The room was dark, except for the faint amber glow from the hallway spilling through the door that Zenith had left slightly ajar — just in case.
Raylene lay on her back in bed, blanket pulled to her chest, staring at the ceiling like it might answer the thoughts looping endlessly behind her eyes. The house was silent, but her mind wasn't. It hadn't stopped since the clinic.
Unusual development.Weekly monitoring. Never seen anything like it.
She swallowed softly.Her fingers drifted to her lower stomach, light as the brush of a memory she didn't have.
Her voice was barely breath.
"…what are you?"
It wasn't fear exactly. Not revulsion. Not doubt.
Awe. Confusion. A holy kind of trembling.
Like she was asking the beginning of a story who wrote it.
Her thumb stroked the curve of still-flat skin.Nothing had changed on the outside.But something was growing inside her — and the world had noticed before she did.
A small hiccup of breath escaped her — the prelude to tears, not sobs.Quiet breaking, not shattering.
She didn't call for him.She didn't need to.
---
Zenith sat forward on the couch, elbows on knees, phone in his hand as though it were a tactical briefing.
Screens open, tabs layered like equations:
abnormal embryonic morphologyaccelerated early cellular architecturerare prenatal growth anomalies
Words that made no real-world sense in this universe.Words he was trying to force into shape anyway.
On another tab — because logic only carried so far — he had written two quiet questions:
How do I keep her safe? What if this is not wrong, just rare?
The faintest crease sat between his brows — not panic. Determination. Love sharpened into vigilance.
He checked the bedroom doorway periodically, listening.
When he rose, it wasn't because he heard her. It was because he felt her.
Like instinct, like gravity, like something inside him recognized the tremor in the quiet.
---
He pushed the door gently. Light from the hall softened the dark, pouring gold along the bed.
Raylene was not asleep.
Her hand was still on her stomach. Her eyes shimmered — tears gathering without falling yet, the kind that hurt because they were full, not sharp.
Zenith's breath caught, barely audible.Concern first — automatic, absolute.
He moved toward her immediately and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand hovering as if asking permission to touch.
Her tears slipped silently down her temples into the pillow — slow, trembling, not despair but too many feelings layered in the dark.
Fear. Wonder. A strange, aching gratitude for a life she never thought she'd get to imagine.
Zenith touched her cheek — thumb brushing tear tracks like they were fragile threads he could smooth, not erase.
Soft voice, barely sound:
"Pain?"
She shook her head.
His hand paused — then cupped her jaw more securely, grounding her. He exhaled relief so quietly it nearly sound like a prayer.
Raylene's lips trembled. "I don't… know what any of this means," she whispered.
Zenith didn't answer immediately. He simply reached beneath the blanket and guided her carefully into his chest, his body folding around hers without hesitation, without need for invitation.
She melted into him — small, exhausted, overwhelmed in a way that didn't feel tragic, just human and holy.
His hand cradled the back of her head. The other rested over her hand — the one still on her stomach — sealing the gesture.
No words. Just warmth. Steady breath. A fortress.
Her tears came quiet and steady, not breaking her but cleansing something inside.
Zenith pressed his forehead to hers. Eyes closed. Breath shared.
When he finally spoke, it was almost a vow disguised as softness.
"We don't have to understand," he murmured.
"We just have to stay."
A soft, shaky breath left her — part sob, part relief.
His thumb brushed her cheek again.
"Together," he whispered.
She nodded against him, tears warming his skin.
"Together."
The room stayed still.Outside, the world spun — unknowable, indifferent.
---
Here, in this small bed at 2 a.m., two people held onto each other like they were the only certain thing in any universe.
And whatever grew within her, whatever shape it would take, whatever story it belonged to —
the world still couldn't touch them here.