The market is alive with soft morning chatter — vendors calling out gentle greetings, the smell of baked bread drifting between rows of fruit stalls, sunlight cooling against the awnings.
Raylene walks slowly beside Zenith, one hand curled around his, the other resting protectively over her stomach.It's heavier now.She feels it with every step.Not painful — just present.
Zenith notices every shift in her posture.
He doesn't comment on it.But his thumb is tracing subtle circles against the back of her hand — grounding her, reassuring her.
Raylene smiles as they pass a produce stand.
"We should get berries," she tells him.
Zenith's eyes flick towards the stall.Then the vendor.Then the crowd behind them.Then the nearest exit route.
Raylene squeezes his hand."Zenith. Market. Not battlefield."
He doesn't relax.But he tries to.
Or at least, he lowers his shoulders by half a centimeter — which, for Zenith, is practically loose.
They walk through narrow aisles lined with colorful fabrics, jars of honey, and handmade trinkets.Raylene pauses to admire a carved wooden bird.
Zenith scans:
the vendor
the passing man three meters left
the dog approaching from behind
the sound of something dropping two stalls over
Raylene's breathing pattern
She nudges his arm.
"Relax."
He exhales — a tiny, strangled thing — as if relaxing is an unnatural demand on his system.
Her fingers slip between his.
The effect is immediate.
His shoulders still.His gaze softens.His internal alarms dim just slightly.
He looks down at their joined hands, as if reminding himself she's real.
She's here. She's right here.
And then—
A shout from a nearby stall draws Raylene's attention.
She turns her head.
Just a second.
A single distracted heartbeat.
Zenith doesn't notice her shift at first—he's watching a cluster of people move too close on the left.
And then—
He feels it.
Her hand is gone.
His fingers close around empty air.
Zenith's world tilts.
He turns sharply—too sharply for a normal man,but just right for someone built from precision and fear.
Raylene is not beside him.
Not in front.
Not behind.
His chest constricts.
Find her.
His face shows nothing.People passing him see only a tall, composed man scanning the market with quiet seriousness.
But inside?
He is living an entire lifetime of calculations in a split second.
She was holding my hand.She turned her head.Her gait at this stage is slow; she cannot be far.Crowd density is increasing at the west corner.Check exits— three. All possible.Risk analysis— unacceptable.Find her. Find her now.
He doesn't run.
Zenith never runs.
He moves.
Silent.Precise.A controlled urgency stitched into every step.
He checks the stall she looked toward—nothing.
He checks the path she could've taken—nothing.
His pulse spikes — a rare, sharp sting beneath his ribs.
Raylene—
He doesn't finish the thought.
Because suddenly—
A familiar voice behind him:
"Zenith?"
He spins so fast it's almost inhuman.
Raylene stands there, a few paces back, holding a small paper bag.
"I thought you were right behind me," she says, confused.
Zenith crosses the distance instantly.
Not grabbing her.Not clutching.Just reaching for her hand with a steadiness that betrays how shaken he truly is.
He takes her fingers delicately—like they're fragile.Like he's fragile.
Raylene blinks at him.
"You okay?"
He inhales once, controlled.
"Yes," he lies softly."You were simply… briefly… out of my periphery."
She studies him.
He's too still.Too composed.Too quiet.
Her brows soften.
"Zenith… were you worried?"
He doesn't answer.
But his fingers tighten around hers, just barely.A confession in pressure instead of words.
Raylene steps closer, leaning into his arm.
"I'm here."
His eyes close for a single moment.Just one.
Then—
Softly, almost broken:
"I know."
---
They end up near a bench at the edge of the market — tucked between a flower stall and a small fountain. The noise is distant enough now that Raylene finally exhales.
Zenith is still a little too stiff beside her.
Raylene nudges him."Sit. Before you combust."
He sits instantly.
Across his lap is the paper bag of food — curated by the man who has memorized every pregnancy-safe guideline known to humankind.
He opens the bag with military precision.
"I checked the ingredients three times," he says, handing her her portion. "This vendor doesn't use any soft cheese, unpasteurized products, excess vinegar, nitrates—"
"Zenith," she says, laughing softly. "It's a sandwich."
"It is a safe sandwich."
She bumps her shoulder into his.
"Thank you."
He finally unclenches a little, watching as she takes her first bite. The relief on his face is almost comical — like her enjoying the food has restored the natural order of the universe.
Raylene squints at him."You're staring."
Zenith looks away immediately."I'm… monitoring your response."
"It's a sandwich," she repeats.
He folds his arms, feigning dignity."And yet it required observation."
She laughs — really laughs — and something in his gaze softens so deeply it's almost shy. He relaxes back against the bench. For a moment, they simply eat together, sunlight drifting warm across their shoulders.
