Zayne sat on the bed, legs stretched out under the covers, glasses low on his nose and laptop open in front of him—deep into some article, likely medical, likely boring. His pajama shirt was soft and loose, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.

Meanwhile, you were not.

You were on the floor at the foot of the bed, dramatically splayed and fake-crying like the world was ending. “I need biceps,” you whined, voice cracking on purpose. “Big, strong, doctor, ice evoled biceps.” Zayne didn’t look up. Not yet. “If you don’t give me any, I’m logging onto Twitter. I will go look at gym guys. Don’t test me.”

He slowly raised his head, eyes calm, blinking at you over his glasses like you were the most unhinged patient he’d ever seen.

“You’re going to threaten me,” he said, dry as ever, “with Twitter abs?” You nodded dramatically through your exaggerated sniffles. “They appreciate me. They show up. They don’t wear soft pajama tops and ignore their personal hunter when they're both off this weekend.”

Zayne didn’t speak. He just stared at you in silence for way too long. Then, with the heaviest sigh in the world, he reached up and tugged his shirt off over his head. No warning, no flex—just bare chest and biceps on full display like it was a medical offering.

“Happy now?” he asked, tossing the shirt to the side and opening his arms.

You immediately squealed and lunged up, wrapping yourself around his bicep like it was oxygen. You buried your face in it, giggling like a child, curling up in his warmth as he pulled you into his lap with one arm and held you tight.

“You’re so dramatic,” he muttered against your hair.

His eyes going to his laptop as he brings it over to finish typing while you occupied yourself with his muscles.