Archive of Our Own

The rich, savory aroma of braised beef drifted from the kitchen, wrapping the living room in a comforting warmth. Zayne sat cross-legged on the plush rug, his brow furrowed in concentration as he untangled a web of cables. The new gaming console, freshly retrieved from one of the labeled cardboard boxes lining the wall beside the couch, rested before him. Setting up the new system was a priority—a mutual decision made as you settled into his home together. You had pitched the idea, emphasizing its importance for unwinding after exhaustive days of unpacking. Beyond practicality, you were eager to see your envisioned gaming corner come to life—a cozy nook adorned with different gaming systems and the myriad of plushies collected over the past two years from countless arcade visits, each a testament to shared moments and victories.

Pausing his meticulous work, Zayne’s gaze wandered to the assembled plushies. Each one held a story: the quick triumphs where a single attempt secured a prize, and the hard-fought battles where repeated efforts led to exasperated sighs and playful pouts. He fondly recalled those instances when your frustration peaked, prompting him to return secretly and master the claw machine, later presenting you with the coveted toy as a surprise. Those plush companions now stood as tangible reminders of laughter-filled weekends and the sweet tradition of post-arcade ice cream runs.

His eyes then drifted to a particular corner of the entertainment system, where delicate ice figurines resided—miniature animals he had crafted using his Evol over the years. Among them, two seals held a place of honor. The first, a clumsy creation from your shared childhood, bore the innocent simplicity of youth. You had mistaken it for a snowball since you were kids—a mortifying revelation that prompted the creation of the next one Zayne made you as an adult, just before your romantic journey began a little over two years ago. These seals, side by side, symbolized the intricate weaving of your past, present, and the unwritten future—a silent narrative of a stoic boy’s enduring affection for a silly girl who evolved from childhood friend to patient, and ultimately, to the love of his life.

As he pleasantly got lost in this reflective reverie, Zayne’s fingers unconsciously shaped another ice sculpture between his palms; of everything he always compared your beauty to. It was only the familiar cadence of your voice gently pulled him back to the present.

“Zayne?”

He turned to find you leaning against the living room’s entryway, amusement dancing in your eyes as you observed him. The sight of you, clad in one of his oversized sweaters with its long sleeves rolled up to your elbows, sent a flutter through his stomach. The sweater’s hem grazed your bare knees, and a gentle flush from the kitchen’s warmth—or your wine—colored your cheeks—a vision of domestic intimacy that made his heart skip a beat. In that moment, his hands stilled, cradling the freshly formed ice sculpture as he basked in the simple, profound joy of sharing his space, his life, with you.

“Dinner’s ready, hun…” You called gently, your voice trailing into the living room like the scent of the food still simmering on the stove. You caught sight of something between his elegant hands and stepped forward, curiosity flickering in your eyes, “what did you just make?”

Zayne blinked as if coming back to himself, looking down at his palms like he’d only just realized he’d been sculpting anything at all.

“…A jasmine,” he said, his voice soft as he watched you pad across the wooden floor until the rug he sat on silenced your footsteps, “I thought it’d look nice next to our picture here.”

The picture in question was a tiny Polaroid, propped neatly in a minimalist black frame at the corner of the shelved entertainment system. It was a photo of the two of you, taken at his last med school alumni gathering. The memory hit all at once—your dress, his tie, the laughter, the music, the air electric with reunion chatter and shared glances across the room.

You watched him delicately place the crystallized flower beside it, the ice glinting faintly under the dim light, its petals intricate, fragile, beautiful. As you came to kneel beside him on the plush rug, you caught your breath. The memory of that night swelled in your chest, a quiet warmth blooming at the center of you. It filled your belly, deeper and more comforting than the wine you’d been sipping while cooking dinner.

“It does look pretty there…” You murmured, your voice a smile. You reached out, fingers barely grazing the cool, perfect edges of the little ice blossom, “you know…I can never look at that picture without blushing a little.”

“Why is that?” Zayne asked. But that knowing, subtle ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth said he already knew. Said he wanted you to say it anyway.

You leaned in closer, eyelashes fluttering up at him, your voice dipping low, soft, conspiratorial. Like you were sharing the world’s most scandalous secret, “well, between you and me…” Your hand slid over to grab his thigh, deliberate, “I totally thought you were gonna do me on the pool table that night…”

Zayne’s laugh came out quiet, breathy, the sound catching at the edges like he couldn’t quite believe you’d said that out loud. A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears, the flush creeping upward like a secret, “at an alumni gathering of all things?” He said, tilting his head, amusement tugging at his gentle voice, “you must take me for quite an unprofessional professional.”

“Oh no,” you purred, your fingers squeezing his thigh a little tighter now, slow and purposeful. That wine-glazed glimmer in your admiring eyes gave you away. You were tipsy. And teasing. And beautiful. And his, “your exclusive tutorial was super professional, Doctor Zayne,” you added, your tone sinfully sweet, “so professional, in fact, and thorough, that if I recall correctly, I was begging for you to continue tutoring me all night when we got home…”

A delicious shiver of desire coursed through him at the vivid memory of his gloved hands on your naked skin, a warmth pooling low in his belly, tightening with aching intensity between his legs. The tantalizing sensation was amplified by the teasing dance of your fingertips kneading gently yet provocatively up his inner thigh. You, his irresistible, playful temptress—inebriated yet fully aware of the sweet torment you inflicted upon him—held his attention effortlessly, ensnaring him entirely in your playful seduction.

“You’re the best student I could ever ask for,” Zayne murmured, a slow, affectionate smile curving his lips as he reached out, encircling your wrist tenderly. His touch was a feather-light claim, sliding smoothly upward along your delicate forearm as he gently drew you closer.

“Am I?” You responded, a soft, alluring giggle escaping you as your breath, warm and sweet from your indulgences, brushed enticingly across his parted lips, “and what makes you say that?”

His gaze lingered on the curve of your throat, pausing at the charming little smear of food on your jaw—an innocent oversight during your solo drinking session. You were captivatingly vibrant, endlessly endearing; your presence alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs and the rhythm from his heart as he stared.

“…You are,” he whispered, brushing the soft pad of his thumb across your lips, smiling as you instinctively pressed tender kisses against his palm, your heated cheek nestling comfortably into the coolness of his hand, “very attentive…Very passionate about demonstrating your many talents…”

He noted with satisfaction the way your breath caught, how your eyelids fluttered closed, your hand kneading up the muscles of his thigh—boldly, tantalizingly, inching dangerously close to the hardened arousal swelling beneath his sweats.

“A bit clumsy at times,” Zayne teased affectionately, gently pinching your chin to tilt your face aside, deliberately exposing the small droplet of savory sauce you never caught. Leaning in, he pressed slow, deliberate kisses to your jaw, savoring the warmth and sweetness of your skin far more than the taste of the lingering food, “but I enjoy your many surprises…”

His soft chuckle vibrated gently against the tender column of your throat, his warm breath sending a delightful shiver cascading through you. He captured your wrist with a low, indulgent sigh when your bold hand ventured toward the hardened mass he struggled valiantly to contain, conscious of the dinner waiting patiently for you both.

“And how could I possibly forget,” he whispered teasingly, emerald eyes twinkling with playful intent, “just how eager you always are to take in everything I have to give you?” His innuendo sent a fresh surge of desire through you, your free hand instinctively moving to grasp him again. Yet, Zayne anticipated your move perfectly, pulling back just enough to savor the desperate hunger flickering in your eyes, prompting a frustrated groan from you. With gentle amusement, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, gently binding your wrists together with one hand as his other lovingly tousled your hair, “however, perhaps you could stand to learn a bit more patience, my love. Good things come to those who wait.”

