Raylene wakes slowly, the golden light of the bedroom pooling warm across her legs.Her bump rises gently beneath her hand — small, round, undeniable now.
She stretches, slips out of the blankets, and pads toward the bathroom.
Behind her, the mattress shifts.
Of course.
Zenith is awake.
He follows her without being asked, steps quiet and controlled, stopping right outside the bathroom door like he's standing guard.
Raylene lifts her toothbrush and calls over the running water:
"Zenith, I'm brushing my teeth. You can go do something else."
There's a soft, deliberate pause — the kind where he's deciding how honest to be.
"…I'm recording your morning stability pattern."
She chokes on a laugh."My what?"
Zenith answers as if it's the most normal concept in the world:
"You stood up slower today. Adjustment noted."
She can hear the typing.Fast. Efficient. Like he's documenting classified intel.
Raylene closes her eyes, toothbrush hanging from her mouth.
"Zenith."
"Mm?"Casual. Innocent.Typing continues.
"You don't have to monitor every movement I make."
He actually considers this, she can tell — every one of his thoughts lining up in precise order.
And then, calmly, like he's explaining gravity:
"You're pregnant."
Raylene spits, rinses, leans on the counter.
"I am aware."
A beat.
"…Are you?" Zenith asks, genuinely concerned.
She opens the door just enough to look at him.
He's standing there with his phone held at chest level, thumb hovering over the screen like he's ready to update her status the moment she blinks.
His hair is mussed. His shirt is wrinkled.He looks soft.Ridiculous.Perfect.
She sighs, smiling despite herself.
"I'm fine. You can stop taking notes for a minute."
Zenith tilts his head.
"One minute."
"Zenith—"
"Thirty seconds."
Raylene stares.
He stares back, unblinking.
Then, with complete sincerity:
"I will compromise at fifteen."
She closes the door again.Through it, she hears him finally lowering the phone.
…For exactly fifteen seconds.
And then:
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
She laughs into her hands.
---
Raylene settles into her chair at the small kitchen table, the warm scent of toasted bread and peanut butter drifting between them. Zenith places the plate in front of her with the solemnity of someone delivering a sacred offering.
She smiles, picks up the toast, and takes her first bite.
She barely gets halfway through chewing before she realizes he's watching her.
Not romantically.Not creepily.
Scientifically.
Zenith sits across from her, elbows on the table, phone in hand, gaze sharpened with quiet intensity. His thumb hovers like a trigger.
Raylene swallows carefully.
"…What are you doing?"
He doesn't look away.
"Measuring."
"Measuring what?"
"Your chewing duration."
Raylene drops her toast a little."You're timing how long I chew?"
Zenith taps his phone.
"Eight-point-two seconds. Slightly faster than yesterday."
She stares at him.
He continues typing.
"And your pause before swallowing increased by two beats."
Raylene's jaw slowly drops open.
Zenith lifts his eyes to her, studying her expression like it's another metric.
"Is something wrong?"
"Zenith," she says slowly, "you're allowed to just… sit with me. You know that, right?"
He blinks once.
"I am sitting with you."
"No, you're… observing me."
"I'm simply also gathering data."
"About my toast?"
He nods.
"The pattern is consistent."
Raylene puts her face in her hands and wheezes into her palms.
Zenith watches her shoulders tremble with muffled laughter, then quietly adds:
"For the record, I'm pleased your appetite is stable."
She looks up.
"Oh my god. You have an appetite chart?"
Zenith doesn't answer.
Which means: yes.
Raylene sighs, amused and helpless, and brings another piece of toast to her mouth.
Zenith's eyes sharpen, thumb ready.
"Don't," she warns, pointing at him.
Zenith freezes.
Phone halfway raised.
He lowers it a millimeter.
Raylene narrows her eyes.
He lowers it another millimeter.
Raylene keeps staring.
He sighs through his nose, sets the phone down on the table, screen face-down, like it physically pains him.
Raylene beams.
"Thank you."
Zenith folds his hands together, trying so hard to be normal, and says in a voice so earnest it nearly breaks her:
"I can record it later."
"ZENITH."
He flinches.
"Fine," he mutters, and pushes the phone further away like it's dangerous contraband.
Raylene reaches across the table, brushing her fingers over his.
He goes still — but softens.
"You're ridiculous," she whispers.
Zenith looks down at their hands, then back at her.
"…And you're worth the data."
Raylene snorts so hard she nearly cries.
And the golden kitchen light warms around them, like the world is laughing too.
---
The couch is Raylene's favorite spot in the apartment — soft, sunlit, perfectly shaped to cradle her back. She sinks into it with a sigh, lifting her legs up and adjusting her position until she finds the sweet spot.
Zenith sits nearby, laptop open, typing something with surgical precision.Probably charts.Or… whatever impossible system he's built around her daily life.
Raylene shifts, tucking a pillow under her hip.
A tiny motion.
Barely anything.
