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The vinyl chair stuck to your legs through your jeans, that peculiar hospital texture that seemed designed to make patients more uncomfortable than they already were. Dr. Williams drummed his fingers against the metal clipboard, each tap echoing off the sterile walls like a countdown timer.
“Do you and Dr. Zayne plan to have children in the future?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs in that familiar, your face turns into confusion, and your stomach felt an impending doom.
“Because we need to talk about pregnancy risks.” Dr. Williams set down the clipboard with a soft thud. “Your Protocore Syndrome creates complications we can't ignore.”
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. You focused on that sound instead of the way your chest tightened.
“The cardiac abnormalities are genetic. Any child would have roughly a seventy percent chance of inheriting the same condition.” His pen clicked once, twice. “Pregnancy itself could trigger fatal arrhythmias. The additional strain on your cardiovascular system...”
He trailed off, but you heard what he wasn't saying. Death during childbirth. Or worse, lingering just long enough to see your child born with the same curse.
“I understand.”
The words came out steadier than you felt. Outside the consultation room, the hospital carried on with its usual symphony of beeping monitors, squeaking wheels, muffled conversations. Life continuing while yours ground to a halt.
You walked the corridors afterward in a strange sort of trance. Your Hunter training had taught you to compartmentalize, to push through pain and fear, but this felt different. This felt like drowning in slow motion.
Becoming a Hunter had given your condition purpose. Each Wanderer you fought, each civilian you saved it all felt like fighting back against the Catastrophe that had marked you. But now that sense of purpose crumbled like ash between your fingers.
The main lobby of Akso Hospital always reminded you of a cathedral. High glass panels caught the late afternoon sun, throwing amber light across marble that gleamed like ice. Voices murmured in that particular hospital way—hushed, respectful. The air tasted of lavender disinfectant and something citrus, maybe the hand soap they kept at every station.
Your heels clicked against the stone as you walked toward the reception desk. The sound echoed despite the carpeted seating areas and soft jazz drifting from speakers you couldn't see. You were squinting at the directory board when someone said your name.
“(Name).”
That voice. You'd know it anywhere.
Zayne stood near the elevator bank in his white coat, hands tucked into his pockets. His hair was perfect as always, not a strand out of place, and those eyes—god, those eyes were already studying you like you were one of his medical charts. The way his mouth pressed into a line told you he'd noticed something you'd hoped to hide.
“Hi.” You managed what you hoped was a normal smile. “I was just heading up—”
“You're twenty minutes early.” He walked over, each step measured and deliberate. “What were the results?”
The question sounded casual enough, but you caught the undertone. This wasn't small talk.
“Um, they didn’t find anything wrong. In fact, the same thing every day.”
His eyebrow lifted just a fraction.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Standing still suddenly felt like work. “If it was that serious, I would have been worried…”
“Don't hide things from me.”
Before you could dodge further, his fingers were on your wrist. Cool. Steady. Professional. The touch still sent heat up your arm, which was inconvenient and familiar and made your pulse jump under his thumb. His frown deepened.
“Your heart rate's elevated. And you look pale.” His thumb moved against your pulse point, counting. Always counting with him. “Have you been eating?”
The question hit wrong. Food had become the enemy lately. Everything smelled too strong or tasted like metal or made your stomach turn over. But you couldn't exactly tell him that. You didn't want to add more to his workload and worries.
“I've been trying—”
“That's not what I asked.”
There was an edge to his voice now, the doctor taking over. You'd seen this before, the way his professional mask slipped when he was worried. It should have been reassuring. Instead, something cold settled in your chest.
The lobby started to feel too warm. Too bright. The jazz music turned tinny in your ears, and the conversations around you blurred into white noise. Your vision went soft at the edges, like someone had smeared vaseline on a camera lens.
“Zayne, I—”
The words came out wrong, distant. The marble floor tilted sideways, and your legs felt like they were made of water. Through the growing haze, you heard him say your name again, sharp with alarm.
Everything went sideways. Then black.
The last thing you held onto was his voice calling your name, the way it always had when you needed an anchor. Even falling, you reached for that sound.
-
Antiseptic and jasmine tea. Those were the first scents that registered as consciousness returned. You were home, tucked into your shared bed, afternoon sunlight filtering through the gauze curtains and painting everything in warm gold.