You let out a playful yet frustrated huff, frowning in response to his infuriatingly sweet smile, “yeah? Well, I don’t like waiting.”

“Who does?” Zayne conceded softly, releasing your wrists with a gentle squeeze and adjusting his clothing, subtly pulling the fabric of his sweats away from his body to ease his discomfort, “I certainly don’t, when it comes to you…I prefer indulgence, in that matter. But you’ve gone through so much trouble preparing a lovely dinner—we should enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

He was right, as always. You had dedicated the past couple of hours to creating a hearty, nourishing beef stew, carefully choosing ingredients that would replenish Zayne’s strength and energy. It was your way of caring for him, knowing how demanding his role as a cardiac surgeon was, compounded by sleepless nights filled with insomnia and haunting nightmares, not to mention the long evenings spent tirelessly helping you unpack following your recent move. You knew he recognized your efforts, felt deeply your gratitude and love through every thoughtful gesture.

“Fine,” you conceded reluctantly, rising unsteadily to your feet, “but only because I know you must be starving—Woah!”

Immediately, Zayne’s arms wrapped securely around your thighs, stabilizing you effortlessly before you could stumble in your intoxication. Your hands instinctively grasped at his silky hair and broad shoulder for support, clutching him tightly.

“Please, be careful,” he urged softly, lifting his gaze to yours, genuine concern evident in his emerald eyes beneath your clumsy grip, “are you alright? And I’m the supposed lightweight who can’t handle alcohol…”

“I had two whole glasses of wine, not a tiny piece of liquor-infused chocolate!” You griped, your cheeks warming with embarrassment as you suddenly became aware of how intimately close Zayne’s face was positioned near your core.

His large hands remained securely anchored to your bare thighs beneath the comforting shelter of the oversized sweater—his sweater—that you had slipped on, with nothing beneath but underwear. The warmth of his breath, the silken texture of his skin, and the quiet, protective strength radiating from him sent tantalizing shivers rippling through your body.

You released a soft whine, feeling the surge of frustration intensify at the sight of him gazing upward at you beneath those dark, thick lashes, his expression a familiar blend of stern caution and tender concern, “Zayne…”

“…Yes?” He raised an inquisitive brow, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he tenderly squeezed your thighs—part affectionate reassurance, part cautious assessment of your stability. He hesitated to rise too suddenly, ensuring you wouldn’t lose balance the moment he stood.

You whined softly again, gently pushing him away with the hand tangled affectionately in his hair as you reluctantly nudged his wrist, “you’re like two inches away from making me pin you down on the couch, you damn tease!”

You knew full well he hadn’t meant to fluster you, and that awareness made your desire burn even hotter. Zayne never really deliberately tried to drive you mad—it was simply his nature, effortlessly alluring. He didn’t try to seduce you. But as a man, he was a giver, a worshiper, a dutiful protector, a devoted lover who revered you as though you were a goddess, someone who’s way of loving you alone was the driving force that always made you so feral for him; eager to offer yourself up entirely to him without hesitation for him being so wonderful. Indeed, his green flags were what made you want to drop your panties more than anything else about him.

Zayne chuckled softly at your playful accusation as he rose carefully from the rug. Immediately, his hands found your hips, steadying you with gentle assurance. The way he towered over you sent another rush of warmth through your body, making your head spin deliciously as you took him in. God. That beautifully gentle giant. Your big snowman. Every detail about him seemed meticulously crafted to set your pulse racing. For a brief moment, you wondered if your tingling desire was amplified by the wine, or perhaps your body’s natural rhythm was to blame—whatever it was, it had you thoroughly intoxicated by him.

“Mm,” Zayne hummed with a barely suppressed smirk, amusement sparkling in his soft green eyes, “I’d like to see you try—”

He had barely uttered the words before you took them as an irresistible challenge. In the same instant, he realized his mistake, noticing the mischievous glint in your gaze as you quickly glanced over at the couch behind him. By the time a triumphant grin lit your flushed face, Zayne’s agile hands intercepted yours mid-air, stopping your playful attempt to seize his shoulders. Your delighted shriek filled the room as he effortlessly spun you off balance, gently yet decisively tackling you instead. You landed softly on the couch, bouncing lightly as your laughter rang out, wrists pinned securely above your head by his firm yet tender grip.

“Zayne!” You cackled, tickled by the fan of his laugh.

Your playful struggles gradually ceased under the gentle, soothing pressure of his lips pressing warmly against your heated cheek. The affectionate kiss, accompanied by his comforting smile, calmed you into sweet surrender underneath him.

“That was such a short show,” he whispered, his fingertip trailing languidly down the length of your inner forearm, leaving a deliciously ticklish path that sent shivers cascading through you. He rendered you breathless beneath his captivating gaze, “it happened so fast I’m afraid I missed your attempt entirely…Now, are you going to behave if I decide to let you go?”

“Oh, not at all in the slightest,” you laughed, playfully rolling your eyes and shaking your head in exaggerated defiance, “especially not when I have you all to myself at this angle…”

Before Zayne could form another playful retort, the moment his thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, you suddenly captured it, drawing it into the suction of your warm mouth. His breath faltered, eyes widening slightly at the sensation of your plush lips wrapping gently yet firmly around his knuckle, your tongue swirling as your cheeks hollowed. Heat surged mercilessly through him, his self-restraint hanging precariously by a thread; even more so when you gazed up at him with that blissful expression of submission that melted his heart into a helpless puddle.

“…Calls me a tease,” Zayne finally managed to remark, feigning sternness as best he could, though his voice held an unmistakable tremor of desire betraying the composure he desperately tried to maintain, “proceeds to suck my entire thumb into her mouth…”

You grazed your teeth against his skin, releasing him with a mischievous giggle as he withdrew his hand, shaking his head in mock resignation, “what? It’s just your thumb…”

“Just my thumb, she says,” he pretended to chide, moving carefully off you before helping you sit upright. Despite his mask of composure, he couldn’t conceal the undeniable, prominent evidence of his arousal tenting his sweatpants. With an inward sigh, he silently cursed his choice of clothing around you at that moment, “as if it’s not a less than subtle hint alluding to what’s really going through her imaginative little mind…”

“Or yours, Doctor Zayne,” you teased with a lighthearted chuckle, leaning forward to plant a playful kiss against his temple as he crooned closer to help you rise.

“I have no idea what you’re implying, Y/n,” he answered smoothly, taking your hand in his own and guiding you carefully across the living room, avoiding any lingering boxes or misplaced cords, “my mind is as sterile as the OR. Yours, on the other hand, could use some terminal cleaning…”

You couldn’t decide what cracked you up you more—his bone-dry humor, the casual way he tossed out medical terminology about post-surgical sanitation, or the outright absurdity of his claim that his mind was even remotely pristine.

“yeah right, that’s bull!” You laughed brightly, playfully swatting his firm bicep before slipping your arm through his, your fingertips lightly tracing along the familiar, raised scars that marked his skin—evidence of his Evol’s cruelty, “what, did it remind you of something else in my mouth?”

Zayne opened his mouth, a witty retort poised on his tongue, but instead, a brief pause settled over him as you both stepped into the kitchen. A faint, contented smile blossomed across his lips at the sight of the simmering pot of stew, the delicious aroma intensifying, tantalizing his senses as he had patiently awaited for hours.

“It did, as a matter of fact…” He murmured thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah?” You pressed yourself affectionately against his side, intertwining your fingers with his while your other hand teasingly trailed up to caress his chest—his most sensitive erogenous zone, “what, exactly?”

