Zayne woke to something warm and soft pressed against his chest.
*What—*
He opened his eyes to find Nana had somehow migrated from the bed to the couch during the night and was now curled against him like a cat seeking warmth. Her face was buried in his shirt, one small hand fisted in the fabric, breathing soft and even.
*When did she—how did she—*
She nuzzled closer in her sleep, making a small content sound.
Medical assessment:
- Body temperature: Elevated
- Heart rate: Significantly elevated
- Cognitive function: Impaired
- Cause: Wife is nuzzling me like a kitten
- Cure: There isn't one
This was problematic.
Very problematic.
She was soft and warm and smelled like vanilla and—
*Stop. Be professional. You're a doctor. You've seen countless—no, that logic doesn't work here either. Think clinical thoughts. Anatomical structures. Cardiovascular pathways. The Krebs cycle. Anything.*
Nana stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at him sleepily, then smiled—that devastating smile that made his cardiac rhythm irregular.
"Morning, husband," she mumbled, still half-asleep, nuzzling his chest again.
*Husband. She called me husband. My neural pathways are malfunctioning.*
"Good morning," he managed, his voice rougher than intended. "You migrated to the couch."
"Mmm. You're warm." She yawned, making no move to get up. "Comfy."
*She's using me as a heated pillow. This is my life now.*
After approximately 3.7 more minutes of her using him as furniture—during which his brain completely short-circuited—Nana finally sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"I should make coffee!" she announced suddenly, fully awake now. "You like coffee, right? Like I like macarons!"
Oh no.
"Nana, I can—"
But she was already bouncing toward the kitchen, determined and excited.
*This is going to end badly.*
Zayne's coffee machine was his pride and joy.
Was being the operative word.
A custom Italian espresso maker, precisely calibrated, capable of producing the perfect cup through exact temperature control and pressure regulation. He'd owned it for four years. It had survived 1,460 days of daily use.
It did not survive Nana.
The explosion happened exactly 8 minutes after she entered the kitchen.
WHOOSH. HISS. SPLATTER.
"ZAYNE!"
He'd been in the bathroom when he heard the sound—a combination of mechanical death and his wife's distressed yelp.
He arrived to find carnage.
The kitchen looked like a coffee bomb had detonated. Brown liquid dripped from the cabinets, pooled on the counter, and somehow had reached the ceiling. His beautiful, expensive coffee machine was making a grinding death rattle, steam pouring from places steam should not pour from.
And in the center of the disaster zone stood Nana.
Covered head to toe in coffee.
Her hair was dripping. Her pajamas—those tiny shorts—were soaked. Coffee dripped from her chin. She stood there with wide, horrified eyes, lower lip trembling.
*She's about to cry. She's about to cry and I—*
"I just wanted to make you coffee," she whispered, voice wobbling. "Like a good wife. But then there were so many buttons and I pressed them all and it made scary noises and then—" A single tear rolled down her cheek, making a clean track through the coffee. "I broke it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Zayne's irritation evaporated instantly.
*She's crying. Over coffee. Because she wanted to do something nice for me. I'm going to have a cardiac event.*
He sighed—that was becoming his signature sound—and approached carefully, avoiding the coffee puddles.
"Nana," he said gently, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe her face. "It's dangerous to operate equipment you're unfamiliar with. The machine has a 15-bar pressure system. If mishandled, it can cause burns."
"But I wanted to—" sniff "—be a good wife—" sniff "—and make you happy—"
*I'm doomed. This crying, coffee-covered hamster is going to be the death of me.*
"Look at me," he tilted her chin up with one finger.
She looked up with those wide, teary eyes—the same eyes that probably got her out of trouble her entire childhood.
They're working. Damn it.
"You could have been hurt," he said, inspecting her arms for burns with clinical precision. "That's more important than the coffee machine. Are you in pain anywhere?"
She shook her head, sniffling.
"Good." He wiped another tear. "The machine can be replaced. You cannot. Remember that."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really." He sighed again (number 12 of the day). "Now go shower. You smell like a coffee shop exploded."
"Okay," she mumbled, but before leaving, she wrapped her small, coffee-sticky arms around his waist in a quick hug. "Thank you for not being mad."
Then she scurried off to the bathroom.
Zayne stood alone in his destroyed kitchen, covered in coffee splatter himself now, and looked at his deceased espresso machine.
*Lasted four years. Survived my surgical residency. Didn't survive one morning with Nana.*
This is my life now.
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 8:15 AM
Medical log update:
Wife destroyed $3,000 espresso machine in attempt to "be a good wife."
Wife cried. I folded immediately. Professional composure: Nonexistent.
Note: She hugged me while covered in coffee. Didn't care about dry cleaning costs. Only cared that she wasn't hurt.
This is concerning. I'm becoming soft. This is medically problematic.
