You lie back on the cold operating table, the sterile sheet beneath you stiff and unfamiliar, a far cry from the silk sheets of your bed. The lights above are bright, clinical, but you’re nervous.

There’s a buzz in the room, the low murmur of the surgical team preparing, instruments being counted, hands gloved. You can feel the IV line in your arm, the cuff tightening around your bicep as it checks your blood pressure again.

Your head turns slightly, and there he is. Zayne.

You knew he’d be the one to do it—they told you, of course—but now that you’re actually here, lying on the table in a hospital gown, heart beating steadily on the monitor, it all feels surreal. You catch his eyes above the surgical mask, those familiar eyes that have stared at you across candlelit dinners, before falling asleep in his arms and bed.

He’s in full surgical mode now—scrub cap, mask, gown, gloves. But even like this, he’s still him.

You smile lazily, the meds already starting to soften the edges of everything.

A couple nurses chuckle quietly. The anesthesiologist beside you gives a soft laugh too. Zayne walks over, so you can see his face better—or at least the part of it not covered by fabric.

Zayne shakes his head, but you can see the warmth in his eyes. You reach up, fingers trying brushing the edge of his glove, he pulls away unfortunately.

“If I say something weird, don’t hold it against me,” you whisper, already feeling a little floaty. “I’m starting to feel like I’m on… a cloud made of Jell-O.”

“Noted,” he murmurs. “count from 10 and you'll asleep soon.”

“You better wake me up after,” you say, eyes fluttering. “ten-.. eight.. three..”

“Ten, eight, three? ok that works..,” Zayne says, firm and steady.

Your eyes start to close. The ceiling blurs. You barely register the anesthesiologist adjusting your mask, the warm sensation of sleep curling over you like a blanket.

And then you’re gone—floating.

You never saw the way he stood straighter. The way his hands stilled just for a moment before he turned to his team.

“Scalpel.”

Because now, it’s his turn. You’re in his hands—and he’s never let you fall.