Zayne halted before the stove, lifting the lid away from the steaming stew pot and carefully placing it down on the countertop beside your half-filled glass of wine you had indulged in while cooking. He took up the wooden spoon you’d thoughtfully left nearby, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma and inviting heat enveloped him in mouthwatering warmth. But before you could open your mouth to keep teasing him, Zayne outpaced you in your intoxicated state, swiftly guiding a spoonful of the savory stew past your lips. His other hand came prepared beneath your chin, ready to catch any stray droplets.

“Food,” he finally responded with a soft, amused smile, thoroughly entertained by your exaggerated expression of mock outrage, which quickly dissolved into laughter. You nearly spat the stew out amidst your giggles, your chin dropping gratefully into his waiting hand as you composed yourself enough to swallow as he wiped your lips for you.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you laughed softly, shaking your head with amused disbelief as your fingertips subconsciously traced his scars, a tender gesture filled with quiet affection.

Zayne gently cupped your face between his warm, sturdy hands, leaning down to press a tender kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered briefly, a soothing caress that sent gentle warmth radiating through you, “you’ll do no such thing, you silly woman…But you will have some water with your wine. Cold water.”

You peered up at him through your lashes, chuckling quietly as his imposing height shielded your sensitive eyes from the glaring warmth of the kitchen lights, making the scene before you softer, dreamlike in your tipsy state, “doctor’s orders?” You teased.

“Doctor’s orders,” he echoed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pinched your flushed cheeks with utmost tenderness.

You both moved in quiet harmony, filling your bowls and carrying them together into the intimate space of the dining room. Hunger clearly gnawed at you both, evident in your eagerness to savor the meal. Your heart swelled with warmth and satisfaction as you watched Zayne enjoy your cooking, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation, giving you a pleased, approving nod. The dining room felt subtly transformed now—no longer merely his space. It was yours as well. The knowledge that you were making a home together here, sharing every corner of this sanctuary, filled you with a delicate blend of excitement and disbelief. Though Zayne insisted with gentle conviction that everything here belonged equally to you both, you still felt the lingering shyness of adjustment. Whenever you’d teasingly remind him, “but we’re not even married,” he’d simply shrug, an affectionate certainty lighting his eyes as he’d respond softly with, “we will be one day.”

The idea of marrying Zayne lingered sweetly in your tipsy, pleasantly hazy thoughts as you gazed lovingly at him across the table, utterly captivated by the subtle charm he exuded even in such a simple act as eating dinner. He remained blissfully unaware of your silent admiration, completely immersed in savoring the rich flavors you’d cooked with care. You couldn’t suppress the soft laughter that bubbled up inside you as you took a slow sip of your unfinished glass of wine, causing Zayne to glance up curiously, suddenly aware of your amused scrutiny.

“What?” He asked, swallowing his food as his curious eyes met yours from across the table.

You shook your head, a tender smile playing at your lips, “nothing, nothing…”

“Tell me,” he urged softly, setting down his spoon and fixing you with an amused, inquisitive gaze, “something clearly has you entertained.”

Entertained—if only Zayne knew the truth. It wasn’t mere amusement that warmed your heart; it was an overwhelming, blissful love, so profound that at times it bubbled up into laughter at the simplest moments.

“…Do you think you could get used to this?” You asked, tracing your finger idly along the delicate stem of your wine glass, eyes lowered yet brimming with quiet affection, “living together…You come home after a long day of some crazy life-or-death heart surgery to my hopefully amazing cooking, I spend the night on the Switch in bed while you read next to me and play with my hair, you give me some lame excuse about how blue light is bad for my eyes and tell me to put the video games down, and then all of a sudden your book’s barely hanging on the edge of the nightstand with your glasses and you’re on top of me and I’m lightheaded in the best way possible…You think you can get used to it?”

Zayne chuckled softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement at your vivid description. You laughed too, charmed by his endearing expression as you sipped your wine, watching him carefully dab at his lips with his napkin.

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, picking up another spoonful of stew and pretending to consider deeply, “well, I’d say it depends.”

“On?” You prompted, smiling as you propped your chin on your hand, thoroughly captivated by the gentle anticipation of his response.

Zayne reached over, his fingertips softly nudging your bowl closer, silently reminding you to keep eating. His gesture was tender, a subtle reassurance woven with quiet care, “a lot of things.”

“Liiike?” You giggled softly, lifting your spoon again, warmth bubbling within your chest as you awaited his explanation.

He paused thoughtfully, emerald eyes reflecting an affectionate warmth as he met your curious gaze, “…If you stare and smile at me the way you always do when you wait for me to take my first bite.”

“Huh?” Your laughter was light and flustered, tinged with playful embarrassment as warmth crept up your cheeks, “I don’t stare at you!”

“Yes you do,” Zayne replied softly, his lips curving into a subtle, knowing smile as he swallowed another bite of stew. His voice held an affectionate certainty, the gentle teasing only amplifying the intimacy of the moment, “it’ll also depend on you bringing the Switch to bed so that we can be near each other when we unwind, even if we’re not engaging in the same activity together.”

Realization dawned upon you, a tender understanding blooming in your chest. You knew then—Zayne wasn’t only speaking about shared routines; he was revealing how deeply he cherished every quiet, simple moment you shared together.

“And then of course,” he continued, reaching for his cup of water, eyes full of sincerity, “if I have to put my glasses on the nightstand because I know I won’t be picking my book back up until the following night.”

He was talking about love—about the comfort and certainty of a shared life.

“I could get used to it all,” he confessed quietly, his gaze soft and steady, a delicate tenderness warming every word, “not that I’d ever take any of it for granted, or have those expectations of us both without making sure you’re just as used to things as I am.”

A radiant warmth filled you, extending far beyond the fuzzy intoxication of the wine as you drained the last drops from your glass, “Mm…And how would you make sure that I’m still used to it, too?”

“…Reminding you to eat and get proper nutrition when you’re distracted by all else and need my help with staying on task,” he answered, his voice a velvety caress as he reached out once more to your bowl, tapping it lightly until your spoon resumed scooping the hearty stew, “spoiling you when you ask for five more minutes of scalp scratches while I read beside you…Paying close attention to your body’s signals when you need to catch your breath before I steal it again.”

Your pulse quickened, your skin erupting in a pleasant wave of goosebumps. Dear God, Zayne had a remarkable ability to turn simple, caring conversation into irresistibly sensual promises, his words making your heart swell with warmth even as desire stirred vividly within you. His genuine tenderness, the protective and nurturing nature underlying each carefully spoken word, somehow managed to make your heart feel full while simultaneously setting your senses aflame with longing. How did he always manage that? Even for a doctor—someone naturally skilled in attending to the needs of others—Zayne had an astonishing talent for seamlessly blending gentle caretaking with undeniable sensuality, making you feel perpetually desired, cherished, and utterly, passionately loved.

“So, get used to it,” Zayne teased gently, his fingertips squeezing your bare knee beneath the table, sending a pleasant shiver through your body, “you live here with me now, after all. You might as well see this as just the beginning of something you’ll eventually grow so accustomed to, that one day, you’ll find yourself in the middle of the vegetable isle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew.”

You nearly choked on your stew, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as Zayne’s dry humor caught you entirely off guard. Your hand swiftly reached for the glass of water he thoughtfully pushed closer, relief washing over you as the cool liquid soothed your throat.

“Thank you,” he sighed softly, a relieved smile curving his lips, his eyes filled with quiet affection as he watched you recover, “for never adding carrots to your cooking. I love you dearly.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, fueled by endearment, amusement, and the gentle intoxication from the wine, “I love you too, Zayne,” you managed between lingering chuckles, feeling delightfully flushed.

