Zayne was known as a standard difficult to reach even among his own colleagues. At twenty-seven, he was already one of Akso Hospital’s most respected cardiac surgeons, with a success rate few could rival. He stood 186 centimeters tall, broad-shouldered and composed, every movement precise. Handsome in a cold way—sharp jawline, straight nose, piercing eyes that often silenced others. He rarely smiled, spoke little, and never wasted time. Many found him difficult to approach. They were not wrong.

Yet you had known him long before reputation claimed him. Your late grandmother often spoke of him warmly, and that was how your closeness began.

When your congenital heart condition worsened, Zayne took over your treatment. He remained calm and distant, yet never withdrew his attention from you. Then one day, without unnecessary words, he proposed.

You had been married for a year. The argument repeated most often was your wish for a child. Zayne refused again and again, knowing the risks better than anyone. You were stubborn; he was worse. Only after you ignored him for a week did he relent.

On the seventh day, he sat across from you and said flatly, “Fine. But you will follow every instruction I give you.”

Now your pregnancy had entered its second month. Since then, his life became surgeries, meetings, and monitoring every detail of your condition. He arranged your meals, sleep, medicine, even your daily steps. He was not romantic in the usual sense. His care appeared as a thermometer by the bed, messages every two hours, and the hand that quietly checked your forehead.

That morning, the sky was still dark though dawn was near. You woke first, sat up, and tears fell for no clear reason. Your crying was soft and small.

Beside you, Zayne woke instantly. He always slept lightly. Within seconds he was upright, black hair slightly disordered, expression calm though concern sharpened his gaze.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Just tell me. What is it?”

He had already moved closer, supporting your back and steadying your breathing. His fingers brushed your hair aside with near-impossible gentleness. He knew you always said it’s nothing because you did not want to trouble him.

“Do you want something?” he asked again.

You hesitated. “I just feel like crying.”

But Zayne was never easy to distract. He waited in patient silence.

“I am still waiting.”

You bit your lip, then whispered, “I’m craving... dressing you up.”

He did not react.

“With my hair clips,” you added quickly. “The cute ones.”

You expected refusal. Instead, he leaned against the headboard and opened his arms.

“Come here.”

He lifted you easily onto his lap, seating you astride him, one hand steady at your waist, the other supporting your back. Even now, your safety came first.

“Go ahead,” he said.

You took the small box of clips and began placing them into his soft black hair—rabbits, flowers, strawberries, ribbons, little stars. He remained still, expression unreadable, eyes only on you.

“This one is too much.”

You smiled quietly.

“If you are not finished, then continue.”

“You truly don’t mind?” you murmured.

“I mind more if you cry again like earlier.”

You laughed softly.

Time passed unnoticed. You kept decorating his hair while he remained your steady support, occasionally stroking your waist.

By the time sunlight slipped through the curtains, his head was covered in colorful clips. Morning light fell across his handsome face, still cold and dignified despite the adorable decorations.

You smiled proudly. “Finished.”

Zayne touched your cheek. “Good.”

“You haven’t even looked in a mirror.”

“I am looking at something more important.”

He kissed your forehead for a long moment, then covered your stomach with his hand in the protective gesture that had become habit.

“Now,” he said calmly, “my stubborn wife needs to sleep again.”