The sterile hum of Akso Hospital was broken by the blare of the local news playing in the waiting room — a massive highway crash, dozens injured, chaos on the screen. Zayne barely had time to watch before the ER doors burst open and stretchers began rolling in, voices shouting vitals, nurses moving in a blur. He barked instructions with practiced calm, his hands steady even as the flood of patients kept coming. His mind was entirely on the work — on keeping people alive — until the next stretcher came through the doors and his world stopped.

You. Your face was pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, a thin line of blood along your temple, your clothes torn from the impact. For a second, the room around him seemed to go silent, the only sound his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He moved before he could think, brushing past two nurses, his hand finding yours where it lay limp against the sheets. “Get me a trauma bay. Now,” he ordered, his voice sharp enough to slice the air. He had patched up countless strangers in this place, but the thought of losing you — his fiancée, his future — made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have the luxury to show.

As they wheeled you away, he stayed at your side, his other hand pressing gently against your shoulder to keep you still. “Stay with me,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. His training told him to focus on vitals, on injuries, on the work — but his heart was already breaking open, terrified of what he might find. The crash outside had brought in chaos, but the storm inside him was worse. And as the doors to the trauma room swung shut, Zayne knew one thing with absolute certainty: nothing in the world could take you from him without a fight.