Raylene doesn't wake so much as surface, breath shallow, body curled instinctively around the ache pulsing across her lower stomach.
It's sharper today.Not the soft thump of a kick, not a gentle shift.This is—
She exhales through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut.
The golden light through the curtains feels too warm, almost heavy, like it's pressing on her skin instead of illuminating it.
She hears soft movement outside the bedroom — Zenith in the kitchen, maybe, or rearranging something in that precise, quiet way he does when he's letting her sleep.
She tries to roll onto her back.
The pain spikes like electricity.
Raylene gasps.
Instantly—Footsteps.
Fast.
The door opens without hesitation, but not abruptly. Zenith enters like he's afraid to disturb the air itself.
"Raylene?"
His voice is low, steady — but she can hear the calculation underneath.
She forces a breath."It… hurts."
That's all she gets out.
Zenith crosses the room in two controlled steps and kneels beside the bed, hands hovering instead of touching. He never touches without permission.
His eyes move quickly over her face — reading micro-expressions, muscle tension, the dilation of her eyes, her breathing rate.She can feel him analyzing her.
"Location?" he asks softly.
She guides his hand to the spot beneath her ribcage.As soon as his palm makes contact, he freezes — not out of fear, but pure intense focus.
The baby shifts beneath his hand. A strong movement.
Raylene winces.
Zenith's jaw tightens.
"I'm going to elevate your hips," he murmurs. "It may reduce the pressure. Tell me if it worsens."
He slips a pillow beneath her with impossible gentleness, his movements smoother than any nurse, any doctor.The pillow lifts her slightly — enough for the pain to ease by a fraction.
Raylene exhales shakily."…Thank you."
Zenith stays kneeling. Still. Watching her.Not in fear — but in pure, razor-sharp attentiveness.
"How long?" he asks.
"Since I woke up."
He nods once. A precise, clipped motion.
She recognizes the look on his face — the one he gets when he's running simulations in his mind, eliminating possibilities one by one.
"Your pain threshold is high," he says quietly. "For you to describe it as hurting… concerns me."
Raylene gives a weak smile."Everything concerns you."
He doesn't deny it.
Instead he shifts closer to the bed, bracing one hand beside her hip, the other still over the ache, warm and grounding.
"Raylene," he murmurs, voice softer now, "I need you to keep talking to me. Your breathing is inconsistent."
She nods, inhaling slowly, leaning into his presence.
The pain pulses again — but he is there.A steady anchor.
He presses his forehead briefly to her shoulder, a rare gesture, a silent grounding.
"I'm here," he breathes.
She swallows, eyes stinging."I know."
The baby moves again — stronger this time.
Zenith's eyes sharpen.
"…That was deliberate."
Raylene tenses."What does that mean?"
He doesn't answer immediately.His thumb draws a soothing line across her skin, more instinct than logic.
"I don't know," he finally admits — quietly, honestly.
And that scares her more than the pain.
The pain rises again — a low, twisting surge that forces Raylene's eyes shut.
Zenith reacts immediately.
Not with panic.Not with raised voice.
Just action.
He stands, moves across the room with sharp purpose, and returns with a warm compress wrapped in a towel.
"Heat may relax the muscle tension," he murmurs.
He presses it gently to her side, watching her every breath, every micro-flinch.His hand lingers, warm, grounding.
Raylene inhales shakily.
"It's… better," she whispers.
"Rate the pain."It's soft, but it's a command.
"Six."She winces."Seven. Maybe eight."
Zenith's jaw tightens — the only sign of fear he allows himself.
He shifts behind her, adjusting the pillows, lifting her just enough to relieve pressure without jostling her.
"Slow breaths," he says, settling one hand on her back. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
She tries.
Her breath breaks halfway.
Raylene huffs a weak laugh, almost a sob."Wow. I'm terrible at this."
Zenith shakes his head."You're in pain. Not performing breathing exercises."
"I'd like to perform a little less dramatically," she mutters.
He doesn't respond with amusement — but his touch softens, thumb sweeping a slow, steady line across her spine.
He rises again.
"Water."Another quiet command.
She watches him cross the room — shoulders tense, movements too efficient.He returns with a glass, holds it to her lips.She drinks in small sips.
"Good," he says, as if she's completing a medical test."Hydration will help regulate uterine—"
"Zenith," she breathes, pained, "not… right now."
He stops immediately."Understood."
Another burst of pain hits. Worse than before.
Raylene squeezes her eyes shut and curls inward instinctively.
Zenith's hands are on her instantly — one bracing her back so she doesn't fold too sharply, the other steadying the warm compress against her belly.
He's silent now.Totally silent.Not a word.Not a breath out of place.
The baby shifts again.
Not a kick.Not a flutter.
A movement so precise it feels like a response.
Raylene's eyes open.
"…Zenith?"
He feels it too — she sees it in the way his gaze narrows, the way his fingers subtly tighten on the compress.
"That was not random," he says, voice low.Measured.Controlled.
Raylene swallows."It hurts when he does that."