He studies the market, scanning for danger out of habit, but less sharply now. His hand drops to rest lightly on her knee — grounding for him, grounding for her.
"You scared me," he murmurs finally, eyes still on the crowd.
"You found me," she answers.
"At the fifth location I checked."
She snorts."It wasn't that dramatic."
He gives her a slow look."You vanished."
Raylene smirks, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"And you survived it."
He doesn't answer — because they both know internally, he absolutely didn't.
But he wraps an arm around her anyway, pulling her closer, letting the moment settle.
For a few minutes, the only sound is the fountain, the crowd, their breathing interwoven.
Peace.
---
Actual, delicate peace.
---
It comes suddenly, just when everything feels normal.
Raylene tenses — a tight, surprised inhale.
Zenith notices instantly."Raylene?"
She presses her palm to her side."It's okay, it's just—"
The baby moves again.
Not a kick.Not a flutter.
A shift.
Like it's responding.
Zenith freezes.His hand hovers for a moment before he places it gently over hers, thumb brushing slow reassurance.
"Is it pain again?" His voice drops — low, steady, controlled.
Raylene nods once, tightly.
Zenith's jaw tightens, but he doesn't panic. He adjusts her posture, helps her lean back against him, hands careful and sure.
The movement inside her grows sharper — almost precise, almost timed to her breath.
Raylene winces.
Zenith goes still.
"…It wasn't like this before," she whispers.
"No," he agrees quietly.
He doesn't take his hand off her stomach.Not this time.
They sit like that — Raylene breathing through the discomfort, Zenith calculating patterns he doesn't yet dare to name.
The golden light around them thickens.A shimmer.A warmth.An echo of something not entirely natural.
But neither of them speaks of it.
Not yet.
The pain sharpens—sharp enough that her breath catches, sharp enough that Zenith shifts forward like he might scoop her up—
And then—
It stops.
Not slowly.Not easing.Not fading.
Just—gone.
Raylene blinks.
Her breathing stutters.The world tilts a fraction to the left.
She presses her hand to her side—nothing.
No ache.No tension.No movement.
Just the curved, warm swell of her stomach beneath her palm.
The noise of the market muffles.As if someone dragged a finger across the world and pressed mute.
The golden light around them thickens—not brighter, not harsh—but dense, like illuminated fog hugging only her.
The petals on the flower stall stop mid-flutter.The fountain droplets hang too long in the air.
Time doesn't stop.
It hesitates.
Raylene's eyes widen. Her pulse climbs her throat.
Then—
Everything releases.
The sound rushes back.The air moves again.The golden light thins to what it was before.
Raylene exhales shakily—
—and realizes Zenith is staring at the food bag in his hand, perfectly calm, perfectly normal, as if he hadn't watched her wince in pain a moment ago. As if that moment hadn't happened at all.
"Zenith…?" her voice is thin.
He looks at her then.And something in his gaze pauses, mid-processing.
He studies her expression — the bewilderment, the fear, the disorientation.
"Raylene?" he answers softly, carefully. "What's wrong?"
She searches his face.
"You didn't—" her voice falters. "You didn't see that?"
"See what?" His brow lifts, serene and untroubled.
Her stomach flips — not from pain, but from something colder.
She places both hands over her bump, palms trembling.There's a heartbeat of stillness.
And then—
Movement.
A small, precise shift beneath her hands.
He's there.He's here.He wasn't gone.
Raylene's breath shakes out of her.
Zenith notices the movement—this one, at least—and his gaze gentles.
"You felt something?" he asks.
Raylene swallows hard, her lips parting to speak—but she has no words for what just occurred.
She only nods.
Zenith places his hand over hers, warm and steady.
"Tell me," he says quietly.
But she can't.
Not yet.
Because a part of her is still sitting inside that suspended moment,inside that impossible quiet where time forgot to move,
---where pain vanished,where Zenith did not remember,and where the golden light felt
aware.
---
Raylene's fingers tighten around the edge of the bench.
Zenith watches her closely, waiting for her to speak—but instead of explaining, she inhales, looks around at the passing crowd, the chatter, the eyes.
And quietly says:
"…Later."
Zenith stops breathing for half a second.
Not out of frustration.
Out of understanding.
His gaze sweeps the crowd immediately—his instinctive assessment—and then returns to her, softer.
"Later," he repeats.A promise.A vow.A held breath.
He wants to ask—desperately—but he doesn't. His restraint is almost visible, a tension in his shoulders, in the way he holds his coffee cup too still.
They finish eating in silence.Not uncomfortable—but charged.
She can feel him studying her from the corner of his eye.Not prying.Just waiting.
---
The car hums with a low, steady vibration.