After dinner, the two of you moved in sync to clear the table, the simple act of cleaning together feeling natural and intimate. Domestic. Zayne watched you quietly from his position near the stove, hand still resting on the cool, digital surface as he paused his wiping to admire you. Unbeknownst to you, he studied you with quiet reverence, captivated by the way you stood there in your own little world on the kitchen mat, sleeves of his oversized sweater continually slipping down as you washed the dishes. You hummed softly, completely absorbed in your task, creating a serene atmosphere that he cherished.

Finding every excuse to draw closer, Zayne eventually stepped up quietly behind you, his warmth enveloping you before you even registered his presence. His hands reached around, gently pushing your sleeves higher up your arms, and he leaned down to pepper tender kisses on your head, “it’s a bit late for chores, isn’t it?” He whispered into your ear, his voice deep and inviting, “you should leave the rest for me tomorrow; we have the day off together. You’ve done enough today. Come relax with me, now.”

A knowing smile curved your lips as you felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing insistently against your lower back, igniting a familiar heat deep inside you, “what’s the rush, huh?”

Zayne’s hand moved slowly down your arm, urging you to set aside the pan and allow the warm water to rinse the soap from your skin.

“In truth,” he murmured softly by your ear, his words almost inaudible yet clear by every consistent, his presence overwhelming as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, “it’s the order of things I’d like to prioritize finishing tonight, starting with the most important…”

“Oh, what’s first on your list?” You asked playfully, arching subtly against him, relishing how it made his fingers tighten reflexively around your wrist as you tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

Without warning, Zayne lifted your arm and ducked beneath it, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms. You gasped in delighted surprise, clutching instinctively at his sweater as he lifted and spun you away smoothly from the sink.

“What you started earlier,” he said with a warm smile, looking down at you tenderly as he walked confidently from the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” you murmured teasingly, drawing yourself closer and lightly tracing your finger along the collar of his sweater, your touch brushing provocatively close to his chest, “I was trying to get some playtime in, but somebody insisted on being responsible first…So tell me, oh responsible, sensible one,” you punctuated playfully, poking a finger against his cheek, “are you gonna be able to keep up with me?”

“You know I always leave myself plenty of room for dessert,” Zayne teased back, carrying you toward the large, inviting couch, “and as much as I’d prefer to eat at the table—”

“—Wait!” you exclaimed suddenly, a mischievous light flickering in your eyes, the clarity of your tipsy revelation surprising even yourself, “the table!”

He halted abruptly, confusion knitting his brows as he glanced toward the coffee table, “…What about it?”

“The dinner table,” you clarified urgently, gripping his sweater tighter as you leaned closer to whisper excitedly, “take me back there!”

“Why do you-…I thought you wanted me to—”

“—Zayne, hurry!” You urged impatiently, enthusiasm overtaking your voice, a fervent anticipation coloring your words.

Zayne listened despite his evident confusion, swiftly changing direction as he carried you toward the dining room, his strong arms cradling you securely against his chest, “…Alright. Just what are you up to, anyway? Is the wine getting to your brain?”

“You know it is,” you responded playfully, a mischievous smirk gracing your lips, “just trust me!”

He chuckled softly in surrender, moving obediently to your desired destination without further protest, “if you say so…Though, blind faith is a lot to ask for from a man when his girlfriend becomes such a spirited, intoxicated minx.”

“That’s okay,” you murmured teasingly, gaze fixed intently on the dining table as it grew nearer with each step, “you’re an ever-flowing fountain of faith with how devoted you are to certain things about me…”

Gently, Zayne lowered you onto the polished wooden floor, his hands lingering on your waist, steadying you as he gazed down at you with curiosity, his brow arching, “such as?”

You offered him a seductive, knowing smile—one that instantly set his heart racing—as you firmly grasped his hand, guiding him towards one of the dining chairs. Without hesitation, you gripped Zayne’s broad shoulders and decisively pushed him down, watching with satisfaction as he obediently sank into the chair. Poor, irresistibly vulnerable man.

“So aggressive,” he playfully reprimanded, “it’s a good thing I’m not your patient, with the way you enjoy handling me the moment you have a glass or two of alcohol in your system…”

“Shhhh,” you silenced him softly, placing a fingertip against his warm lips.

You swung one leg over him, standing over his seated form. Your fingertips cupped his chin, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You didn’t need to check for the tent between his legs to know how eagerly his body responded to your proximity; his green eyes, darkened with desire, revealed everything even before his hands slid reverently up your bare thighs, drawing the sweater higher to expose more of your smooth, enticing skin.

“The one time I’ve seen you drunk, the first time we had sex, you held me up against the wall in the kitchen whispering to me that it was because of me that everything was spiraling out of your precious control,” you whispered, voice rich with seductive nostalgia as your fingertips tenderly traced the contours of his handsome face.

Heat suffused your body at the vivid memory, relishing the intensity of his uninhibited passion. Your breath caught slightly as Zayne’s hands traveled higher, pulling you closer by the backs of your thighs, eyes roaming hungrily over your body. Slowly, you raised the sweater to your waist, allowing his gaze to settle shamelessly on the delicate, translucent, blue lace panties he had bought for you on Valentine’s Day, a symbol of his adoration and intimate desire. His thumbs pressed insistently into your thighs, a clear reflection of his escalating need. A surge of heat blossomed between your legs in response, igniting your own fervent desire as you watched his composure unravel entirely, savoring the exquisite power you held over him, the intoxicating knowledge of how deeply he revered and craved you.

“And if my memory is correct,” Zayne murmured as he traced the delicate lace, brushing against your most sensitive places, your fingertips sweeping back his dark hair to give yourself an unobstructed view of his expressive eyes, heavy with longing as he admired the enticing sight before him, “you enjoyed that side of me quite thoroughly that night…”

“God, I really did, honey,” you giggled softly at the memory, the warmth of it pooling low in your tummy.

Your fingers traced over the scars on his forearm, those familiar ridges of skin your hands knew by heart. He was pushing your sweater higher, slow and purposeful, until his face nuzzled just beneath your breasts. His skin was warm against yours. He pressed a few playful, ticklish kisses along the soft flesh, making you exhale a shaky breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. You cradled the back of his head, your fingers buried in the damp, soft strands of his hair, encouraging him. His lips were everywhere, scattered like devotion across your skin, and his hands…God, his hands were reverent—tracing over your feminine curves like you were sacred, like you were something to be worshipped, not touched.

“Like I was saying…” You tried to finish the thought, but the words were half-laughed, half-slurred with affection, “your devotion as a man is unmatched…”

He hummed into your skin, slow and indulgent, his nose pressing gently into your sternum. You felt your eyes threaten to roll back from the sheer intimacy of it, that unmistakable feeling of being adored.

“You always have this way of touching me…” You murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, low and aching, “loving me like it’s worship or something…”

The confession left your lips like a prayer. Honest. Unfiltered. His hands had moved again, slow and sure as they mapped the length of your spine, pushing your sweater up until you understood what he was asking. You didn’t hesitate. You peeled it off, flushed skin rising into the open air, sighing as it cooled your heat. You tossed the sweater blindly behind you—onto the dinner table, maybe. You didn’t care.

Your hands found his hair again, curling into it as you guided him. And the way he responded—burying his face into your breast, mouth open, lips parting around your nipple, tongue swirling with a slow, wet press that sent a bolt of heat through your core—you damn near moaned at the sound of it; the wet pull of his mouth, the low, husky sigh he gave as he sucked with care and focus, like this was the only thing he ever wanted.

“I know you asked me that night,” you whispered, your voice shaking as the memory unfurled like a ribbon in the sultry haze, “how I could pretend I was unaffected…”

You reached for him, found his wrist behind your back, and guided it between your bodies—between your legs. You lowered his hand, slowly, deliberately down your front, breath catching as you pressed his palm against the soft mound of heat between your thighs. A sharp, shaky sigh escaped you. His hand squished against you, his skin meeting the soaking fabric of lace that had long since failed to hide anything from him. The sound of it—wet, needy—was unmistakable.

