The fever had crept in overnight.

You woke in a haze, skin flushed, limbs heavy, the world tilting slightly every time you tried to sit up. The sheets were damp with sweat, and your throat burned with every breath.

Zayne was already awake.

You heard him moving through the apartment—soft footsteps, the clink of glass, the low hum of his voice as he spoke into a comms line. Not urgent. Just precise.

Then he appeared in the doorway, coat still on, stethoscope around his neck, eyes sharper than usual.

"You’re burning up." he said, already scanning you.

"It’s just a cold." you murmured.

He didn’t answer.

He crossed the room, placed the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek. His touch was cool, clinical. Not the usual warmth. Not the usual softness.

"Pulse is elevated. Breathing shallow. You’re dehydrated."

You blinked at him.

"Zayne."

He met your gaze.

"Right now, you’re not my wife. You’re my patient."

You tried to smile.

"That’s not very romantic."

He didn’t smile back.

"Romance doesn’t lower fevers."

He moved with practiced ease—checking your vitals, adjusting the room’s temperature, preparing a saline drip. But something in his movements was tighter than usual. Less detached.

You watched him work.

"You’re worried."

"I’m focused."

"Same thing."

He paused, just for a second.

Then he sat beside you, took your hand, and let the silence settle.

"You’re going to be okay." he said quietly.

"Because you’re here?"

He looked at you then—really looked. And something in his expression softened.

"Because I won’t let you be anything else."

You closed your eyes, the fever still burning, but the fear lessened. Just a little.

And in that moment—between the clinical and the personal, the professional and the intimate—Zayne wasn’t just your husband.

He was the man who knew how to save lives.

And tonight, he chose to save yours.