And yet—
Zenith's head snaps up instantly.
"Discomfort?"
Raylene blinks at him.
"I was stretching…"
Zenith stares for a beat, then nods once.
"Noted."
He doesn't even break eye contact as he reaches for his phone and types with lightning speed.
Raylene leans a bit, trying to peek at the screen.
He angles it away with unnatural smoothness.
She groans.
"Zenith. What did you write?"
He keeps typing.
"Nothing significant."
"Zenith."
He hesitates.Then, with perfect sincerity:
"'10:42 AM — Raylene stretched. Possibly discomfort.'"
Raylene drops her face into her hands.
"Oh my GOD—"
Zenith looks so confused, like he genuinely cannot comprehend what part of this isn't normal husband behavior.
He tilts his head, studying her dramatic collapse.
"…Did I misinterpret your body language?"
Raylene looks up at him, laughing helplessly.
"Yes! I was just moving! Humans move!"
Zenith considers this new data point with a solemn nod."Correction: Ambiguous movement. Possibly neutral."
She's cackling now.
He watches her, bewildered but softening, because her laughter always affects him in ways he never expects.
He hesitates, then asks, gentle:
"…Are you sure you're not uncomfortable?"
Raylene tosses a pillow at him.
This time, he lets it hit him.
Directly.
Square in the chest.
And instead of catching it, he just goes still — like the pillow has delivered divine judgment.
She wheezes.He blinks.And then quietly notes:
"Impact: harmless."
Raylene screams into the couch cushion.
Zenith, concerned:
"Should I record that reaction too?"
"NO."
He decides not to.
But she hears the thought form in his mind anyway.
---
Raylene gathers the folded laundry in her arms, holding it against her bump. It's not heavy, not really — but she still feels Zenith's voice in her head reminding her not to strain, not to twist, not to do anything alone.
It makes her roll her eyes and smile at the same time.
She steps into the hallway.
And there it is.
The door.
His door.
It's closed — of course it is.It's always closed.
Not locked.Just… sealed in that soft, careful way Zenith does everything.
She pauses in front of it.
For a long moment, she just stands there, laundry in her arms, staring. The house is quiet.
And then—
Tap-tap-tap.
Keyboard keys.Quick ones. Precise ones.
She stiffens slightly.
Then silence.
Followed by the rustle of paper.A soft shuffle.Another quiet pause, like someone stopping to listen.
Raylene's breath catches strangely in her chest.
She's never been in there.
Not once.
Zenith never forbade her.But his body always shifts a little—just a fraction—whenever she reaches for the doorknob.
Enough for her to respect the boundary.
Still… curiosity curls around her like a warm thread.
What exactly does he keep in there?Charts? Notes?Observations?Memories?
Himself?
She steps closer, lifting a hand—
The door opens.
Quietly.Gently.
Zenith stands there, framed by the golden hallway light, hair falling over his forehead, expression calm but eyes sharply attentive.
He takes in the laundry basket immediately.
"You shouldn't carry that alone."
Raylene shifts her grip, a little embarrassed."I'm fine."
He doesn't argue.Instead, he reaches forward and takes the basket from her hands with impossible gentleness, as if it's full of glass, then steps back out of the threshold.
He doesn't invite her in.
He doesn't close the door either.
He just stands between her and the room, blocking the view without making it obvious.
Raylene looks past him anyway —just a glimpse.
A desk.Stacks of papers.A glowing monitor.Whiteboards with carefully written diagrams.Her name on one of them.
Her breath catches.
Zenith follows her gaze and shifts immediately, stepping half a foot to the side — a subtle move, but enough to block the angle.
Raylene looks up at him.
"What are you doing in there?"
He holds her laundry basket like it's armor.
"…Working."
Raylene waits.
She expects more.A detail.A joke.A hint.
Zenith remains perfectly still.
"On what?" she asks gently.
He hesitates.
Then chooses the simplest possible answer:
"Us."
Her heart stutters—because she doesn't know what that meansand he says it like it's obvious.
Zenith then turns, closing the door—
too gently.
The kind of gentle that hides something.
The kind of gentle that protects.
He faces her again.
"Where would you like these?" he asks, lifting the laundry basket as if nothing strange happened.
Raylene clears her throat.
"…Bedroom."
He nods, already moving.
She watches him go—
And for the first time,the hallway feels a little too quiet.
She looks at the closed door again.
Not locked.Just waiting.
---
She accepts his answer.
But the readers won't.
---
Raylene wakes with that strange, drifting awareness — the kind that feels like she's rising out of warm water.Her eyes open slowly.
The room glows faintly gold, the curtain swaying with a breeze that doesn't exist.
Zenith is not asleep.
He's perched on his knees beside her, leaning over her with surgical precision — not touching, not even breathing too loudly — phone held inches from his mouth.
His whisper is clinically soft:
"Breathing steady… no signs of stress… slight twitch in left hand… possible dream activity."
Raylene stares at him.
He keeps whispering.
