𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:Zayne judges your sugar intake, then steals a bite of your cake and orders his own.
𝓣𝔂𝓹𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽:one-shot
𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓭:Zayne, MC (Reader)
The bell atop the Akasha Café door chimed with a light, silver ring every time someone entered, but inside their corner booth, the world felt muffled by the scent of roasted beans and caramelized sugar. It was a rare afternoon off for both of them,a miracle of scheduling that had required Zayne to clear a mountain of paperwork and you to survive a particularly grueling hunt near the outskirts of the city without any new cracked ribs.
You were currently making the most of that freedom.
A plate that had once held an Earl Grey chiffon cake sat pushed to the side, replaced by a slice of dark chocolate torte. Next to that sat the remnants of a strawberry crepe. Now, you were meticulously excavating the center of a matcha lava cake, your fork acting as a shovel.
Zayne sat across from you, the picture of clinical composure. His charcoal-grey coat was draped neatly over the back of his chair. His white button-down was buttoned all the way to the throat, the silver frames of his glasses catching the golden afternoon light as he lowered his cup of black coffee.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just watched the way your eyes lit up with every spoonful.
"You’re staring," you mumbled, your voice slightly thick with sugar.
"I’m observing," Zayne corrected, his voice a low, smooth baritone. He set his cup back into the saucer with a soft 'clink'. "Specifically, I’m observing the way your glycemic index must be performing a vertical climb. Are you trying to induce a coma, or is this a personal challenge against your own physiology?"
You swallowed the matcha cream and pointed your fork at him. "It’s called 'rewarding myself,' Zayne. I spent four hours chasing a Wanderer through a damp warehouse yesterday. My soul needs glucose."
"Your soul might," he countered, leaning back slightly, his hazel-green eyes narrowing behind his lenses. "But your coronary arteries would likely prefer something healtier. Or perhaps just a second dessert, rather than a third."
"Life is short," you said, taking an intentionally large, defiant bite of the rich green cake. "Some of us actually enjoy the finer things while we're here. You should try it sometime. Coffee shouldn't be the same color as the void."
Zayne’s expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze,that dry, subterranean humor that most people missed. He looked at the lava cake, then back to you. Usually, this was the part where he’d lecture you on the long-term effects of refined sugar or remind you of your next physical exam.
His fingers, long and steady, closed around the spare fork sitting on the edge of the table. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, the movement slow and deliberate. He dipped the tines into the center of your cake, gathering a perfect, oozing portion of the matcha filling and the sponge.
You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, your jaw literally dropping. Zayne didn't eat sweets. Zayne treated sugar like a controlled substance.
He brought the fork to his lips and took the bite. He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable, looking for all the world like he was evaluating a complex medical diagnosis.
You stared at him, stunned. "Did you… did you just steal a bite of my cake?"
He didn't answer immediately. He swallowed, then took another bite, his movements graceful and utterly unapologetic. He set the fork down and took a slow sip of his black coffee to cleanse his palate.
"You're right," he said, his voice as deadpan as a weather report. "It is good."
Before you could gather the words to call him a hypocrite, Zayne raised a hand, signaling the waiter. He didn't even look at the menu.
"I'll have what she's having," he told the startled young man. "The matcha lava cake. And another black coffee."
As the waiter scurried away, you finally found your voice. "I’m sorry, who are you and what have you done with the Chief Surgeon? Since when do you order dessert?"
"Since I decided to follow your advice," he said, picking up his coffee cup again. The steam fogged his glasses for a fleeting second, and he adjusted them with his free hand. The scars on his forearm, partially visible where his sleeve shifted, were a stark reminder of the power he kept under lock and key,the same power he used to keep your heart beating. "If 'enjoying life' involves a surplus of matcha, I should probably ensure I’m properly calibrated to the experience. For research purposes."
"Research," you echoed, a grin spreading across your face. "You just wanted some."
"I wanted to see if the flavor justified the inevitable lecture I’m going to have to give you later tonight about your blood pressure."
"Too late. You're an accomplice now," you teased, leaning forward. "You’ve entered the sugar pact. No lecturing allowed."
A small, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth warned you he was about to say something backhanded. "On the contrary. As your doctor, I am now even more concerned. If this is the quality of the 'finer things' you’ve been hoarding, I’ve been remarkably patient with your poor judgment."
The second cake arrived, and Zayne ate it with the same surgical precision he applied to everything else. He didn’t rush. He didn't "demolish" it as you had. He took small, measured bites, pairing them with the bitterness of his coffee, seemingly lost in thought.
The sun began to dip lower, painting the interior of the café in shades of burnt orange and deep amber. The rush of the lunch crowd had faded, leaving the two of you in a comfortable, quiet bubble.
You watched him over the rim of your own drink. It was in moments like these,when the world wasn't ending, when your heart wasn't fluttering with the erratic rhythm of your condition, when he wasn't wearing his lab coat,that the weight of your shared history felt the heaviest. You remembered him as a boy who read textbooks under the summer sun while you tried to lure him into the shade to play. You remembered the silent, steadfast way he had climbed through the ranks of the medical world, his singular focus always being the fragile organ inside your chest.