Zayne sat beside you, one hand resting on yours while the other held his tablet. Even at home, he couldn't completely disconnect from the hospital. But his attention was entirely on you, hazel eyes scanning your face with that clinical intensity you'd learned to recognize as worry disguised as professionalism.
“How do you feel?”
His voice carried that particular cadence: doctor first, husband second, though the lines blurred more each year.
“Like I got hit by a truck.” You shifted against the pillows, testing your body's responses. “What happened?”
“Brief loss of consciousness.” His fingers moved to your wrist, checking your pulse with practiced efficiency. “Though I suspect there's another factor at play.”
Something in his tone made you study his expression more carefully. There was a light in his eyes you hadn't seen in months, carefully contained but unmistakably present.
“The blood work came back while you were out.” He set the tablet aside, giving you his full attention. “You're pregnant.”
The room spun, but not from your heart condition this time. Your hand moved instinctively to your stomach, still flat but apparently harboring a tiny life that shared your cursed genetics.
“You don't look happy.”
Zayne's observation was quiet, neutral, but you caught the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth. He was trying not to let his own feelings show while he gauged your reaction.
You wanted to tell him everything. About Dr. Williams, about the genetic lottery your child would inherit, about the very real possibility that this pregnancy could kill you. But looking at him at the careful hope in his expression, the way his free hand had unconsciously moved toward your abdomen, the words stuck in your throat.
“Just surprised. It's a lot to process.”
He nodded, understanding in that quiet way that made you love him even more. “Rest. We have time to talk through everything.”
But you both knew time was exactly what you might not have.
-
The house settled into its nighttime rhythm around midnight. Floorboards creaked as they cooled, the old heating system cycling on and off with familiar clanks and sighs. Zayne's breathing had evened into the deep, steady pattern of exhausted sleep though you suspected he'd trained himself to wake at the slightest disturbance.
You slipped from bed like a ghost, bare feet silent on the hardwood. In the study, you pulled out a sheet of cream-colored stationery from the desk drawer, the paper embossed with your initials that Zayne had given you for your birthday.
My dearest Zayne,
Your hand trembled, making the letters uneven.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Don't waste time looking for me, not because I don't love you, but because loving you is exactly why I must leave.
I just realized that yesterday that I’m your lifetime burden. I never wanted that on you, especially for your future. This is an epiphany that I should have realized a long time ago.
You became a cardiac surgeon to fix hearts. Don't let mine be the one that breaks you.
I love you too much to become your burden. I’m sorry.
(Name)
You sealed the letter and placed it on his nightstand, then gathered essentials into a small bag. One last look at his sleeping form, his dark hair falling across his forehead, one arm reaching toward your side of the bed even in sleep. He looks handsome, you thought and couldn’t help but to give him a gentle kiss on his head as your final affection and you slipped into the pre-dawn darkness.
Linkon City at the dead hours belonged to delivery drivers and insomniacs. Your feet carried you without conscious direction, muscle memory guiding you toward fragments of shared history scattered across the landscape.
The café where Zayne had first asked you on an official date sat dark behind its security grating. During the day, it buzzed with life and the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans. Now it looked abandoned, ghostly in the blue glow of street lamps.
You pressed your palm against the cool metal grating, remembering how nervous he'd been that day. The great Dr. Zayne, chief of cardiac surgery, reduced to fumbling with his coffee order because you'd teased him about his unusually quiet mood.
“You're overthinking something,” you'd said, stirring sugar into your latte with deliberate slowness.
“I'm always thinking.”
“This is different. This is 'I have something important to say but I'm calculating the optimal approach' thinking.”
His mouth had quirked upward, not quite a smile, but close enough. “Am I that transparent?”
“Only to me.”
Now, staring at your distorted reflection in the darkened glass, you wondered if you'd been equally transparent. Had he seen this moment coming? Had he recognized the borrowed quality of your brightness?
From the café, you went to a familiar place where you'd had your first real fight about his work schedule. Something ridiculous about missing dinner because of emergency surgery. You'd been so young then, naive enough to think love could compete with the demands of his calling.
-
The bench where you'd both sat in stubborn silence still bore the crooked heart you'd carved during a moment of reconciliation. Z + (Your initial) weathered by seasons but still visible in the wood.
“You vandalized public property,” he'd said when he noticed your handiwork.
“I personalized it. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“This way, when we're old and gray, we'll remember this exact spot where we learned that fighting doesn't mean everything ends.”
