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You never told Zayne the word phobia outright.
You didn’t have to.
He noticed it the way your heart raced and your body faintly trembled whenever you sat in his office. He noticed it the first time you passed a clinic together and your fingers tightened around his sleeve, the way your steps shortened like you were bracing against an invisible wind. He noticed how your gaze slid away from the red cross signs, how your breathing shifted just enough to register on his internal radar.
He noticed the way you joked too fast whenever health reminders popped up on your phone, the humor a little too sharp, a little too rehearsed. He noticed how you waved it off with a laugh and said you were fine, even when you were pale or tired or holding yourself just a bit too stiffly. Zayne noticed everything—he always did—but with you, he noticed quietly, carefully, the way one handled something fragile without ever naming it as such.
Zayne never pushed.
He never said you should get that checked in that calm, reasonable voice of his. He rarely pulled rank as a doctor or let his training overshadow your comfort. Instead, he learned you the way he’d learned medicine: patiently, strategically, with devotion tucked into every observation.
You wouldn’t realize until much later just how often he checked your health.
Not like a physician.
Like someone in love.
1. Cut
It happened on a quiet evening, the kind that felt almost sacred in its simplicity. The kitchen smelled like garlic and ginger, oil warming in the pan with a soft hiss. Music hummed low from the speakers, something mellow you both enjoyed.
You were chopping vegetables with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, sleeves rolled up, shoulders loose. Zayne leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar look. Half fond, half alert.
“You’re staring,” you said without looking up.
“I’m appreciating,” he replied easily.
You scoffed. “Appreciate from a distance.”
That was when the knife slipped.
It was barely a second, just enough for the blade to kiss your finger before pain flared sharp and hot. You hissed, instinctively pulling your hand back. A bead of red welled up, bright against your skin.
“Ah—!”
Zayne moved instantly.
He was at your side before the sound fully left your mouth, his hand closing around your wrist with gentle certainty. “You’re alright,” he murmured, grounding, steady. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly, heart already picking up speed. “Just a little cut, I swear. I’m fine—”
“I know,” he said, voice calm and unwavering, his hold firm, preventing you from pulling away. “Just humor me.”
He guided your hand under the faucet, adjusting the temperature until it was cool but not cold. You tensed at first, then relaxed as the sting faded to a manageable throb. His thumb supported your palm, careful not to press too hard.
“You always rush when you’re hungry,” he said lightly.
You huffed despite yourself. “That’s slander.”
“Observational accuracy.”
He dried your finger with a clean towel, then reached, unthinking, practiced, for a small first aid kit stored neatly in a drawer.
“When did you put that there?” you asked, a flicker of unease threading through your curiosity as you looked at the plain white box.
He didn’t look up. “A while ago.”
He bandaged your finger quickly and expertly, wrapping it just tight enough to protect without restricting. Then he paused, keeping your hand tucked firmly in his, waiting an extra second before finishing. His touch lingered, thumb brushing your knuckle as if by accident.
“All done,” he said softly. “Still want to keep cooking?”
You stared at the neat little bandage. Then at him.
“Thank you.”
His smile was small. “Any time.”
Later, while you ate, you realized something: the way he wrapped the bandage, the subtle pressure, the pause to watch your skin color return. He’d checked your circulation without ever saying a word. Without making you feel like a patient.
You didn’t mention it.
2. Pulse
The storm came in after midnight. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rolling low and distant. You woke tangled in sheets, breath shallow, chest tight. Your heart pounded wildly, erratic and frightening, like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest.
For one terrible second, panic spiked. Something was wrong.
Then the mattress shifted.
Zayne was awake instantly, as if summoned by the change in your breathing alone.
“I’m here,” he whispered, already close. “Bad dream?”
“I—I don’t know,” you admitted, voice thin. “My heart’s racing. It won’t slow down.”
Instead of sitting up or reaching for a light, Zayne rolled closer, draping an arm around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers slipped around your wrist seamlessly, hidden beneath the covers, indistinguishable from a lover’s touch.
