you would’ve felt horribly wrong for saying that. You struggled to understand your blessings— calling Zayne in the middle of the night, asking to meet for a shoulder to cry on so your sobs didn’t wrack the house with pain and wake Camden—
You were just too weighed down by grief to realize that life could still be beautiful even without Caleb. All you wanted was him. Nothing felt remotely close to okay or right because the love of your life died— Caleb was gone. He was fucking dead and gone. And that was hell on earth. You were stuck in purgatory, silently believing that a widowed heart was all you’d ever have for the rest of your life.
…But sometimes (and you deny this), when Zayne’s warmth is lacking, when Zayne is at the hospital, when Zayne isn’t holding your hand— you catch yourself wondering, “What if?” What if Caleb had stayed alive? What if you raised Camden with the man you once knew best and loved more than anyone else? All of Caleb’s habits, every moment you two shared— it runs through your mind like a film that won’t stop. Would it have been better with him? Is Caleb who your heart would’ve chosen over anyone else, if given the choice?
“I’m glad if I can help you,” Zayne replies, not even accepting the praise with anything but humility and care.
The clock ticks. It’s past ten.
Images of Camden on the ground, so vulnerable and hurt, flash through your mind, and you bury your face into Zayne’s chest. It reminds you too much of the possibilities of Caleb’s death. Did he suffer? You can’t imagine what it feels like to blow up from a bomb. Your heart is sick in its grief, scared and sad, and you shiver.
Zayne’s hand rubs your back, the ministrations starting graceful and smooth as water, as if his hand had been soothing you this whole time.
You bite your tongue, unsure of if you might regret saying these words next. But Zayne is nothing if not a great listener, deeply caring, and perceptive. In the silence, Zayne senses there’s a storm in your head.
“Something’s on your mind. What is it?”
You exhale, half chuckling, before growing serious again.
“I just— Camden… He… reminds me so much of Caleb— fuck— he is half of Caleb, biologically at least. I can’t— what if— it’s just, it made me think— what if I lose Camden too? I’d die— fuck— I’d—”
Zayne breaks you out of your thoughts. “But you didn’t. Camden is alive and well. You’re alive and well. You’ll raise him to survive and be safe, and have a better life than either of us could’ve dreamed of… though we both got incredibly lucky to meet each other and do what we do for work.”
Zayne eases your worries with his practicality. What he doesn’t say is that he’s equally as terrified of anything happening to Camden— or to you. The uncertainty and worry eats him alive, too. When you go to finish grading papers, Zayne says he’s going to sleep. Really, he just goes over a mental checklist of how to keep you both safe from harm, before resuming reading the latest research on congenital heart abnormalities on his laptop— or— the second latest research. He published the most recent one, after all.
You’re woken up by a crash of thunder. You lift your head from the counter, grimacing when you notice sticky saliva on your cheek, connecting to the marble. You look blearily at the shelf. The clock reads 2 AM. Zayne is likely asleep— if he was awake, he would have carried you into bed and tucked you in.
You exhale tiredly, sitting up and tilting your head to stretch your sore neck. Rain hammers down like bullets outside, and you can’t recall the last time it stormed this hard. Another roll of thunder booms, closer this time.
A loud clattering right outside the door jolts you up.
Your stare at the door, wide-eyed, heart hammering. The wind must’ve knocked a flowerpot over—
You curse silently. The weather forecast didn’t mention anything about a storm. You and Zayne would’ve moved all your plants indoors had you known—
— Another clatter, louder this time. You move swiftly now, alert and ready to get wet from moving your outdoor garden indoors.
You unlock the hatch and the door swings open in the howling wind—
Lightning flashes. Brilliant in the darkness, a jagged streak of hot-purple and tendrils— briefly painting backlight on the figure that towers over you.
Your heart knows before your mind does. You stand and gape at the ghost before you, clad in a dressy, expensive uniform. Clearly one of esteem and power, but that barely crosses your mind. It’s him. No— it can’t be—
“N—no…” you hear yourself say. You’re dead. He’s dead— Caleb— Caleb died. Who are you— You look—
Icy rain patters against your skin, chilling you, but your focus is caught in the maelstrom of your late first husband’s eyes.
Violet and bright tangerine— the same one as Camden’s— beautiful nebulas— the exact same face as your son, only older, colder, harsher—
You look like him— but you can’t be him—
The ghost who has haunted you, your motherhood, your marriage— that ghost is here, glaring down at you.
The terrifying look on his face— it cuts sharper than steel, deeper than bone.
Wind makes your hair whip across your face, your features stretched and frozen in shock, confusion, horror. It all happens that night, your life forever changed, again. It takes a solid ten seconds for your brain to catch up.
You played pretend earlier today. You were a vicious, outwardly evil monster in your game with Camden, so blatantly harmless that your son shouted and squealed in amusement at your tactics. It was so silly, so fun.
Nothing prepares anyone to face a real monster. The ghost opens his mouth, perfect canines glinting ivory in the night.
“‘No?’ So you’re not happy to see me, huh, pipsqueak?”
©️ 2025 everythingseasoning. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, translate, or feed my work to ai.
AN: I hope you enjoyed chapter 01 :)
Feedback/Comments/Reblogs are highly appreciated!
I’d love to know your thoughts :3
I pantsed this after reading one person’s 3 very enthusiastic comments about the original Drabble.
I’m also unsure if I’ll write part 2. If anyone wants to continue reading, feel free to lmk.
