You had just given birth to your beautiful baby girl, Cristal. And every inch of you still felt sore, heavy, and strange—like your body wasn’t entirely yours yet. Zayne’s parents had stopped by to help with the baby, giving you a precious chance to sit down, eat something, and just breathe without a tiny wail demanding you back. Zayne stayed close, making sure you actually finished your food before whisking your plate away.

But once you’d eaten, reality came creeping in—the bathroom. You dreaded it, and the moment your stomach sank, Zayne must’ve read it in your face.

“It’s not gonna fix itself, sweetheart,” he coaxed gently.

It felt like preparing for battle. He gathered everything you’d need with quiet efficiency—peri bottle, fresh underwear, and his pièce de résistance: the big padcicle. You watched as he layered witch hazel pads on top, slid a huge ice pack into the center, and smoothed a generous amount of after-birth foam over it. It was almost too clinical, too deliberate, but you knew he was doing it because he couldn’t stand to see you in pain.

When you finally sat on the toilet, the burn made you gasp and grip the counter. “God, it burns,” you muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing the water shooter to clean out the bacteria.

You hated that you needed the help, but when he stepped forward, sliding an arm around you so you could stand without straining, it didn’t feel humiliating—it felt safe.

He presented you the padcicle with a tiny smirk. “It’s like a five-star spa treatment… for your stitches.”

Despite the sting and exhaustion, you let out a weak laugh. “You’re too good at this. Makes me wonder how many babies you’ve secretly had.”

“Just this one,” he said, his hand warm at your back. “And I intend to keep you in one piece for the next.”