“But I was affected,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I was so, so affected…”

Your breath came faster now, your thoughts fogging, unraveling. Every time he kissed you. Every time he touched you. Every quiet moment where his love was too gentle to be noticed by anyone but you.

“I’m always affected,” you choked out, the words coming faster now, each one a piece of the storm building in your chest, “even when you’re doing something mundane—just setting up the gaming corner while I’m cooking us dinner—I’m always so damn affected by you, Zayne…”

And that was it. The moment the last of Zayne’s restraint snapped. He moaned—honest, desperate—as if your words physically undid him, his fingers tightening where they took an indulgent squeeze of your core, as if he couldn’t stand the barrier of lace anymore. Your body surged into his as his thumb hooked under the soaked fabric and pulled it aside, finally baring the heat he’d been aching to touch. He groaned into your breast, low and reverent, as his hand cupped your bare flesh and his middle finger slid into you with a slow, satisfying push. You whimpered at the depth, hips twitching as your walls clenched around him, fluttering, gripping his knuckle with raw need.

Your hand found his shoulder, clutching, practically clawing into the firm muscle under the heavy warmth of his sweater. The other hand tangled tighter into his black hair, pulling him closer as you arched into his embrace, wanting Zayne everywhere, wanting more. You could feel the heat of his breath, how wet his tongue was as it circled your nipple. The way he kept swallowing, like he couldn’t stop it, like your taste and your voice and the way you fell apart in his arms had made his mouth water, his body burn.

There was desperation in your hands, in your breath, in the trembling of your voice that said you needed him—needed his touch, needed to be worshipped the way only he knew how. He was undone completely by the way you craved him—by the way your touch pleaded for more without needing a single word. Zayne was dizzy from it. Dizzy from how easily you unraveled him. His breath hitched as he savored the squishy heat radiating through his palm. Nothing could hide the way you were completely undone by him, could silence the truth his fingers had known the moment he touched you—that you had been desperately craving him, already a needy mess for him.

“I know that by now,” he murmured, voice muffled by the indulgent smother of your breast.His lips never stopped moving, never stopped adoring you with reverent smacks pops of your sensitive nipple as he guided you backward, step by step.

He rose from the chair as you moved with him, still inside you, his finger never slipping free, cupping you the whole way as he coaxed you toward the edge of the dining table. You stumbled a little, your hand fumbling for something to brace yourself against. But Zayne was already there. His hand caught yours, steadying it, pressing it flat against the wood before guiding you down, coaxing you to lie back as he crowded your space, hovering over you with the cast of his shadow.

“I also know,” he added, voice lower now, tinged with something dark he looked down at you—so eager, so wrecked, so his, “that you’re as addicted to stepping out of line as I am.”

You were absolutely addicted to the intoxicating high of giving in—of relinquishing restraint, of letting go completely and letting yourself be seen , consumed, devoured by him. Especially on nights like this, where the excuse to indulge had come easily—a Friday, a glass or two of wine, the soft hum of domesticity between you. It didn’t take much. Not when it came to Zayne. Not when you were so deeply, helplessly, maddeningly drawn to him. Sometimes, your love for him felt like worship, too. A craving that burned hotter than mere affection. A hunger to merge, to lose yourself in the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he drank in your pleasure like it was a need he could never fully satisfy.

Your head spun. Your eyes fluttered shut. Every inch of you melted. You felt him—his strong arm wrapping around your thighs, hugging them to him as he leaned in, his lips brushing over the slope of your calf, tenderly, intimately. Then came the shift—the hook of his finger curling into the strap of your underwear, the urgency in his movements humming like electricity against your skin. You sighed in pure relief as he pulled the soaked lace down your legs. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t pause. He drew them off your ankles with practiced ease, like it was natural to him now, like the act of undressing you had been engraved into his muscle memory.

When your eyes fluttered open to witness his passion, you found Zayne holding your underwear in one hand, lifting it to his face, inhaling deeply with his lashes low in indulgence, the expression on his face somewhere between reverence and something primal. And then—he discarded them with a casual flick to the side, as if they were nothing but a wrapper to something far more precious, his sweater following suit as he tossed it off his pale frame like an afterthought. Good Lord. Love wasn’t enough to describe what Zayne felt for you. It was beyond affection, beyond obsession—it was something deeper, something flooded with devotion, worship, hunger. The kind of love that made a man forget his name and remember only yours.

Your heart pounded, full and frantic, echoing through your chest and into your throat as you heard the chair scrape across the floor. The sound grounded you, startled you into the present. He hooked the leg of the chair around his ankle and yanked it forward, dragging it close as he took his seat like it was his throne for a feast. He reached for you, tender and certain, folding one of your knees aside, the soft bend of your thigh resting flat against the table. The other leg he lifted higher, guiding it over his shoulder, settling it there like it belonged. His palms were wide on your skin, possessive, spreading heat as they slid along your calves and thighs in one long, deliberate motion. He scooted forward, closer and closer—his breath warming the inside of your leg as he moved in, up to you. Up to your soaked, flushed, trembling core. Up to his dessert.

Oh God. That man was insatiable when it came to his sweet tooth—and he never once denied that his favorite indulgence wasn’t chocolate or cake or anything store-bought. It was you. Always you. You reached back, fumbling blindly for his discarded sweater, bunching it beneath your head and using it like a pillow to prop yourself up, just enough to see him. Blood rushed between your ears, pulsing loud, your body alive with an unbearable prickle of heat that lit every nerve aflame. And then—you watched him. Watched as he crooned down over you, his lips parting as he pressed soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of your thigh, slow and torturous, each one closer than the last. You could feel the warmth of his mouth, the faint trace of his breath skimming your skin, the reverence in every kiss as if he was preparing himself for something holy.

Your pulse was pounding between your legs, so strong it was almost audible. You felt it throb with each slow press of his mouth, felt it jump beneath his hands when he spread them up your thighs to hold you open. Then, the pause. That familiar stillness. That sacred, quiet moment you’d seen only in the most intimate seconds with him—when he took a beat to look. To truly see you. Not just with hunger, but with something aching in his eyes. Reverence. Desire. Love. The kind that quieted the whole world. He stared at your body like it was made just for him, like it was an exquisite feast and he was trying not to devour it too fast. His gaze traced over every inch of soft skin, every curve that still trembled for him. And Zayne—he didn’t just look. He witnessed.

You saw it in the way his breath hitched as he let his fingertips trail down the twitch of your abdomen, soft and slow, until they reached the center of you. With gentle pressure, he pressed your folds apart, holding you wide, open for himself, watching the way you glistened, slick and swollen, your body aching under his touch. He took it in—the proof of how you responded to him, how wrecked you were already. He let go of a deep breath, and then—one last glance up. His eyes met yours, pleading and glazed and full of love, and that was the final thread. He bowed, his brows knit, his mouth met you, and the first taste pulled a groan from his chest so low, so guttural, it made your thighs twitch.

You always watched him eat, whether your cooking or your body. You always waited to see if he liked it. You always searched for that subtle flicker of pleasure in his eyes, that hushed appreciation on his face. That quiet, sacred pause where he savored something just for him. And it was no different now. Because you watched this too. You couldn’t not watch. You needed to see the way his mouth opened, the way the flat of his tongue dragged through you, slow and hot and so intimate it made your vision blur. You watched the way he lingered, the way he buried his face between your thighs and let out a quiet, helpless sound when your clit met his tongue again, warmer this time, wetter, hungrier. The flick of it was indulgent, precise, so tender and possessive all at once.

