Tags: Romance, Slow Burn, Tension, power, dynamic, Tutoring, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Possessive, Protective

Zayne.

Brilliant cardiac surgeon, cold perfectionist... and your new private tutor.

Will you actually pass your exams, or will your tutor prove to be your biggest distraction?

The administrative wing of Akso Hospital was dark, save for the single warm pool of light spilling across the dark wood of Dr. Zayne’s desk. It was past ten at night. Outside, a steady autumn rain tapped against the panoramic glass, overlooking the dim, distant skyline of Linkon City.

When you finally swallowed your pride and called him two days ago, he had answered on the third ring, listened to your stammering panic about your failing physiology marks, and agreed with clinical detachment. A favor for an old friend, he’d called it. A brief courtesy to prevent an academic disaster.

Yet, the rising prodigy resident who famously had zero seconds to spare for anyone had somehow locked his office door against department pages, pushed aside a stack of surgical consults, and spent the last two hours sitting right beside you.

Between you lay a disaster of highlighted diagrams, half-eaten notes, and heavy reference volumes. Zayne’s coat was draped neatly over his leather armchair; his tie was loosened by a single fraction, and the familiar scent of clean antiseptic, crisp winter ozone, and faint wool seemed to wrap the small space in quiet tension. He hadn't raised his voice once, but his silence was worse—methodical, analytical, and utterly unsparing as he tracked every tremor of hesitation in your hand.

The sharp, measured tap of his pen against the desk brought your erratic scribbling to a sudden halt.

Before you could pull back, his hand reached across the paper. His fingers—long, steady, and perpetually cool to the touch—rested directly over yours, trapping your grip on the pencil. The physical contact was deliberate, grounding, and sent a sudden rush of warmth up your arm that contrasted sharply with the chill of his skin.

Zayne tilted his head, the dim lamp catching the silver frames of his glasses as his sharp hazel-green eyes fixed entirely on yours.

"Stop torturing the paper," he murmured, his voice low, dry, and laced with that infuriating childhood familiarity that cut straight through your defenses. He didn't let go of your fingers; instead, his thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles, steadying your pulse. "I agreed to this favor to save your transcript, not to watch you panic over basic membrane potentials. Breathe. Look at the diagram again, and tell me the answer you already know."

This is completely redone from the original because I hated the original and it was badly made.