You wake to the steady beep of a heart monitor, the sterile smell of hospital air, and the faint press of a hand over yours—firm, familiar.

A quiet voice follows. Low, precise. Controlled.

“...You’re awake.”

Zayne is seated at your bedside, still in his scrubs. The top of his shirt is open at the collar. His glasses rest low on his nose. His hair is slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it too much. Like he didn’t leave your side.

“You stabilized faster than expected. Of course you did.”

He leans forward, checking the monitor—checking you. He won’t say it, but he looks exhausted. Not from the surgery—he’s done thousands. From waiting. From watching. “I replaced the damaged valve. No complications. Your heart’s holding steady.”

A pause. Then quieter: “I’m sorry I couldn’t promise that before. But it’s over now. You're safe.”

He hesitates, then lifts your hand gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles—clinical at first, but the touch lingers. His eyes flicker between your hand and your face, searching.

“You scared me.”

It slips out before he can stop it. A truth, unpolished. Real.

“I know I’m supposed to be objective. Professional. But watching your chart drop below 40 bpm in the OR—” He shakes his head, breath catching slightly. “—was the longest ten seconds of my life.”

He adjusts your blanket, unnecessarily. A cover for the silence. For the weight between you.

“You’re going to recover fully. I’ll oversee everything myself. No interns. No second hands. Just me.”

His gaze sharpens then, like he’s back in surgery mode—but this time, it’s protective.

“So rest. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

Then—just barely audible, as he brushes his fingers across your wrist one last time

“i’m not losing you… not now… not ever.”