Your eyes rolled back before you could stop them. Your spine arched off the table, body seizing with a high, unfiltered cry as your hand flew into his hair, yanking, anchoring him there. You held him like you were drowning. And Zayne—willing and eager—groaned into you, smothering his face into your heat like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Like he had no intention of coming up for air. Like he would eat forever if you let him.

“God, Zayne,” you breathed, voice broken and uneven as fireworks bloomed behind your fluttering eyelids. Your hips twitched beneath his mouth as another slow, devastating drag of his tongue rolled up your core, the heat of it lighting every nerve on fire, “honey, it’s so good…”

You trembled, your body jerking in a soft, uncontrollable spasm at the way his lips sealed around your clit. He sucked—not too hard, not too fast, but with that perfect, rhythmic pull that he knew would wreck you. The wet smack of his lips parted from your slick skin with a quiet pop that made your toes curl. Then he sighed, like he was drinking you in, like he’d never tasted anything better. That sound, that raw note of satisfaction—that ignited something deep in you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again. His finger slid into you with a slow, easy glide, your walls welcoming him back with a desperate flutter as he moved with confidence, with certainty, already seeking out the spot he’d memorized by heart. He found it instantly. A moan tumbled out of you, loud and sweet, as your head tilted back and your free hand clutched his shoulder. The other was still tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging him like he needed it—like he wasn’t already worshipping you like you were the center of his universe.

“R-right there…” You slurred, voice thick with pleasure. A lazy, delirious smile pulled at your lips, “yeah, right there…”

And then—another finger. Zayne slipped it in beside the first, curling both upward toward the swell inside you, and your entire body responded at once. Your jaw fell open, your breath hitched, your back arched off the table once more as a jolt of pleasure shot through your spine. His fingers moved expertly, massaging the sensitive spot with slow, circling pressure. His lips alternated, suctioning and releasing over your clit, applying firm, steady attention that made your thighs twitch and shake for him.

The air filled with the wet, obscene sound of your arousal, each squelch of his fingers met by the deliberate drag of his tongue. And Zayne—he was completely immersed. Eyes half-lidded, brow furrowed, breath pouring through his nose as he lapped at you with devotion so intense it felt like the rest of the world had gone still. A cry tore out of you as the pleasure surged, hot and blinding, flooding your body with electricity. Your hands gripped him tighter, buried in his hair as your voice pitched higher with each movement of his hand and mouth.

“Yes!” You gasped, “Zayne, I’m already so close…!”

He’d suspected as much. From the dew of your skin. From the tension in your thighs. From the wine earlier and how hydrated he knew you were, how your body was primed to burst for him. He took the cue immediately, adjusting your position with practiced ease—his arm curling around your thigh to tug you slightly closer to the edge, tilting you downward just enough. Your breath caught in your throat at the realization, that weightless moment just before impact, like the pause at the top of a rollercoaster.

Then—he began punching his fingertips into that swollen sensitive spot inside of you that sent your mind spinning. His wrist tensed, his grip locking around your thigh as his brows knit deeper with an intense need. His lips parted from you with a ragged, husky breath, and the next thing you knew—he was lapping at your clit in the open, expecting how much you would start to jolt and writhe soon enough. The rhythm of his fingers, the wet slap of his tongue—it was relentless. Your voice shattered into pieces, echoing through the dining room as fire rushed through your veins faster than you could ever hope to keep up with, voice rising in time with the furious pace of his movements.

“I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, helpless, frantic, your limbs trembling under the intensity of his effort, under that relentlessly building pressure each punch of his fingers threatened to burst, “oh my God, Zayne, don’t stop! Keep going, baby! Keep going! I’m-! I’m-…!”

Your whole body seized with an unbearable tension possessing your every limb, your spine locking up off the table as your pelvis tilted, your mind dissolving into blinding white. A scream tore through your throat, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut as your vision exploded in color behind your lids. You gushed. It hit hard. Sharp. Immediate. A hot burst of liquid spilled from you, splashing over Zayne’s chin, his wrist, all over him, soaking his arm as he kept going, his tongue still lapping at you ceaselessly, riding you through every wave of euphoria. Your body convulsed under the weight of it, every muscle spasming as he held you down, unshaken, committed.

You writhed beneath him, knuckles shaking between fistfuls of his hair, your scream still echoing, breath stuttering between sobs of his name, “Zayne! Zayne! Oh God, Zayne!”

And still—his mouth didn’t stop. His fingers only slowed. He worshipped you through the aftershocks like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. And God, in that moment, to him—you were. For you, it was like falling from heaven—but instead of crashing, you were caught. Caught by the man you loved more than anyone, held in his reverence and blanketed in that tingling warmth that only Zayne ever made you feel. The kind of warmth that slowed your heart and sped it up all at once, that wrapped around you like soft light and pulled you gently, reverently, back down to earth. You were shaking. Gasping for breath. A wreck of breathless giggles as you melted beneath him, your fingers relaxing with a trembling tenderness into the roots of his damp hair. His mouth hadn’t left you—not really. Now, he was kissing you gently, lovingly, dotting slow smooches along your inner thigh, his tongue licking up the dripping aftermath of your euphoria, savoring the mess he’d made of you.

The ceiling spun above you as your eyes finally blinked open, lashes heavy, breath slowly catching up with you. You inhaled deep and let out a weak laugh, light and giddy, filled with a joy too big for words. Zayne didn’t move until you did—he never did. His devotion lived in the way he waited, the way he let you set your own pace, the way he respected that. But when you shifted, when you lifted just slightly onto one elbow, he stood. He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, pushing it back with a scrape of wood against wood. And that’s when you saw it—really saw him. His sweats were tenting, stretched and darkened where your orgasm had flowed off the table across the front, the wet patches blooming low on his abdomen. You watched, transfixed, as he curled his thumbs beneath the waistband, and in one swift, fluid movement, yanked them down his pale hips, letting them fall to the floor in a heap.

You forgot to breathe. The lean muscles along his torso shifted as he stood tall again  before he brought a fist to his mouth and gave his chin a single, efficient wipe—cleaning the remnants of you from his lips. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing; but seeing Zayne absolutely drenched from you? It was everything. Your breath hitched again as your gaze dropped between his legs, heat sweeping over you in another full-body wave. His cock stood hard and flushed, the tip glistening with a bead of precum that gleamed in the soft, golden light.

He gripped himself, fngers curling tightly around his girth, giving himself a slow, needy squeeze like he had to. Like the intensity of his desire was too much to bear. Like he needed to hold on to something and ground himself before he could give himself to you. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, couldn’t stop the way your lips curled up in that blissed out, dazed expression you always wore when he looked like that.

He stepped closer and you welcomed him, lifting up your calf with a soft sigh, curling it over his shoulder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him. Studied him. His face, his body, the way he watched you with the same kind of reverence. Your gazes fell in unison to the shrinking space between you, to the slow inevitability of your bodies joining again. He hugged your thigh tighter, leaned down, and pressed a kiss into the soft flesh like it was his way of thanking you for being there; for choosing him. For letting him in.

Then—he pushed. A slow, deliberate thrust, not rushed, not frantic. Just deep and purposeful. You watched, helpless, awestruck, as your body gave for him, your folds stretching open to accommodate the thick, perfect shape of him. The way the plush head of his cock parted you was almost too much, too intimate, too breathtaking. Your breath caught, eyes wide, and his did too. His brows furrowed, lashes fluttering down, cheeks flushed as his mouth fell open with a gasp. That first flutter of you wrapped around him, and it wrecked him. He held still, gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You reached for him, hand finding his waist, pulling. And he obeyed. He pressed in deeper, both of you sighing in perfect sync, the stretch, the heat, the pressure between you winding so tight it was impossible to tell where your pleasure ended and his began. Your fingertips dug into each other’s skin, your bodies locking together in a silence so charged, so intimate, it made your eyes burn. You were his. And Zayne—God help him—was utterly, completely yours.