Raylene sits in the passenger seat, fingers tracing small circles on her knee.Zenith's hands are steady on the wheel, too steady, like he's bracing himself for anything she might say.
The golden light outside the window catches their reflections in a strange way—her gaze looks deeper,his expression looks unreadable.
She finally exhales.
"Something happened," she says softly.
Zenith's fingers pause on the wheel.
"Go on," he murmurs.
Raylene looks down. "I don't know how to explain it. I don't… it doesn't make sense."
Zenith glances at her—just briefly—but his eyes are sharp. Focused.Ready.
"What did you see?"Gentle.Patient.But tense beneath the surface.
Raylene opens her mouth.
"Everything just… stopped," she whispers. "The pain. The sounds. Even the light changed. Like time didn't move for a second."
Zenith's grip tightens, just barely.
"And you didn't react," she adds, voice small. "You didn't remember the pain at all."
Silence.
And then—
The car stutters.
Not physically.
Reality does.
For a single blink, the dashboard flickers—the radio screen warps into a line—the light outside the window dims and then surges—Zenith's reflection in the glass fractures like a misaligned frame in an animation—
And then it's all fine.
Perfectly fine.
The road continues.The radio glows normally.Zenith is calm again, eyes on the road.
Raylene's breath catches.
"Zenith…?"
He's too quiet.
Not emotionless.Not confused.
Processing.
Slowly, he speaks.
"What you're describing…" his voice is low, controlled, "…should not be possible."
His knuckles are white on the wheel.
"And yet," he adds, softer, "I believe you."
She swallows.
"What happened to you just now?" she whispers. "Did… did you feel that?"
Zenith doesn't answer immediately.
When he does, it's quiet. Almost reverent.
"I think," he says, "your perception may be ahead of mine."
A beat.
"…and that shouldn't be possible either."
The golden light outside the windshield pulses softly—like a heartbeat answering.
---
The apartment is warm when they enter, but Raylene feels cold.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Like the world didn't match her anymore.
Zenith locks the door behind them with a soft click. He watches her carefully as she toes off her shoes, movements slow, hesitant.
"Raylene," he says quietly.
She doesn't look at him.
"I don't know what's real anymore."
Her voice cracks on the last word.
Zenith steps closer, but not fast—he never moves fast when she's anxious. He approaches like one would approach a frightened animal, or a collapsing star.
"Come here," he murmurs.
She does—because she always does—and the moment his arms wrap around her, she trembles.
Not just from fear.
From recognition.
She presses her forehead to his chest.
"It's like—" she inhales sharply, "—I'm seeing things I'm not supposed to see."
Zenith's jaw tightens above her.Just slightly.
He holds her closer.
He does not tell her she's imagining things.He does not soothe her with lies.
He simply supports her weight, steady as stone, while her breathing shudders against him.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
His voice is low, almost breaking despite his effort to contain it:
"…I know."
---
Just when she begins to calm—
The baby moves.
Not a normal movement.
Not a kick.
A pulse.A ripple.A synchronized, rhythmic answer to something unseen.
Raylene gasps, clutching her stomach.
Zenith instantly shifts into action, guiding her to sit, kneel, breathe—whatever keeps her safe. One hand supports her back; the other rests on her abdomen, fingers splayed, protective.
"What is it?" she breathes.
He doesn't answer.
Because he feels it too.
A flicker—a faint distortion in the air—like static brushing his fingertips.
The room brightens for a fraction of a second.Not golden.Not warm.
Just wrong.
Raylene flinches.
Zenith's control cracks.
Only for a heartbeat—but she sees it.
That flash of fear in his eyes.
Not for himself.
For her.
He pulls her into him again, grounding her with slow, even breathing. His hand strokes her hair, tries to anchor her.
But his mind is moving behind his eyes—calculating, connecting dots, erasing and rewriting hypotheses faster than he can hold onto them.
He doesn't say anything reassuring.
He can't.
He just holds her, silent and steady, while her body trembles from the aftershock.
Eventually she softens against him, exhaustion pulling her under. Her breath evens out.
And when he's certain she's safe—certain she's not watching—his expression changes.
Quiet.Focused.Almost clinical.
He reaches for his phone.
With meticulous care, he opens his notes.
His thumb types quickly, precisely.
Week 31 — anomaly detected.• Sudden cessation of pain• Temporal perception disparity (Raylene ahead?)• Light fluctuation — external? internal?• Fetal response synchronized with perceptual glitch• Subject distressed• Stabilization achieved through physical grounding• Further observation required• Do not dismiss• Do not disclose yet• Pattern emerging
He pauses over that last line.
His reflection in the black screen behind the text looks… unsettled.
He doesn't correct it.
He locks the phone, places it face-down on the nightstand, and draws her closer as she sleeps.
His thoughts, however,
---
do not rest.
---