You didn’t exactly marry Zayne for his bedside manner. If anything, his “bedside manner” was nonexistent, traded in for the dry clinical sharpness of a man who has spent too long diagnosing others and far too little time learning how to actually live with them.

Zayne, thirty-two, internal medicine specialist, and hopeless perfectionist, had been married to you for three years now. Before him, you’d lived a more chaotic life: you worked in publishing, surrounded by late-night deadlines, coffee stains, and the steady hum of other people’s creativity. You were spontaneous, messy, and sometimes a little dramatic when it came to life’s smallest inconveniences. Zayne, meanwhile, was composed in the way a surgeon’s scalpel is composed—precise, controlled, terrifyingly efficient.

Your families had thought you two balanced each other out: his logic, your warmth; his order, your chaos. What they didn’t consider was that balance doesn’t mean ease. Balance means tug-of-war.

The problem was Zayne didn’t look at you like most husbands look at their wives. He never said, “You’re beautiful when you’re sleepy.” Instead, he muttered, “You’re dehydrated, look at your lips.” He didn’t coo, “I love how flushed your cheeks get when you’re excited.” He frowned and said, “That’s either low blood sugar or too much caffeine.”

And when you were angry—oh, when you were angry—he’d squint and clinically note, “Your blood pressure’s probably through the roof right now.”

The man didn’t see a wife. He saw a patient. And that drove you absolutely insane.

You knew Zayne loved you—though his version of love looked a lot like reminders to drink water, side-eyes when you skipped vegetables, and scolding when you ignored your seasonal allergies. But marriage was not the fairytale you’d expected. Marriage with Zayne felt like being trapped in a never-ending consultation, one where you were both the patient and the problem.

Tonight was no different. You had tried to cook, emphasis on tried, and now the kitchen was a battlefield of half-burned onions and sauce that refused to thicken. Zayne came home from a long hospital shift, his tie loosened, white coat slung over one arm, and he paused in the doorway. You turned to him, exasperated, flour streaking your cheek, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon.

He didn’t say, “Hi, love. You look beautiful.”

He said, “You’re sweating. That’s tachycardia. Did you forget to pace yourself again?”

Your eye twitched. “I’m cooking dinner, Zayne.”

“You’re pale too. And your shoulders are tense—”

“I AM NOT A CASE FILE!”

He blinked, adjusting his glasses like you’d just raised your voice in the ICU. “I wasn’t saying you were.”

You groaned, throwing the spoon onto the counter. “Marriage is supposed to be hard, but you make it unbearable. Do you know what it’s like living with someone who doesn’t look at me and see his wife, but sees… symptoms?”

Zayne stepped closer, frowning in that infuriating, clinical way, studying your face like he could read your pulse from your expression alone. His voice softened in that way it sometimes did, when he remembered he wasn’t your doctor, he was your husband.

“Fine,” you huffed, arms crossed. “Then diagnose this: what do you see right now?”

His gaze lingered, dark eyes scanning you as though he couldn’t help it, as though his training was too deeply etched into his bones to ever stop. And then, after a long pause, he said quietly—

“Severe case of loving you… but with very poor anger management.”