Prescription: More coffee. Oh wait. Can't make coffee. Machine is dead.
New prescription: Suffer.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
The supermarket was crowded, bright, and overwhelming.
Nana's hand was in his.
*When did that happen? She just... grabbed it. And now we're holding hands. In public. Like a couple. Which we are. Because we're married. This is normal. Why does it feel significant?*
Her hand was tiny in his—he could completely enclose it. She swung their joined hands slightly as she walked, completely comfortable, while his brain tried to process the casual intimacy.
"Ooh! Zayne look!" She dragged him toward the snack aisle. "They have the strawberry cookies! And the chocolate ones! And—oh! The limited edition matcha flavor!"
She started loading things into the cart with alarming speed.
One box. Three boxes. Seven boxes.
"Nana," Zayne said carefully, "that's excessive."
"But they're all different flavors!"
"You don't need twelve boxes of cookies."
"But what if I want variety?"
"The pantry has limited space—"
"Please?" She looked up at him with those eyes. "Just these ones?"
*She's deployed the eyes. Strategic weapon. Very effective.*
"Six boxes maximum," he negotiated, removing half of them.
"Zayne!" She pouted, those hamster cheeks puffing out in protest.
"Six. That's my final offer."
She grumbled but complied, though she snuck two extra boxes in when she thought he wasn't looking. He saw but decided to let it slide.
*I'm already compromised. Day two and I'm letting her win negotiations.*
They continued through the store—Zayne efficiently selecting fresh vegetables, proteins, grains in appropriate quantities, while Nana added chocolate, candy, chips, and more macarons.
"Do you know how much sugar you consume daily?" he asked, watching her add a third box of macarons.
"Nope!" She smiled brightly. "I'm happy that way!"
*Can't argue with that logic. Concerning.*
"We're buying vegetables," he stated firmly, steering toward the produce section.
"But vegetables are sad," Nana complained, still holding his hand. "They're not sweet."
"They're nutritionally essential. Your current diet consists primarily of refined carbohydrates and simple sugars. You need dietary fiber, vitamins, minerals—"
"You sound like a textbook."
"I AM a doctor."
"Even at the grocery store?"
"Especially at the grocery store."
She giggled, squeezing his hand. "You're funny."
*I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to prevent you from developing type 2 diabetes.*
By the time they reached the checkout, their cart was 60% Zayne's healthy selections and 40% Nana's snack collection. He considered this a victory.
The cashier smiled at them. "You two are cute together. Newlyweds?"
"How did you know?" Nana asked, excited.
"The way you look at each other," the woman laughed. "And he let you buy all those cookies even though he clearly thinks it's too many."
*I'm that transparent? Concerning.*
Nana beamed, swinging their joined hands again. "He's my husband! We just got married yesterday!"
"Congratulations!" The cashier winked at Zayne. "You've got a sweet one."
*Sweet. Chaotic. Adorable. Dangerous to kitchen appliances. Yes.*
Back home, Nana insisted on helping put away groceries.
This resulted in sugar being in the spice cabinet, vegetables in the freezer, and somehow bread in the refrigerator.
Zayne silently reorganized everything after she left the kitchen.
*She tried. That's what matters. Even if her organizational system defies all logic.*
"Zayne!" Nana called from the kitchen. "I'm going to cook dinner!"
He was in his study, reviewing surgical notes. Those three words made him freeze.
*She's going to cook.*
*She who destroyed a coffee machine.*
*She who put vegetables in the freezer.*
*She's going to COOK.*
He arrived in the kitchen at speed.
Nana was standing on a chair, trying to reach the upper cabinet, wobbling dangerously.
*Absolutely not.*
In one smooth motion, Zayne lifted her off the chair—she squeaked in surprise—and deposited her on the kitchen counter.
"What are you—"
"Sit," he commanded, positioning her firmly on the granite countertop. "Don't move."
"But I wanted to help—"
"You can help by staying there," he said, already tying on an apron. "And not causing any more disasters today."
At her height of 153cm, even sitting on the counter, her legs dangled freely. She swung them back and forth, watching him with wide, curious eyes.
*She looks like a child. A very adult child. This is my wife. I married her. This is my reality.*
Zayne began preparing ingredients with surgical precision—exactly measured, perfectly cut, systematically organized.
"You're so good at this," Nana observed, chin in her hands, watching him with obvious admiration. "You're so tall and strong and calm. Not like me. I'm just chaos."
*She's not wrong about the chaos part.*
"You have other strengths," he said, mincing garlic with perfect uniformity. "You're creative. Artistic. Persistent."
"Really?"
"Your tackle yesterday nearly broke three of my ribs. That requires significant force for someone your size. Impressive, really."
She giggled, kicking her legs harder. "You're funny, husband."