"Temperature holding… 36.6… sleep position neutral. No risk factors—"
"…Zenith?"
He freezes.
Absolutely motionless.Like a wild animal caught doing something it believes is strictly forbidden.
He turns his head toward her with painfully slow caution.
"...hydration monitoring," he says.
Raylene squints at him in the dim light."…At three in the morning?"
Zenith lowers the phone a centimeter, visibly considering whether he should lie or simply die.
"It's when you're most honest," he says finally.
Raylene blinks."Most honest?"
"You reveal patterns in unconscious states."
"…Zenith, am I supposed to lie about drinking water?"
He looks offended."People frequently do."
Raylene rubs the bridge of her nose.He watches her do it — then immediately types:
"02:57 AM — Raylene rubbed nasal area; possible sinus dryness."
"STOP TAKING NOTES ON MY FACE."
His thumbs halt mid-air like she just issued a life-or-death command.
"…Understood."
She sighs, sinking back into her pillow.
He watches her for a second longer — hesitant — then lies down very, very carefully beside her, as if proximity is something that must be earned.
Raylene nudges his shoulder gently.
"Just sleep. Please."
Zenith nods once, eyes still on her.
A few seconds pass.
He whispers into the phone again:
"…emotional request acknowledged."
"ZENITH."
He snaps the phone off instantly and hides it under his pillow like a child hiding candy.
The golden light settles.
Raylene falls asleep.
Zenith doesn't.
Not really.
But he pretends for her.
---
The apartment is still wrapped in early morning quiet when Raylene slips out of the bedroom.
She didn't mean to wake — something just pulled her out of sleep. A shift. A missing warmth. The empty space beside her where Zenith should've been.
She presses a hand over her small bump as she walks, steadying herself on instinct. Her bare feet make soft sounds against the wooden floor. The kind of hush that only deep morning can hold.
The glow of the living room reaches her first.
Not sunlight.Something cooler.The light of a laptop screen left open on the couch.
Zenith's laptop.
She sees the faint steam drifting from the kettle on the counter, hears the tiny settling noises of it cooling. He must have stepped away for tea.
And without even thinking, she sits down on the couch to wait for him.
A quiet breath. A sleepy blink.
The laptop is open just slightly — angled toward the center cushion, as if it had been resting near him while he worked.
Raylene doesn't intend to look.
She really doesn't.
But her gaze slides anyway… accidentally… inevitably.
The screen is full of spreadsheets. Rows and columns. Color-coded tabs. Scrolling graphs.
Her heartbeat stutters once.
Week 18: behavioral shiftsWeek 19: sleep pattern deviationsWeek 20: emotional fluctuation chartWeek 21: craving intensity indexWeek 22: "possible metaphysical interference?"
She stares.
Then squints.
"…Metaphysical what—?"
A sound.
Zenith steps back into the room, holding a mug with both hands — like someone carrying something fragile. The moment he sees her on the couch, sees where she's looking, he stops in his tracks.
His expression doesn't change.
He doesn't panic.
He doesn't rush.
He simply… freezes. Too still. Too controlled.A single blink betrays him.
Then he moves again — calm, precise, practiced. He approaches, sets the mug down on the coffee table, and closes the laptop gently. Almost tenderly.
"Breakfast?" he asks, voice light. Too light.
Raylene looks up at him slowly, the warmth of sleep fading from her eyes."…Sure."
He nods. Relief flickers across his face like a shadow passing through sunlight. He picks up the mug again, as though nothing unusual is happening.
Raylene watches him turn toward the kitchen.
And for a moment, she considers saying something else. Asking something.But the question melts on her tongue before it can form.
She lets it go.
---
They sit together on the couch, legs touching, sharing the plate of fruit he made with almost ceremonial care.Raylene takes a bite, hums approvingly — mostly to make him relax.
Zenith sits straight beside her, one hand holding his mug, the other resting lightly on her knee. Always grounding her. Always aware.
The morning is soft.Golden.Too golden.
Raylene leans into him, her head touching his shoulder.
"You know," she says, teasing lightly, "at this rate, you're going to have entire books written about me."
Zenith goes very still.
Not tense.Not startled.Just… still, as though calculating how much truth to allow into the air between them.
Finally, quietly — so quiet she almost misses it — he answers:
"I already do."
Raylene's breath catches.
Not from fear.Never from fear.
But from the weight of honesty in his voice.From the knowledge that he means exactly what he says.From the sudden, vivid image of him sitting alone at that desk, night after night, typing her name into lines she'll never read.
She sets the toast down slowly.
"Zenith," she murmurs.
He looks at her then — really looks — with that soft, unwavering reverence that sometimes feels bigger than the world they live in.
He adds nothing.He doesn't need to.
She slides her hand into his, fingers curling around his knuckles, anchoring him back into the moment — into her.
The baby shifts faintly beneath her skin.Like an answer.Like an echo.
And the golden light in the room hums, soft and alive.