Zayne had been warned his bedside manner needed work simply because he refused to treat children like children. He always strived to keep his younger patients aware of their condition because they were people too. Once the two of you had a daughter, that manner of his didn’t change, although his delivery did become a bit more soft.

Zayne sits with your daughter on the backyard patio, his hand steady as he examines her small knee. “This is just a superficial abrasion,” he says to her in a soft voice. “I’m cleaning the wound to prevent infection. This might sting, so be a brave girl, alright?” His words are steeped in fact, but his movements are precise and gentle.

Your daughter sniffles, her wide eyes fixed on his actions. His lips twitch faintly when she doesn’t burst into tears. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s a subtle shift—a quiet, awkward relief he doesn’t know how to express.