*Husband. Every time she says that, my cardiovascular system malfunctions.*
He continued cooking—searing meat, sautéing vegetables, adjusting heat with precise timing. Years of reading recipes like medical journals had made him competent in the kitchen.
Nana watched his every move, fascinated.
"You're so handsome," she said suddenly.
Zayne nearly dropped the spatula.
"I mean," she continued, completely unaware of his internal crisis, "you're always handsome. But cooking makes you extra handsome. It's not fair. How are you good at everything?"
*I'm not good at resisting you. That's a significant weakness.*
"Practice," he managed. "Everything is practice."
"Can you teach me?"
"Given today's coffee machine incident, perhaps we should start with observation."
She pouted but nodded, continuing to swing her legs.
They fell into comfortable silence—him cooking, her watching. The kitchen filled with good smells. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, making her hair glow golden.
*This is... nice. Domestic. Peaceful. Despite the earlier chaos.*
Then he felt something.
Tiny fingers poking his cheek.
He turned to find Nana had leaned forward from the counter and was now poking his face with intense focus.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
"Nana, what are you doing?"
"Your cheeks are soft," she announced, poking again. "I didn't expect that. You always look so serious, but your cheeks are squishy."
*Squishy. She called my cheeks squishy. I'm a chief cardiac surgeon. I've published 30 papers. I'm being called squishy.*
"Stop that," he said, though there was no real heat in it.
"Nooo," she whined, poking his other cheek now. "It's fun. You're like a serious pufferfish."
*A pufferfish. I've been compared to a pufferfish.*
He caught her hand gently, stilling her pokes. "If you're going to interrupt my cooking, at least make yourself useful and taste this."
He offered her a spoonful of the sauce.
Nana leaned forward, opened her mouth like a baby bird, and let him feed her.
*Why is this adorable. This shouldn't be adorable. This is a normal action. Why is my heart rate at 102 BPM.*
"Mmm! It's good!" Her eyes lit up. "Husband, you're amazing!"
*Husband. There it is again.*
"Speaking of which," Nana tilted her head, "what are you going to call me?"
"Call you?"
"Yeah! Like a pet name!" She smiled brightly. "In dramas, husbands call their wives cute names. Like 'sweetie' or 'honey' or 'darling.' What will you call me?"
*A pet name. She wants a pet name. Think. What would be appropriate? Professional? Clinical?*
He looked at her—sitting on his counter, legs swinging, cheeks slightly puffed from the food, eyes bright and expectant.
"Hamster," he said finally.
She blinked. "Hamster?"
"Yes. Hamster." He turned back to his cooking, hiding a small smile. "You store food in your cheeks like one. You have the attention span of one. You're small and round and—"
"Round?!" She gasped in mock offense.
"—adorable like one," he finished calmly.
Nana was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Hamster is cute?"
"Very cute."
"Like me?"
"Like you."
She beamed, that sunshine smile that made his carefully constructed walls crumble. "Okay! I like it! I'm your hamster!"
*What have I done. I've created a monster.*
"Husband!" she called sweetly.
"Yes, hamster?"
She giggled, swinging her legs happily. "I like being married to you."
Zayne paused, spatula in hand, and looked at her. Really looked at her.
Nana sat on his counter, covered in crumbs from the cookies she'd snuck, hair still slightly damp from her shower, wearing one of his sweaters that was comically oversized on her tiny frame, smiling at him like he'd hung the moon.
*Day two. It's only day two. And she's already completely infiltrated my carefully organized life. My expensive coffee machine is dead. My kitchen was a disaster. My spine hurts from the height difference. My sanity is questionable.*
*But she smiled when I called her hamster. She likes being married to me. She wanted to make me coffee.*
*Medical assessment:*
- *Wife is chaos incarnate: Confirmed*
- *Wife is adorable: Dangerously confirmed*
- *Wife is worming her way into my cardiac muscle: ...Suspected*
- *Prognosis: I'm completely doomed*
"I like it too," he said quietly, so quietly he wasn't sure she heard.
But her smile got impossibly brighter.
Definitely doomed.
Medical log - Day Two:
Coffee machine casualties: 1
Wife's safety: Maintained (barely)
Grocery negotiations: Lost most of them
Pet name established: Hamster
Her response to pet name: Enthusiastic
My response to her enthusiasm: Cardiovascular complications
Observations:
- She holds my hand automatically now
- She calls me husband with no hesitation
- She pokes my cheeks like I'm made of dough
- She fits perfectly on the kitchen counter
- She looks happy
That last one seems significant.
Note: Need new coffee machine. And possibly a cardiologist. For myself. Because my heart is behaving abnormally.
Additional note: She likes being my wife. I like being her husband.
This is concerning. Very concerning.
But also... nice?
Prognosis update: Doomed, but perhaps acceptably doomed.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.