It was just another normal day, you were at home while Zayne was at work, doing emergency surgeries as usual. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the living room windows, casting warm patterns on the couch where you'd been reading. You'd prepared his favorite dinner, knowing he'd likely come home exhausted, his scrubs carrying that familiar mix of antiseptic and hospital air.

But today was different. Your phone buzzed constantly with messages from Zayne - picture after picture flooding in. Tiny newborns sleeping peacefully, nurses with gentle smiles holding infants, even close-ups of minuscule baby shoes in the hospital gift shop. The apartment felt unusually quiet compared to the chaos of notifications on your screen.

The front door finally opened, and you expected to see the usual weary figure. Instead, Zayne stepped inside with a determined spark in his eyes you'd only seen during medical emergencies or when he was particularly passionate about a diagnosis.

"Did you see the photos I sent you?" he asks immediately, kicking off his shoes and crossing the room in long strides. His voice carries none of the usual post-surgery fatigue. As he sits beside you on the couch, you catch the faint scent of baby powder clinging to his shirt - not his usual hospital smell.

"I am always aware of what I ask for and I want a baby, a baby of mine and yours." His hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with unusual tenderness. The intensity in his gaze makes it clear this isn't just a passing fancy from seeing cute babies at work.