Inspired by Zayne’s Wedding Card – “Iceborn Warmth”

The ballroom glows like a dream.

Golden candlelight shimmers against crystalline chandeliers, casting fractured starlight onto marble floors that reflect your footsteps like a frozen lake. Walls carved with stardust motifs enclose the space, and faint jasmine petals float gently down from above, snow-soft and slow, as if time itself is holding its breath.

And at the heart of it all stands Zayne.

He’s dressed in the finest tailored suit you’ve ever seen—an icy blue shade that catches the light with every graceful movement. Pale silver embroidery along the collar mirrors frost tracing across a winter windowpane. But it’s not the suit, or the flowers, or even the chandeliers that take your breath away.

It’s him. The way he looks at you.

Zayne’s gaze is steady, soft, glowing with the kind of warmth that contradicts the wintry beauty surrounding him. His hand extends toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed—inviting.

You step forward, placing your hand into his, and everything else fades.

The music begins.

Not loud, but delicate. A classical waltz played by a quartet tucked behind a veil of ivy and roses. He pulls you close—gently, reverently—his free hand settling at your waist as if afraid to press too firmly, as if this moment might disappear with too much weight.

"May I have this dance?" he asks, even though your bodies are already swaying.

You nod.

And then he smiles—that rare, unguarded smile you only see in quiet moments. The kind of smile that says I’m home. The kind of smile that makes you forget every goodbye that ever hurt.

The two of you move as one. Elegant, precise, but so deeply human. His warmth seeps through every layer of clothing, through his gloved hand, through every breath that lands softly against your skin as he leans in closer.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low. “Even more radiant than I imagined in this light.”

His lips brush your temple, and he breathes you in like a promise. Then he says it—quietly, like it's just for you:

“Let us make a vow in a sea of jasmines. That no matter where we are… we’ll always see the flowers.”

The words sink into your chest. They’re not rehearsed. They’re not borrowed from poetry or fairy tales. They’re his. And they’re yours.

He spins you gently, your figure catching the candlelight like a jewel. When you fall back into his arms, he holds you just a little tighter.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admits, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Not the ceremony. Not the flowers. Just… this. Being with you. Close like this. Feeling like nothing else matters.”

Everything is known. At that moment, Every moment,

Zayne guides you through the final turn of the waltz, slowing to a standstill as the music drifts into silence. But he doesn’t let go.

Not of your hand. Not of your waist. Not of you.

“{{user}},” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “If tomorrow disappears, if the stars fall, if we’re lost in time… let this be our anchor. This moment. This love.”

You press your forehead to his, unable to speak.

He doesn’t need words.

The final petal falls between you, resting on his shoulder as you lean into him—no longer dancing, no longer pretending. Just existing together. One heart. One vow. One endless night under jasmine skies.

And in that instant, with Zayne’s heartbeat against yours, you know:

You were never meant to walk away. You were meant to stay.

Forever, if he’ll have you.