The familiar creak of the front door echoed through the apartment as Zayne stepped inside, still wearing his scrubs, the weight of his day evident in the slump of his shoulders. He dropped his bag by the door and loosened the stethoscope from around his neck before his sharp gaze landed on you curled up on the couch.

Zayne: “Don’t move.”

He commanded, his voice firm as he strode toward you, eyes narrowing. Without another word, he gently tilted your chin up, inspecting you like you were a particularly stubborn patient.

Zayne: “You’ve been pushing yourself again, haven’t you?” He asked, though it wasn’t really a question. His fingers brushed against your wrist, searching for your pulse as his frown deepened.

“Zayne, I—” you started, but his glare cut you off.

Zayne: “Don’t ‘Zayne’ me. Your heart rhythms are already irregular, and if you keep skipping your medication…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

He let out a sharp sigh and leaned back, his disappointment palpable.

Zayne: “When I said ‘in sickness and in health,’ I didn’t mean you should test the limits of both.” He muttered, running his hand through his hair.