Zenith closes his eyes for a moment — just a moment — gathering himself before he speaks.
"Your comfort takes priority."He presses his forehead to her shoulder, grounding himself as much as grounding her."I need you to keep breathing. Focus on my voice."
Raylene's voice trembles."I'm trying."
"I know."His hand covers hers on her stomach."I know."
Another movement.Sharp.Purposeful.
Raylene sucks in a breath — half pain, half fear.
Zenith opens his eyes again, gaze steady.
"…Our child is communicating."
Raylene stiffens."Zenith—"
"Not consciously," he adds softly. "But intentionally."
She shivers.The ache pulses again.
Zenith shifts closer, almost wrapping himself around her, arms steady, voice low against her ear.
"You are safe," he murmurs."Breathe with me."
Raylene closes her eyes, tears stinging, not from fear — but from the gentleness she's barely holding herself together under.
She breathes.
He breathes with her.
The pain remains — but it becomes something she can survive.
Because he's there.
It takes several long, trembling minutes before the pain begins to ebb.
Not all at once.Not cleanly.Just slowly — like a storm pulling away from the coastline, reluctant to leave.
Raylene's breathing steadies.Her fingers unclench from the sheets.Her shoulders sink back into the pillows.
Zenith feels every shift — his hand still braced at her back, his other resting over the place where her child has finally gone still.
He watches her—carefully, quietly—as her breaths deepen.
When the last wave fades, Raylene lets out a small, broken exhale.
"…okay," she whispers.Her voice is thin. Uncertain."It's… better now."
Zenith doesn't move.
Not until he's absolutely certain.
Then he removes the compress, sets it aside, and gently brushes a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
His thumb lingers.Too soft.Too deliberate.
"You're trembling," he murmurs.
Raylene tries to smile.
It wobbles.
"I'm just… glad it stopped."
Her chin quivers.
Zenith goes still.
He sees it.
She tries to blink the tears back — too fast, too forcefully — and one slips free, trailing down her cheek before she can stop it.
Zenith inhales softly, as if the sight physically hits him.
He cups her face immediately — not roughly, not dramatically, but with an urgent, reverent tenderness.
"Ray," he whispers, voice barely a breath.
She shakes her head."I'm okay, I'm—"
Her voice cracks.
Another tear falls.
Zenith's expression softens in a way almost no one will ever see.His thumbs sweep gently under her eyes, catching the tears before they fall to her pillow.
"You endured too much pain," he says quietly, like it's his fault, like the universe personally wronged her and he plans to file a report."You were frightened."
Raylene swallows, a tiny laugh breaking through the sob."I wasn't—"
A hiccup of emotion interrupts her.
Zenith doesn't argue.
He just moves closer and pulls her carefully into his chest — slow, cautious, like she might break, or disappear, or fall apart beneath his hands.
She sinks into him instantly, fingers curling into his shirt.
His arms wrap around her, protective and steady, one hand splayed against her back, the other holding the side of her head with astonishing gentleness.
He lowers his voice to something warm and grounding.
"I'm here," he murmurs into her hair."You're not alone. You're safe. Breathe."
Raylene exhales shakily, melting into him.
The golden light in the room softens — dimming around them, then brightening again, almost like it's responding to the shift in her heartbeat.Almost comforting.
Zenith notices.
His eyes flicker toward the window, his hand stilling for half a second.
"…Interesting," he whispers without meaning to.
Raylene sniffles against his chest."What?"
He blinks down at her — the softness returning, the scientific edge quickly tucked away.
"Nothing," he murmurs."Just hold onto me."
She does.
And for a long, quiet moment, the world holds perfectly still around them — too still, too attentive — as if listening.
---
Raylene is still curled against him when the last tremor leaves her body, her breathing finally slow and steady against his chest. Zenith holds her with both arms wrapped securely around her back, chin resting lightly atop her head.
He doesn't move.
Not even to breathe deeper.
As if letting her go — even to exhale — might undo the fragile calm she has just regained.
Her fingers are still clutching a fistful of his shirt.Her cheek is pressed over his heartbeat.Her tears have soaked through the fabric.
Zenith lowers one hand, smoothing it down her spine in long, careful lines. Each pass steadies him as much as it comforts her.
He was composed through her pain — perfectly controlled — but now that she's safe in his arms, the reality settles in his body with a weight he hadn't allowed before.
He feels it in his shoulders.In his jaw.In the way his heart stutters every time he remembers her expression.
He closes his eyes briefly.
She had been hurting. Badly. And he hadn't predicted it.
The thought alone is enough to make his chest tighten.
Raylene shifts, a soft, exhausted breath against his collarbone. Her body relaxes fully, melting across him.
She is asleep.
Zenith notices the exact moment her muscles release.The way her breathing changes cadence.The way her hand loosens around his shirt, no longer gripping, but resting.
He gathers her a little closer, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other around her waist, forming a protective shield around her—a quiet promise made without words.
He holds her like that for a long time.