He didn’t announce it. He didn’t count aloud. He just held you.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured.
You did. In, out. In, out. His thumb traced slow, steady circles against your skin, grounding you, anchoring you. Your cheek pressed against his chest, and his heartbeat was calm beneath your ear, strong and reassuring.
“Still with me?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “It’s getting better.”
“Good.”
He kissed your hairline, warm and lingering. “Storms do this to you. Adrenaline spike.”
You blinked sleepily. “They do?”
A soft hum vibrated in his chest. “I’ve noticed.”
By the time you drifted back to sleep, your pulse was calm beneath his fingers. He kept silently counting, and didn’t move away until your heart returned to a steady 60 beats per minute.
3. Migraine
Pain reduced the world to fragments. Light became an enemy you couldn’t reason with. Sound felt sharp, invasive, like it was scraping against the inside of your skull. Even your own thoughts seemed too loud, ricocheting painfully with every pulse behind your eyes. You curled into the couch, blanket pulled over your head, as if darkness alone might stitch you back together.
You didn’t hear Zayne enter the room. You felt him. The shift of air, the weight of his presence settling close without jostling you. The couch dipped, careful, like he was calculating how not to make things worse.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice pitched low, measured. “Talk to me.”
You groaned. “Don’t. Please don’t turn on the lights.”
“I won’t.” No hesitation. No negotiation.
A moment passed. Then another. He was patient, letting the silence sit, letting your breathing even out just a fraction.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?” he asked.
“Behind my eyes,” you murmured. “And everywhere.”
He hummed, understanding, and carefully pulled the blanket from your head as you whined in protest. A faint warmth appeared near your face, and you could see the beam of his small flashlight through your eyelids. Your stomach flipped, anxiety creeping in instinctively.
“Open your eyes for me,” he muttered.
You kept your eyes squeezed shut. “Zayne, no, please, I’m fine —”
“You’re safe.” There was a smile in his voice. “I promise. No hospital. No white coat. Just me.”
Reluctantly, you opened your eyes.
The flashlight was dim, barely more than a glow, angled carefully so it didn’t stab. Zayne watched your pupils closely, gaze sharp but expression relaxed, almost tender.
“Still beautiful,” he said softly.
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you. “That’s not what you’re checking.”
“Multitasking,” he replied, already clicking the light off.
His fingers replaced the light, thumbs pressing gently at your temples. He found the exact points that ached most, adjusting pressure instinctively until you melted into the couch.
“Drink some water,” he said. “Small sips. I’ll make it quieter.”
As he stood, you reached out and caught his sleeve.
“You did that on purpose,” you said.
He paused. “Did what?”
“Made it safe.”
Something soft passed over his face. “Of course I did.”
4. Sore Throat
It started small enough that you pretended it didn’t exist.
A scratch when you swallowed. A faint ache that flared if you talked too long. You drowned it in warm tea and stubbornness, keeping your voice light, joking your way through the discomfort.
Zayne noticed anyway. He always did.
“You sound hoarse,” he said, handing you a mug. “Have you been doing karaoke without me again?”
You shot him a look over the rim. “Don’t make me laugh. That hurts.”
He watched you take a sip and reached out to gently caress your cheek. “Open up.”
Your shoulders tensed immediately, nerves sparking. “What?”
“Say ‘ahh.’”
“No.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him and he held up his hands to show that they were empty. “Relax. I’m unarmed, see? I just want to take a look.”
You hesitated. Every instinct in you flared, warning bells ringing, but he was still just Zayne. You were still in your kitchen. Still holding your favorite mug. No bright lights. No medical instruments.
“Fine,” you muttered.
You opened your mouth, the bright morning light from the kitchen window illuminating your throat. He leaned in, slow and unhurried. Patient. His hand rested lightly at your jaw. Not restraining, just grounding. Steady.
He studied your throat for only a second longer than necessary.