His hand had found yours then, fingers interlacing. “And what did we learn?”
“That you're stubborn, I'm dramatic, and somehow we work anyway.”
You sank onto the bench and finally let yourself cry. For the future that would never happen. For children who might never exist. For the man whose heart you were breaking to spare him from watching yours stop beating.
Somehow, somewhat you made your way to Akso Hospital. Muscle memory? Instincts? Safehaven? It doesn't matter anymore now. The building rose like a monument to everything Zayne had dedicated his life to healing, hope, second chances. Concepts that felt foreign now, but which represented his entire world.
-
The security guard waved you through without question. The elevator carried you to the cardiac surgery floor, its gentle hum the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness.
Zayne's office door stood slightly ajar. You slipped inside, immediately surrounded by the scent of him, antiseptic mixed with the sandalwood cologne you'd bought him two Christmases ago. His white coat hung on its usual hook, stethoscope coiled in the pocket like a sleeping snake.
But it was the details you'd never noticed that stopped you cold.
The small vault behind his desk stood partially open, revealing treasures that made your breath catch. Lunch notes you'd written were filed chronologically, each one preserved in clear sleeves. Your terrible attempts at poetry from your courtship, bound with blue ribbon. A pressed flower from your wedding bouquet. Photographs from your honeymoon mixed with candid shots friends had taken.
You notice the small gift box, with the note: Dear Zayne, I made this gift by myself. It was your first personal gift on your third anniversary with him, your body shakes from the reminiscence. I thought he threw this away, but…
You've... You've kept these things with great care all along. You picked up the gift, and clutched them onto your chest, I've always thought that you never realized just how much I've loved you. But the truth is...
You stand up and sit on his desk to rest, or so you thought, as you notice that his computer was turned on, so you moved the mouse a little and the monitor flickered to life, and your heart shattered at what you saw.
His desktop wallpaper was a photo from your honeymoon. Both of you on a beach at sunset, your arms around his waist while he attempted to look serious despite the ridiculous sun hat you'd plopped on his head. His smile in that picture was unguarded, genuine, the expression of a man completely in love.
The one who never truly realized... was me.
“I miss you so much.” The words came out broken, barely above a whisper. “I'm so scared, Zayne. I don’t want to make things harder for you. Without me...will you be happy? I can't live without you. Zayne... I can't live without you...”
Sobs wracked your body. Here, surrounded by evidence of his quiet, steadfast love, the magnitude of what you were doing crashed over you like a tsunami.
“I can't be a burden to you.”
“You could never be a burden to me.”
Zayne's voice was quiet, carefully controlled, but you heard the tremor underneath. You turned to find him standing in the doorway, still in yesterday's clothes, his usually perfect hair disheveled and his eyes red-rimmed.
“I searched everywhere.” He stepped into the room but kept his distance, as if afraid sudden movement might spook you into running again. “The apartment, the hospital, every place we've ever been together. Should have known you'd end up here.”
“What are you doing here? I was going to... stay here for a while and then...”
“I found your letter.” He pulled the cream-colored stationery from his coat pocket, the paper slightly crumpled from his grip. “Do you really think so little of me? Of us?”
The question hung between you. You wanted to explain about Dr. Williams, about genetic curses and impossible choices. Instead, what escaped was raw honesty:
“I don't know what to do. I'm terrified of living without you.”
Something cracked in his expression. In three swift steps he crossed the room and pulled you into his arms, his embrace fierce and desperate.
“Then don't.” His voice was muffled against your hair. “Don't live without me. Don't you dare leave me. Don't make that choice for both of us.”
“You should be with someone who's much better than me.”
“Where am I supposed to find another person who's a perfect match for me other than you? Someone who gives me the best embrace like you do. Someone who would accept all my faults like you do.”
“But... But our children will... They might inherit the illness from me. They will inherit genes from me as well.”
“Will be loved unconditionally, whatever they face.” His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears. “You think I became a cardiac surgeon by accident? I've spent my career fighting conditions others consider hopeless. Do you really think I'd love our child less because they inherited your strength along with your struggles?”
“Dr. Williams said I might not survive pregnancy. That the stress could cause fatal arrhythmias.”
Zayne's jaw tightened, but his touch remained gentle. “Then we'll monitor you constantly. Assemble the best team of specialists. Fight for you, for our family, with everything I know.”
“And if we lose?”
