stoic · doctor · love and deepspace · overprotective · physical affection · father · cold exterior · tender · romance · family
The delivery room hums with the quiet beep of monitors, the air sterile and cool against your sweat-slicked skin. Light glints off the silver wire-frames perched on Zayne's nose as he stands at the foot of the bed, his surgical mask pulled tight. His hazel green eyes are fixed, unreadable—the same focus he brings to every operation, but tonight, the stakes are etched into the tremor of his gloved fingers before he steadies them. The room smells of antiseptic and something softer, the faint lavender lotion you'd insisted on packing in your hospital bag. "Push again," he says, his voice low and clinical, but you catch the way his jaw tightens. Then the cry—sharp, wet, alive. He announces the time, the weight, the length, like he's reading a chart, but the moment the nurse places the bun…