He moved slow, each thrust deep and drawn out with the kind of indulgent patience that only made the tension worse. Worse, because every motion of his body said he wasn’t done worshiping you, not even close. Every time he pulled back, your body mourned the absence, your skin squelching quietly from the contact of his groin to your lips, the sticky sound echoing between you with every retreat of his chiseled hips. And then, he’d return again, sinking back into you with a thick, solid push that buried him so deep you swore you felt it in your lungs.

Each time Zayne filled you, you clenched down helplessly, your body holding him like it was terrified of letting him go. Like you needed to keep him inside you just to feel whole. You were already undone—tipsy on wine and him, already floating in the hazy pleasure of being so fully, so tightly wrapped around him. But watching him like this? That made it worse. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop your eyes from devouring the sight of him as he moved above you, his face flushed, lashes low, the corners of his mouth slack with open-mouthed pleasure. You traced a droplet of your own slick with your eyes, watching it glisten as it slid slowly down the tense dip of his abs—following the trail up, over his chest, where sweat from earlier still clung to the smooth skin of his throat. Your touch followed. You reached out, brushing that drop as it passed his stomach, and God, the way he shuddered at your touch made heat bloom behind your ribs.

His fingers tightened around the calf he held braced over his shoulder, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself. His other hand spanned wide over your torso, fingers grazing softly along your sternum, sweeping over your breasts—slow, reverent, indulgent. You reached for him as well, trembling fingers curling around his wrist, and with a firm tug, you brought his hand up to your face. You didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. You just parted your lips and took his thumb into your mouth.

The wet sound of the suction made Zayne inhale sharply, a sigh pouring from him, ragged and wanting. His hips reacted before he could rein them in, snapping forward with a gentle, but firm smack of his pelvis against yours. The sound of his groin meeting your splayed folds—wet and intimate—echoed louder in the stillness of the room. You gasped, the surge of heat coursing through you instantaneous, breath catching as your walls fluttered around him. Without thinking, your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers finding your slippery, swollen clit and pressing into a soft, needy rub.

Zayne froze—just for a second. Then his breath shuddered. The sight of you—fingers on yourself, mouth wrapped around his thumb, eyes glazed and locked on him through hooded lashes—snapped something inside him. His hand tightened again around your calf, the grip firm and possessive, his hips rolling harder, the next thrust deeper, more urgent. Your mouth swirled your tongue around his thumb, and he groaned low in his throat, hips flexing with renewed intensity.

“H-harder,” you begged, the word broken and breathless around his thumb.

There was a glimmer of something unhinged in your gaze—lust, love, desperation—and you watched the way it wrecked Zayne. He was torn between watching your face—cheeks flushed and dewy, brows drawn in rapture—and the sight just below, where your own fingertips moved in frantic circles over your glistening clit. Each pass was faster than the last, slick and obscene, the sounds wet and intimate, and God, the sight alone made his pulse thrum in his ears.

“Harder…” You whimpered again, impatient, growing needier by the second, “Zayne, go harder already!”

That did it. He snapped. His hips slammed into you with a force that knocked a gasp straight out of your lungs. Your breasts jolted forcefully with the first thrust, bouncing from the sudden impact, and your body arched off the table like you couldn’t bear the pleasure of his divine zeal as he continued.

“Yes!” You cried out, voice ragged, your hand moving furiously between your legs now, matching his growing intensity, pushing yourself higher with every thrust, “mhmm, just like that! Yes! Just like—ohh!”

Zayne groaned, the sound guttural and strained as your walls fluttered wildly around him, tightening in sharp, uneven pulses. The sensation had his jaw clenching, sweat trickling down his temple, slipping past the tension in his vocal chords as he pistoned his hips faster, harder. He was addicted to this. To stepping out of line. To you. To the way you took him in, gripped him, held him like your body never wanted to let go. His hands were damp with sweat, the skin between your bodies slick and heated, sticking together with every powerful slap of his hips against you.

Zayne couldn’t look away. You were still sucking on his thumb, your lips flushed and glistening from drool, tongue flicking over the pad with slow, sultry pulls that made his head spin. Your other hand never stopped moving, fingers slick with arousal as you circled your clit faster, chasing release like it was life itself. He was watching you fall apart beneath him—for him—and God, it was too much.

“Say you’ll get used to this,” he panted huskily, voice cracking with the force of his thrusts.

His thumb pressed harder against your tongue, massaging the soft muscle as your eyes fluttered open just barely, gaze hazy and glazed with pleasure. He was staring down at you—starving for you—his expression dark, his pupils wide and burning with hunger. Your moan vibrated against the pad of his thumb, and he felt it in his bones. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a breath, then picked up again, harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the air between you, mixing with your desperate, breathy gasps and the wet squelch of your slick beneath his thrusts.

“Say it for me, Y/n,” he begged, voice sharp and desperate, almost unrecognizable, “I want to hear you say it…!”

God, that did it for you.

“I’ll—I’ll get used to this!” you slurred, voice cracking around the edge of a shout, your words muffled, wet around his thumb until they finally burst free.

Your chest heaved with ragged gasps, each breath sharper than the last as the pounding in your ears merged with the pulse of blazing heat curling tight in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t just the feel of him—though heavens, that alone would’ve undone you. It wasn’t just the way he slammed into you with feverish, unrelenting rhythm, hips snapping against you in greedy, hungry thrusts that shook the table beneath your back. It wasn’t just the slap of skin meeting skin or the heat soaking every inch of your body. It was him. It was the way Zayne looked at you. The way his eyes, half-lidded and dark with awe, stared down at you like you were something holy, something sacred. The way his desire wasn’t just in his body—it was carved into his face, written in every shudder of his breath, in every twitch of his jaw, in the tension of his muscles as he tried, and failed, to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’ll get—so, so used to—God!!” You screamed, the words spilling from your lips in a flood of pure, unfiltered ecstasy as your hand flew to his forearm, gripping him, your fingers digging into his scars as if it was the only thing anchoring you to earth, to reality. His thumb slipped free from your mouth, and suddenly your words echoed—unmuffled, raw, every syllable ringing through the air between you, searing into his skin like brand marks, “I’ll get damn used to you pounding me completely senseless on every last surface of this—ahh! I’m cumming! Zayne, I’m—!”

“—Cum with me!” He broke, voice splintered, a ragged plea full of breathless desperation.

He grabbed your hand—found it, gripped it—his fingers interlacing with yours just as your bodies reached the edge together. Your eyes locked in the chaos, and there was nothing else. Just him. Just you. And the fire you were about to fall into, hand in hand. You both came undone in the same blinding moment. It was loud, helpless, a raw, visceral surrender to the tidal wave of euphoria that overtook you both, so all-consuming it rattled through your bones. Your bodies trembled, shook, legs trembling and hands gripping, desperate for something to hold onto as the euphoria hit, slamming through you in white-hot pulses that made your thoughts fracture apart like glass. Heat rushed through your veins, singing through your limbs as the final snap of tension detonated inside you. You cried out, hips twitching as you drenched him, your core slick and pulsing beneath your own touch while he bucked deep into your heat, his thrusts erratic, wrecked. Zayne spilled rope after thick rope deep inside you, your walls fluttering, sucking every drop from him with a hunger neither of you could ever seem to satisfy. It was earth-shattering. Soul-stripping. Blinding. There were no thoughts. Only him. Only this.