“Okay,” he said gently. “That’s enough.”
You closed your mouth immediately. “Well?”
“Red,” he said casually. “A little inflamed. No severe swelling.”
You squinted. “That was fast.”
“I’m efficient.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, warm and familiar. “Rest your voice today. I’ll make soup.”
Later, when he hugged you from behind, his fingers brushed your neck, lightly, almost absentmindedly. You felt the subtle pause as he pressed gently, discreetly checking your lymph nodes.
You let him.
5. Bruise
You found it accidentally, a fleeting glimpse in the bathroom mirror.
A large dark bloom on your lower back, purple sinking into sickly yellow at the edges. It ached when you pressed it, a deep, dull soreness that lingered under your skin.
You frowned at your reflection. You didn’t remember hitting anything, but that wasn’t unusual for you.
You shrugged it off, the way you always did, and went to get dressed.
Zayne noticed anyway.
You winced as you pulled a sweater over your head, the fabric brushing the tender spot wrong. You let out a quiet whimper, barely audible, but his attention snapped to you like it always did.
“Turn around,” he said calmly.
“It’s fine,” you replied automatically, already busying yourself looking for socks.
He hummed softly. “You say that a lot.”
You exhaled, a quiet surrender, and did as he asked. The room felt suddenly smaller, warmer. He crouched behind you, close enough that you could feel his presence without him touching you yet. His fingers hovered just above your skin, not assuming, not rushing.
“Okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
His touch was careful, but never cold. He lifted your sweater and pressed gently around the bruise, mapping its edges, the pressure light and deliberate.
“Does this hurt?” he asked.
“A little,” you admitted.
“And here?”
“Less.”
He hummed under his breath, thoughtful, as if filing the information away. “Healing well,” he said at last.
You glanced back at him, catching the faint curve of his mouth, the spark of something unmistakably pleased in his eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Being the doctor.”
He didn’t bother denying it. He smiled, slow and unapologetic. “What gave me away?”
Before you could answer, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bruise. It was soft, reverent, lips warm against tender skin, as though he could soothe the ache that way. The sensation sent a quiet shiver through you, easing something that had nothing to do with the injury itself.
“I’ll keep an eye on it,” he murmured.
You lowered your sweater, heart strangely steady. You believed him.
6. Fever
It was his turn.
Zayne never complained. Not about long shifts, not about aching muscles, not about the way exhaustion sometimes hollowed him out. So the moment he groaned a little just trying to stand up from the couch, you noticed immediately. When you pressed your palm to his cheek, his skin was unmistakably warm.
“You’re burning up,” you said.
“I’m fine,” he replied softly.
You raised your eyebrows, amused despite yourself, and laughed. “You’re terrible at that.”
You pushed him back down on the couch and fetched the thermometer from the bathroom medicine cabinet, then sat down beside him and held it up.
“Open wide, Doctor.”
He hesitated, then obeyed slowly, eyes following your movements. There was something almost shy in the way he watched you. As you leaned close, he murmured around the thermometer, voice soft and thoughtful.
“So this is what it’s like.”
You smiled. “Scared?”
“Only of your smugness,” he replied, eyes narrowing just enough to make you laugh.
The thermometer beeped. You pulled it away and checked the reading, already knowing what you’d find.
“Fever,” you announced, far too pleased.
He exhaled quietly and let his head fall back against the couch cushion. “Tragic.”
You guided him to bed, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders, adjusting pillows, brushing his hair back with gentle fingers. He didn’t protest once. Just watched you with that same faintly bewildered expression, as if the familiar roles being reversed was the most curious part of his illness.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly, voice warm.
You leaned down and kissed his temple, lingering there for a moment. “Learned from the best.”
His hand found yours, fingers curling around it with quiet certainty. He squeezed once, thumb brushing your knuckles, and you smiled gently.
“Will you be good for me now and rest?”
He nodded without hesitation.
“I’m in capable hands,” he said, closing his eyes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
And for once, you believed that too.