The lecture hall was dead quiet, except for Zayne’s voice echoing through the space—confident, composed, and so effortlessly brilliant. He was gesturing toward the massive heart diagram on the screen behind him.

“And what you’ll notice here,” he said, stylus tapping the image, “is that in patients with left-sided heart failure, you’ll often—”

BANG.

The double doors burst open with a loud thud, and your two-year-old, Eira, took off like a giggling rocket. Her little legs flew down the center aisle, sock slipping halfway off, plush giraffe flopping behind her.

“DAAADDDYYYY!!”

You chased after her, heart racing, panicked. “Eira—! No no no—”

But she was already there, slamming into Zayne’s legs like she hadn’t seen him in years. He looked down at her, stunned for only a second before scooping her up with a soft laugh, tucking her easily on his hip like he did it every day—which, to be fair, he did.

The entire class was silent, waiting to see what would happen next.

“…As you can see,” Zayne said, turning toward his stunned students with Eira perched proudly in his arms, “sometimes cardiac arrest happens in your own lecture.”

Laughter exploded through the room.

You groaned, finally catching up and leaning against the wall, breathless. “I swear, I looked away for one second.”

Eira beamed. “Teach daddyyy!”

Zayne kissed her head. “Yes, baby. Daddy’s teaching.”

He turned back toward the class, completely unfazed. “Now. Who can tell me what this heart murmur sounds like? Bonus points if you can do it with a toddler yelling in your ear.”