Zayden's POV
She walked out of the bathroom in one of my hoodies, her hair slightly damp, cheeks glowing from the steam.
And then I saw it.
A small, red-purple mark on her neck.
My heart stopped.
"Elena," I said, voice sharp.
She blinked. "What?"
I rushed over. "Is that… what happened to your neck? Did you hit it? Is it a rash? Allergic reaction? Are you in pain?" I was already reaching for my phone. "Should I call Dr. Shah?"
Elena blinked again. Then smirked.
"No," she said slowly, drawing the hoodie collar down slightly. "This is your fault."
"My—what? Did I—when? How?!"
She raised an eyebrow. "Last night? Ring a bell? You were very… into the moment."
I froze. Then my ears turned red. "That's a… that's a hickey?"
"Mm-hmm." She crossed her arms, clearly enjoying this.
I felt my jaw tighten. "Why does it look so red? That's not normal, is it? What if it's bruised too deep? What if it travels? What if—"
"Travels?" Elena laughed. "Zayden, it's not a venomous bite."
"I could've been more gentle," I muttered, now pacing the room. "What kind of husband bruises his pregnant wife's neck while she's carrying twins?!"
She rolled her eyes and walked up to me, cupping my cheeks. "The kind who panics over me sneezing, installs five baby gates before the babies even arrive, and holds my hand every time I sit down like I'm made of porcelain."
"I'm not sorry," I said seriously. "You are porcelain."
"I'm literally carrying two humans. Porcelain could never."
"But what if I hurt you?" I murmured, kissing her forehead softly.
"You didn't," she whispered. "But I swear, if you call the doctor because of a hickey, I'm taking away your online baby cart."
My eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would."
---
Later that night, as we curled up in bed, I ran my fingers gently over her belly. The babies were quiet, but I imagined them dreaming. Or plotting chaos.
Elena was dozing off, humming softly.
"I still think I should check your neck again," I whispered.
She groaned. "Goodnight, Dr. Drama."
I smiled to myself, already planning a neck massage schedule.
Because overprotective or not—she was mine.
And I wasn't taking any chances.