Long enough that the golden light from the window shifts across the room, softening over the bed, illuminating her hair in warm halos.
It grounds him.She grounds him.
Eventually, he exhales very slowly, very quietly, and leans forward to kiss her forehead — a gentle, lingering press of lips against skin.
Then he slides out from beneath her with surgical precision.
He replaces his body with pillows, arranged in the exact shape of his chest so she won't feel the absence and jolt awake. She settles instantly, instinctively leaning into the warmth.
Zenith stands beside the bed for a moment, just watching her.
His hands curl and uncurl at his sides.
He leaves the room silently.
---
The moment the door closes behind him, his expression shifts.
Not panicked.
Just… focused.
He stands in the quiet living room, arms folded tightly, replaying everything with ruthless clarity.
The timing of the pain
The intensity
The frequency
The baby's movements
He counts them.
Measures them.
Builds patterns in his mind.
And then—
He realizes something.
The baby's movements weren't random.
They weren't distress.
They were responses.
Patterned responses.Coordinated.Intentional.Timed with his voice and Raylene's pain.
Zenith goes still.
His pulse jumps — faint, but noticeable to him.
This isn't normal.This isn't… human.
A part of him instinctively reaches for his phone — to call the clinic, ask questions, run tests, confirm theories.
His thumb hovers over the screen.
He imagines Raylene waking to find him gone.He imagines her asking what's wrong.He imagines telling her the truth while she's still shaken, still fragile.
His thumb lowers.
No.
He can't do that to her.
Not after the morning she had.Not when she needed him close when she woke.Not when fear would only make things worse.
He locks the phone and sets it down.
He takes a slow, grounding breath — just like he taught her.
And with a voice barely above a whisper, meant for himself alone:
"…I should speak to her first."
The golden light flickers.
Just once.
Almost in agreement.
Zenith looks toward the bedroom hallway.
He's already made his decision.
He will not involve anyone else — not yet.Not without her.Not unless he has to.
He turns back toward the bedroom.
And his footsteps are silent.
Raylene wakes slowly.
Not with pain this time—just with that heavy, floating tiredness that follows too much emotion.Her body feels warm. Wrapped. Safe.
When she opens her eyes, Zenith is sitting on the edge of the bed.
Not hovering.Not monitoring.
Just there.
He's angled slightly toward her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him as if he'd been sitting like that for a long time.Thinking.Guarding.Waiting.
His head lifts the moment he hears her shift.
"Ray."Soft.Too soft.
She blinks, trying to steady herself.Her voice croaks:
"…How long was I out?"
"Forty-two minutes," he answers automatically—then winces the tiniest bit, as if realizing he gave too precise an answer.
She almost smiles at that.
He reaches for her without thinking—then stops halfway, catching himself.
Raylene lifts her hand first.
Zenith exhales quietly and threads their fingers together, easing himself closer, sitting fully beside her now.
"How do you feel?" he asks, studying her face with gentle intensity.
She thinks about it.
"…Better," she says truthfully."Tired. But better."
He nods, shifting his thumb over her knuckles in slow circles.She feels the gentleness in his touch.And also…the restraint.Like he's keeping something back.
She watches his face quietly.
"You're worried," she whispers.
Zenith freezes.
Only for a second—but she sees it.
Then he lowers his gaze and says, very softly:
"I didn't like seeing you in pain."
Raylene's chest warms.She squeezes his hand.
"I'm okay now."
"I know."His voice is low.Almost hoarse."But that doesn't undo what happened."
She smiles tiredly."You kept me calm."
A tiny breath escapes him—something between a sigh and a swallowed emotion.
"That was my responsibility," he says.
Raylene shakes her head.
"No, Zenith. That was you being… you."She shifts slightly, and he adjusts immediately, steadying her back with a hand at her waist."You don't have to carry everything alone."
A pause.
He looks at her then—really looks.
There's something fragile in his eyes, something he rarely lets surface.
"…You were crying," he murmurs.Quiet.Almost afraid to name it."I hated that I couldn't stop it."
Raylene leans her forehead to his, closing her eyes."You did stop it," she whispers."You held me. That's what helped."
Zenith's breathing steadies against hers.
His hand cups the back of her head, fingers sliding gently into her hair, holding her close in a way that is both protective and reverent.
After a long moment, he whispers:
"I'll always hold you."
Raylene lets out a shaky breath—not from pain this time,but from the overwhelming tenderness of it.
She shifts closer, resting her head against his chest.
He wraps his arms around her instantly, pulling her into his warmth, adjusting pillows with small, subconscious movements so she won't strain.
She can hear his heartbeat.Calm now.Even.Warm.
Raylene murmurs into his shirt:
"…Thank you. For being here."
Zenith rests his cheek against her hair.His arms tighten.
"There is nowhere else I would be."
The golden light in the room softens around them, warm and still.
No pain.No fear.Just them.
Just this.
For the first time all morning, Raylene truly relaxes—held securely, gently, completely—and Zenith doesn't let go.
Not even for a second.