His forehead pressed against yours. For a moment, the composed Dr. Zayne looked as lost as you felt.
“Then we'll have loved each other completely while we had the chance. But we won't give up without fighting.” His voice strengthened, carrying the authority that commanded operating rooms. “I believe any life has its own path, its own adventure. Including yours. Including our child's.”
You searched his eyes for doubt, for fear. Instead, you found determination and love so fierce it stole your breath.
“You're not going anywhere.” His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more weight than shouting. “We're going to grow old together, watch our children grow up. However many we have, whatever they face. Because that's what love means. Facing the unknown together.”
The tears came harder, but they felt different now. Less like grief, more like release.
“I'm so scared.”
“I know.” He pulled you closer until you could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady, strong, alive. “But you won't be alone. You will never be alone.”
In the growing light filtering through his office windows, surrounded by evidence of his quiet love, you finally understood what fear had hidden from you. Love wasn't about being perfect or protecting each other from life's cruelties.
It was about choosing to face those cruelties together, heart to heart, until the very end.
“I really want to have your children,” you whispered against his chest. “So many of them, so our love can continue through them.”
His arms tightened around you. You felt him press a kiss to the top of your head.
“Then that's what we'll do. Fill our house with chaos and laughter and love. When dark moments come and they will, we'll face them as a family.”
Outside, delivery trucks rumbling down empty streets, early commuters emerging from subway stations, the familiar pulse of Linkon City stirring to life. But inside this sterile office that smelled of antiseptic and old coffee, time seemed suspended in amber.
Zayne's arms tightened around you, his heartbeat steady against your ear. The sound grounded you in a way nothing else could, this rhythm that had become as essential to your existence as breathing. His white coat was wrinkled from the long night of searching, his usually perfect hair mussed, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Yet he held you as if you were made of spun glass, precious and fragile.
"We should go home," he murmured against your temple, his breath warm.
You nodded against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of sandalwood beneath the clinical smell of hospital soap. Your legs felt unsteady as he helped you stand, his surgeon's hands gentle but firm on your arms. The small bag you'd packed sat forgotten by the door, evidence of your flight that now seemed like a fever dream.
As you moved toward the office exit, your gaze caught on the partially open vault one last time. All those carefully preserved pieces of your shared history: lunch notes, terrible poetry, photographs of happier moments. The testament to a love you'd almost abandoned out of misguided protection.
"Zayne," you whispered, stopping just before the doorway.
He turned, eyebrows raised in question, and you saw yourself reflected in his hazel eyes. Disheveled, tear-stained, carrying his child and your genetic curse in equal measure. Yet his expression held no reservation, no doubt. Only patient, unwavering devotion.
"I'm still scared," you admitted, the words scraping raw from your throat.
His hand found yours, fingers interlacing with practiced ease. "Good," he said simply. "Fear means you understand what's at stake. It means you'll fight."
The elevator doors slid shut behind you with a soft chime, carrying you down through the layers of the hospital where he saved lives daily. Where he would continue to save lives, even as he fought to save yours. The building hummed with quiet activity, nurses and doctors padding through corridors with a small acknowledgement and surprises from them that the couple should not be disturbed, monitors beeping their electronic lullabies, the constant thrum of a place where life and death danced their eternal waltz.
Your reflection in the polished elevator doors showed two people who had chosen the harder path. Not the safe one, not the one that promised happy endings tied with neat bows. The path that demanded everything and guaranteed nothing except the opportunity to face whatever came next together.
The lobby tiles clicked under your feet as you walked toward the exit, toward morning light that painted the windows gold. Toward a future that stretched ahead like an uncharted ocean, beautiful and terrifying and utterly uncertain.
Your heart stuttered once in your chest, that familiar reminder of its damaged rhythm. But this time, instead of panic, you felt something else entirely.
Acceptance, perhaps. Or maybe just the quiet recognition that some battles were worth fighting, even when victory wasn't assured.
The outside continued its morning ritual of awakening, indifferent to the small drama that had played out in a cardiac surgeon's office. But for you and Zayne, everything had changed. Again. The way it would keep changing, each day bringing new challenges, new fears, new reasons to choose love over safety.
His hand squeezed yours as you stepped into the morning air, and you squeezed back. Just two people walking forward into whatever time they had left, carrying love and fear and hope in equal measure, knowing that tomorrow was never promised but today was still theirs to claim.