Sometimes, looking at him felt like looking at a mountain,immovable, cold to the touch, but the only thing keeping the wind from blowing you away.
"You're staring now," Zayne said, not looking up from his plate.
"I'm observing," you shot back, mirroring his earlier tone.
He finally looked up, his gaze softening in a way he only ever allowed when it was just the two of you. "And what is your diagnosis?"
"You have a smudge of frosting right here," you lied, pointing to the corner of your own mouth.
Zayne reached up with his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his lips. "Did I get it?"
He tried again, more thoroughly this time. "Now?"
"Still there. Left side."
Zayne sighed, a huff of amused exasperation. He leaned across the small table, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. "If you're trying to make a fool of me in public, you should know I have a very high threshold for embarrassment."
"I wouldn't dream of it," you whispered.
You reached out, your thumb brushing against his lower lip. There was no frosting there, of course, but the contact made his breath hitch,a tiny, sharp intake of air that broke through his glacial exterior. His skin was cool, as it always was, but the heat of his gaze was enough to make your own heart skip a beat,the one kind of skip he didn't worry about.
Instead of pulling away, Zayne caught your wrist. His hand was large, his grip firm but careful, as if he were holding something made of thin glass. He didn't let go. His thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist, his expression turning clinical for a split second before melting back into something more intimate.
"Your heart rate is elevated," he murmured.
"That's the sugar," you lied.
He leaned in a fraction more. For a second, you thought he might actually kiss you right there in the Akasha Café, surrounded by the smell of burnt sugar and the muffled sounds of traffic outside. Zayne wasn't one for public displays; he was a man of shadows and quiet rooms, of checked vitals and whispered promises.
But then he hummed softly, a vibration you felt in your own bones, and released your wrist.
"We should go," he said, though he made no move to stand. "The temperature is dropping, and you didn't bring a heavy enough coat."
"I have a Hunter's constitution, Zayne. I’m fine."
"You have a stubborn constitution," he corrected, finally standing and retrieving his coat. He held it out for you, waiting. "And a doctor who has no intention of treating a head cold on top of everything else."
You sighed but stood up, turning so he could drape the heavy, expensive wool over your shoulders. It smelled like him,crisp air, faint cedar, and the sterile, sharp scent of the hospital that he could never quite wash off. It was warm, heavy with his lingering body heat.
As you walked toward the door, Zayne reached out, his hand settling at the small of your back. It was a protective gesture, one he did instinctively, guiding you through the world as if he could shield you from the very air if it blew too hard.
Outside, the Linkon City evening was crisp. The neon signs were beginning to hum to life, reflecting off the glass of the skyscrapers.
"So," you said, shivering slightly as the wind hit your legs. "That cake. Was it worth the breach in your professional conduct?"
Zayne looked ahead, his profile sharp against the twilight. He adjusted his glasses, the silver wire catching the blue light of a nearby billboard.
"The cake was… acceptable," he said.
"Just acceptable? You ate the whole thing!"
"I was hungry," he replied simply. Then, after a beat, he added, "And the company provided a certain… atmosphere that made the excess sugar tolerable."
"That’s a lot of words for 'I had a good time,'" you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.
Zayne stopped walking. He turned to you, the streetlights casting long shadows across his face. He reached out, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your temple. His expression was serious now, the playful banter of the café replaced by the raw, quiet devotion that defined him.
"I always have a good time with you," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Even if I have to spend the next three hours calculating your insulin response."
You laughed, the sound bright in the cooling air. "You're such a nerd."
"And yet," Zayne said, his hand sliding down to catch yours, his fingers lacing through your own with practiced ease, "here you are."
He didn't let go as you started walking again. He squeezed your hand, his palm cool but his presence a constant, radiating heat at your side.
"Wait," you said, as you reached the parking garage. "Does this mean I get to pick the place next time? There’s a new donut shop that just opened up near the Association-"
"Absolutely not," Zayne cut in, his voice returning to its usual authoritative clip. "One afternoon of indulgence does not constitute a lifestyle change. Tomorrow, you are eating vegetables."
"Vegetables," he repeated, though the look he gave you was anything but cold. "And maybe, if your vitals are stable, we can discuss a single macaron."
You rolled your eyes, leaning your head against his arm as you walked toward his car. He complained, he lectured, and he calculated every risk, but he never actually pulled his hand away.
In the quiet of the evening, with his coat wrapped around you and his fingers locked with yours, the sugar high felt like it might never actually fade.
"Fine," you sighed. "But you're buying the macaron."
Zayne opened the passenger door for you, a faint, rare smile ghosting across his lips,the kind of smile that made the cold around him feel like a distant memory.
"I suspect," he said softly, "that I'll be paying for quite a lot more than that before the night is over."
