The sunlight wakes her before anything else does.
It's warm — too warm — slipping across her face like someone brushing their fingers through her hair. Golden in a way that feels familiar and wrong at the same time, like déjà vu painted onto the walls.
Raylene blinks slowly, stretching beneath the blankets. Her hand drifts down in instinct, finding the soft curve of her bump. It's small, but it's there — a quiet certainty pushing back against her palm.
Beside her, Zenith is already awake.
Of course he is.
He sits upright against the headboard, hair tousled, a pillow tucked behind him, and his phone held in one hand. His expression is fully concentrated, brows drawn as if he's reading state secrets instead of whatever he insists is "just information."
Raylene squints."Please don't say you're reading labor procedure manuals again."
Without looking up, he says, "I'm not."
He scrolls.He scrolls fast.
"Uh-huh. Then what are you reading?"
"…Optimizing sleep posture during the second trimester."
Raylene stares at him.
"How long have you been awake?"
A beat.Then another.
Zenith finally glances at her, guilt and stubborn pride wrestling in his eyes.
"Long enough to note you turned over three times."
"Zenith."
"I'm merely collecting data."
Raylene grabs the nearest pillow and throws it directly at him.
He catches it on reflex — then freezes like she just handed him something priceless. Slowly, carefully, he keeps the pillow pressed to his chest, holding it like it means something.
"You threw this at me," he says softly, almost reverently.
Raylene groans into her hands."If that makes you feel loved—"
"It does."
Her laugh escapes before she can stop it.
She sits up, stretching again, another small shift that makes her bump brush against the fabric of her nightgown. Zenith notices instantly — of course he does — and his gaze softens for a flash.
Then he goes composed again, too fast.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, tone suddenly formal, like she's a patient and he's her full-time physician slash bodyguard slash husband who's terrible at pretending he isn't worried every second.
"A little," she admits.
"What would you like?"
She pauses.
Because the craving that comes to mind is…well…
"I want… toasted bread with peanut butter… and pickles."
Zenith doesn't even blink.
"Thick or thin pickles?"
"Thick."
"Understood."
He moves instantly, sliding out of bed with that quiet, determined stride — as if preparing for a gourmet mission instead of making her The Weirdest Breakfast Ever Invented By Hormones.
But he only gets two steps.
Raylene's fingers close around the sleeve of his shirt.
Zenith stops immediately.
Not abruptly —he halts with that precise, controlled stillness he always has, like he freezes the moment on command.
He turns his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at her.Eyes steady.Soft.Waiting for instructions he doesn't know he's waiting for.
Raylene tilts her head, meeting his gaze.
"No good morning kiss?" she asks softly.
Zenith blinks.
Once.Slowly.Like she just reminded him of something vital he forgot to account for.
Then he steps back toward her, careful, deliberate, and rests one hand on the mattress beside her hip to steady himself.
His other hand comes up to her cheek — thumb brushing her skin with impossible gentleness — and he leans down.
The kiss is soft.Warm.Unhurried.
He pulls back a fraction, searching her eyes as if confirming she's alright, as if making sure this moment is real, as if anchoring himself to her presence.
"Good morning," he murmurs.
Raylene smiles, thumb brushing his jaw.
"Better."
He hesitates—just for a fraction—before added quietly, like a confession:
"So am I."
Only then does he get up to make her ridiculous breakfast, a little more flustered than before, ears faintly pink as he heads to the kitchen.
---
Zenith enters the kitchen like a man stepping into a battlefield he has already mapped.
The overhead light hums.The counter is spotless.His expression shifts into full seriousness.
Objective:Toast with peanut butter and thick pickles.
He repeats it in his mind with the weight of a sacred directive.
First: the bread.He inspects the slices one by one, holding each up to the light to check structural integrity.
"Too soft," he murmurs at one."Uneven grain density," at another.
He finally selects two slices that meet his internal criteria.
Into the toaster they go.
He sets the dial with absolute precision—not too high, not too low—the exact shade of golden Raylene prefers(based on prior observational data).
While it toasts, he prepares the peanut butter.
He studies the jar.He reads the nutritional information.He measures out a spoonful on a digital scale.
23 grams.
He nods.Acceptable.
He spreads it with deliberate strokes, ensuring perfect coverage.
Then: the pickles.
He lines them up like soldiers.Pulls out a ruler.Yes—a ruler.
He measures thickness down to the millimeter.Cuts each slice with careful precision, aligning them into symmetrical arcs on a plate.
Just as he's reassessing the ratio between peanut butter and pickle distribution—
Raylene appears in the doorway.
She blinks at the scene.
"Zenith… are you measuring the pickles?"
He doesn't look up."Of course. You requested thick slices."
"That does not require geometry," she chokes out, laughing.
He pauses.Glances at the ruler.Then at her.
"I disagree."
She walks in, covering her mouth, shoulders shaking with quiet amusement.
"And the peanut butter? Did you… weigh it?"
"…Naturally."
"Why?"
"To ensure consistency."