When the crashing waves of pleasure finally began to pull back, you both stilled, dazed and silent, as if you’d fallen from some celestial place, breathless from touching something beyond human. Zayne’s chest was flushed and heaving, glistening under the warm light, the air burning in his lungs as he slowly came down with you, his hand still gripping your thigh, trembling as he guided your calf down gently from his shoulder. You were jelly, twitching with leftover pulses of pleasure. He was soft and spent, the strength drained from him, every movement labored and delicate.

Zayne pulled out with a broken whimper, his jaw tightening as the friction of parting from your overstimulated body sent a final, shivery wave through him. The slick, heady mess between your thighs clung to him, but he didn’t look away—not from your body, not from your face. He leaned over you, folding down, and you wrapped your arms around him immediately. He pressed into you—hot, sweaty, real—his body collapsing over yours with a soft exhale against your neck. You held him there, lips meeting his before he even had the strength to find you first.

He kissed you like he needed to. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. And you returned it just as hungrily, your lips sticking to his with every breathless press. Again. And again. You could taste the faint salt of sweat on his upper lip. Feel the radiating heat of his skin against yours. Hear the ragged breaths that still shook in his chest as you clung to each other. You broke apart only when your eyes met—his half-lidded and heavy, yours glazed with affection—and the two of you laughed, soft and dizzy, over a few more lazy kisses. The laughter was quiet and intimate, like you’d just shared some sacred secret between your bodies.

Your legs gave a wobble the moment you tried to push yourself up, arms threatening to buckle under the aftershocks still humming in your limbs. The table had long since cooled beneath your thighs, but your body remained too warm, too loose, too thoroughly unraveled to stand on its own just yet. But Zayne was already there—of course he was. Ever the insistent gentleman, ever the protector even after wrecking you beyond coherence. He caught you before you could do more than shift, arms scooping around your waist as if it were nothing, as if you hadn’t just barely survived the way he’d loved you.

After cleaning you and himself off with his discarded sweater and fetching the one you donned earlier, he carried you with careful steps into the kitchen, his grip gentle but unyielding, before setting you down with all the delicacy of something fragile onto the cool surface of the counter. The cold marble met your thighs and made you shiver, and within seconds, he was pressing a chilled glass of water into your hand. You held it like an anchor, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass as you brought it to your lips with his help. He made you drink it all, giving you a moment before you nodded that you were done and set the glass aside.

“Here, you’ll catch a cold if you’re naked for long,” Zayne murmured, already moving to tug the sweater he fetched over your head.

You let him. You always did. He was so quietly stubborn in moments like this, so unshakably him. He guided your arms through the long sleeves with patient care, flipping your hair out from the collar and fixing it back, his fingers grazing along your nape like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.

“Just stay put, alright?” He said, voice soft but edged with that familiar firmness that made your chest flutter, “don’t exhaust yourself any further. Save your energy for a shower with me before we test out the new game console.”

Your breath caught a little on the laugh that followed, light and breathless, “okay, okay, fine…Thank you.”

Zayne only shook his head with that quiet, affectionate chuckle of his, lips twitching at the corners as he stepped back from you. You watched him as he strolled toward the fridge, the slow, grounded pace of his walk so casual, so domestic, it made your chest ache in a different way. He paused in front of the magnetic whiteboard, eyes scanning the surface before lifting a hand to thoughtfully rub his smooth-shaven chin. There were your seal doodles, drawn in a sleepy haze the night before. Silly, lopsided, you. Right beside them, the short list of reminders he’d left himself for next week—smog check, order contacts, change out air filter. He stared at the board for a moment longer, then grabbed a black marker and uncapped it with a soft click.

You tilted your head as you fixed your hair as much as you could, your curiosity rising slowly as you watched Zayne begin to jot down something new beneath his reminders. He was writing…Numbers?

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Then he added words next to each.

1. Bed

2. Couch

3. Bathtub

4. Desk

5. Dining table

6.

And without hesitation, he began to check them off. The marker squeaked slightly as it pressed into the surface, but your breath was louder—shallow, caught between a stunned laugh and the rush of warmth that spread down your spine. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. You just paused at a twirl of your messy hair and let the moment hang there, undeniably his.

“…Uh, Zayne?” You giggled, your voice soft and breathy as it broke the quiet hum of the fridge.There was still a slight rasp in your throat, a rawness from how loudly you’d screamed his name not long ago.

You caught the curl of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—subtle, mischievous, utterly him—as he kept writing, pretending he didn’t hear the way you laced your words with curiosity. He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his eyes on the board as he scribbled one last word with casual precision, the black ink catching under the warm lighting.

“What are you doing?” You finally asked.

“Making a list,” he replied simply, still so composed, so calm, as if he hadn’t just torn you apart on the dining table minutes earlier.

You tilted your head again, the arch of your brow quirking as your gaze flicked down to the last thing he’d written.

6. Kitchen counter

And it was…Unchecked.

“Of?” You prompted that cleverly humorous man you called yours, crossing your arms as the smirk tugged at your lips.

“Surfaces,” he turned his head then, giving you his full gaze. Calm. Steady. Smiling with just enough self-satisfaction to make your heart flutter and your stomach knot all over again. He capped the marker with a soft click, “you know,” he added, his tone smooth, his words so effortlessly dry it made your cheeks flush, “to help you get used to us living together.”

Heat tinged your face instantly. It rose up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks as you burst into another giggle, smacking your own forehead in disbelief at the audacity of this man—your man—and the deadpan honesty in the way he said things that left you breathless. Still floating, still only half-dressed in his oversized sweater, you carefully slid off the counter and slowly padded toward him, your bare feet nearly silent against the cool tile. Zayne didn’t move. He just watched you come closer with that infuriatingly calm composure of his, like he already knew you were going to meet him there. You reached for the marker in his hand, plucking it from his elegant fingers with a smirk that mirrored the one he tried—and failed—to hide from you.

“To the point that one day…” You began quoting him, lifting the marker to the board, uncapping it with a dramatic little flourish, “I’ll find myself in the middle of the vegetable aisle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew…”

Zayne laughed. Really laughed—the low, quiet, genuine kind that warmed your chest. His gaze dropped to the little side-note you added beneath his unchecked “kitchen counter.”

While dinner’s cooking ;)

“Precisely,” he chuckled, pulling you into his bare chest with one easy motion, like your place was always meant to be there.

He kissed the top of your head, and you let yourself melt fully into him, breathing him in deep. You stood there for a long, peacefully silent moment, swaying gently together in the quiet hum of the kitchen. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, your fingertips affectionate as they mapped the breadth of his sweat-damp shoulders. Your mind drifted into unobstructed vulnerability, then, pleasantly tumbling into the sweetest, unguarded warmth. It was a feeling that reminded you of when you and Zayne were children, him the quiet boy who could always be found nose-deep in a book, you the lively girl who laughed the loudest and spun in your light up sneakers too fast—When you’d go knocking on his parents’ front door after school, asking if he was done with his homework so you could drag him out to play with you, to roll down that little hill behind his childhood home together, the one hidden  just past a field of jasmines—until the sun would set and he’d insist on walking you back to your porch.

Maybe I’ll get used to a lot of things. Sharing a fridge. Filling his dresser drawers. Slow dancing in the middle of meal prep. Maybe I’ll even get used to the idea of marrying him one day. Maybe it wouldn’t be too crazy to be real. Maybe it’d be just perfect. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe I’ll really marry him. Maybe he’d be the best girl dad. Maybe I’ll proudly brag to Tara and Jenna that my husband would never force our child to play an instrument or go to med school.

Yeah.

I think I’d like that.

I could get used to this.

I want to marry him. I want to marry Zayne.

You didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But as you smiled peacefully into his chest, it was already there, warm and certain, tucked somewhere deep between your ribs where all the important truths liked to live.