"Zenith," she snorts, "it's toast, not a bomb."
He tilts his head, thoughtful."Both can be hazardous if improperly prepared."
She laughs so hard she has to lean on the counter.
He watches her, confused but softening—her happiness is the only feedback he needs.
Once she calms, she steps toward him—warm, glowing, smiling in that way that makes the world feel less strange.
She rises onto her toes and kisses his cheek.
A small, quick press of affection.
But Zenith still freezes like she's just rewritten the laws of his universe.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
His voice goes low, almost shy.
"…You're welcome."
She peeks at the toast.
"Are you going to let me eat it, or are you still conducting tests?"
He immediately hands her the plate.
"Mission completed."
She grins.And he looks… proud.Ridiculously proud.
Like he's just saved the world.
---
The air outside is cool, brushed with early sunlight.The sky is soft.Too soft — washed in that same gentle gold that seems to follow them from the apartment like a loyal dog.
Raylene doesn't think about it.
Zenith does, but only in the sense that he notes it the way he notes everything:quietly, internally, privately.
They walk slowly down the path near their building.Raylene's hand rests on the curve of her stomach.Zenith's hand rests… just beneath hers.
Not holding it.Just… supporting.As if her body is something he's memorizing and guarding with equal devotion.
Every few steps, he checks the ground.Checks the surroundings.Checks her breathing.Checks her posture.
She finally laughs."Zenith… it's a sidewalk, not a battlefield."
His eyes flick to her.Cool, steady, completely unamused.
"I'm aware."
"Then stop scanning the perimeter."
"I'm not scanning the perimeter."
She raises a brow.
He corrects himself."…I'm observing environmental variables."
Raylene snorts.She nudges his shoulder lightly."That's the same thing."
Zenith looks away, jaw tight, ears faintly pink.
But then—the baby moves.
A single, soft push from the inside.
Raylene stops mid-step, breath catching.Her hand presses gently to her stomach.
Zenith stills beside her."Raylene?"
She smiles, small and warm."He's awake."
Zenith lowers his head slightly, hand shifting over hers, palm against the small bump.
The baby kicks again—precisely where his hand is.
Zenith inhales sharply, eyes widening just a fraction.It's subtle, but Raylene sees it.
The awe.The disbelief.The soft, shattering tenderness.
He leans down more, voice dropping.
"…Hello," he murmurs to her stomach.
And the baby kicks again.Right on cue.
Like he's answering.
Raylene blinks."…That was… timed."
Zenith freezes, frowns faintly."That's statistically unlikely."
"Yeah, no kidding."
But she laughs — bubbling, bright, warm.
And as she laughs…
the golden light flickers.
Just a tiny shift across the sidewalk.A ripple of brightness.Like the world blinked with her.
Raylene's laughter falters.A strange familiarity washes over her, like falling into a memory she never formed.
Zenith catches it instantly.
"You're thinking something," he says softly.
"I'm not," she lies.
Their shadows stretch a little too long behind them.A heartbeat late.
Zenith glances at the ground, brows narrowing —but then Raylene squeezes his hand and he dismisses it.
Or forces himself to.
They keep walking.
They reach a bench beneath a small tree.Raylene exhales, sitting carefully, and Zenith sits beside her, close but not crowding — just enough that their arms brush.
She leans into him.
His arm comes around her immediately, naturally.Instinct.
She rests her head on his shoulder.He rests his hand on her stomach.
The baby shifts again, gentle.
Zenith's breath catches — soft, quiet, almost reverent.
Raylene tilts her head up, teasing:
"You're getting emotional."
"I am not."
"You are. You're doing the face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're pretending not to feel things."
Zenith stiffens."I have no such expression."
Raylene smirks."Sure, Zen."
He looks away.He absolutely does have the expression.
A breeze passes.
The shadows around them waver again, not with the wind—but a second after the wind.
Raylene watches it silently.
A prickling sensation crawls up her spine.Not fear.Recognition.
Déjà vu.A memory she can't access.
Zenith notices her breathing change.
He lowers his head, voice gentle.
"Raylene?"
"…I just…" She hesitates."It feels like we've done this before."
His fingers curl slightly against her side.Concern.Calm.Restraint.
"Do you remember when?"
"No."She laughs softly."It just feels like… something is repeating."
Zenith's eyes drift briefly to the horizon.
He doesn't say anything.
Doesn't admit that he's been feeling something similar.
Doesn't mention the flickering light, the delayed shadows, the strange way the baby reacts to him like it already knows him.
He just presses a kiss to her temple.
"I'll handle everything," he murmurs.
Raylene exhales into his chest."I know."
A beat passes.
Then—
The baby kicks.
Not random.
Not soft.
Purposeful.
Raylene's eyes widen."Did you feel that?"
Zenith nods slowly."…Yes."
"…What do you think it means?"
Zenith looks at her.At her belly.Then at the strange, too-bright sky.
Quietly—honestly—soft enough to be frightening:
"…I don't know."
The golden light settles over them again.
---
Like the world is listening.
Like it's waiting.
---