Zayne woke to the sensation of being crushed.
*What—*
He opened his eyes to find Nana sprawled on top of him like a starfish.
Her entire body weight—all 45 kilograms of her—was distributed across his torso. One arm flung across his chest. One leg bent at an angle that looked anatomically improbable. Her face buried in his shoulder. Hair everywhere.
*She's using me as a mattress. Again.*
He tried to shift slightly, to breathe more easily, but she made a small grumpy sound and somehow pressed closer.
"Mmm... my macarons..." she mumbled into his shirt. "Give them back... stupid squirrel..."
*She's sleep-talking. About squirrels. And macarons.*
Zayne found himself huffing a quiet laugh despite the situation. *This is my life now. Being crushed by my wife while she argues with imaginary squirrels.*
"Stole my macarons... so I stole your acorns... fair trade..." Nana continued, her words slurred with sleep. "Fight me... I'll use a stick... no... TWO sticks..."
*She's threatening rodents with weapons. In her sleep. I married a feral creature.*
Then—without warning—her knee started moving.
Upward.
Oh no.
Her knee slid higher along his thigh, pressing against—
*ABORT. CRITICAL SITUATION. ALL SYSTEMS COMPROMISED.*
Zayne's entire body went rigid. His brain short-circuited. Every nerve ending became acutely, painfully aware of exactly where her knee was pressing.
Medical assessment:
- Physiological response: Immediate and concerning
- Blood pressure: Dangerously elevated
- Cognitive function: Severely impaired
- Appropriate action: MOVE HER KNEE. NOW.
His hands moved slowly, carefully, reaching for her knee to relocate it to a less... problematic position.
The moment his fingers touched her leg, she shifted—pressing harder.
No. No no no. This is—
"Get back here, squirrel..." she mumbled, her knee pressing more firmly. "I'll... I'll climb your tree..."
*She's climbing in her sleep. Her knee is climbing. This is a medical emergency. MY medical emergency.*
Zayne's hand froze on her knee. Moving it was only making things worse. Every adjustment caused more contact. More pressure. More—
*Think clinical thoughts. Anatomical structures. Skeletal system. Muscular system. The Krebs cycle. Mitochondria. The powerhouse of the cell. ANYTHING.*
It wasn't working.
Nothing was working.
His body was responding in ways that were completely unprofessional, inappropriate, and absolutely beyond his control.
*I'm a doctor. I've spent years mastering self-control. I can regulate my emotions. I can maintain composure under pressure. I can—*
Her knee pressed harder.
*I can't. I absolutely cannot.*
He took a deep breath—carefully, quietly—and tried to calm his racing heart rate. This was fine. This was manageable. She was asleep. Unconscious. Completely unaware of the torture she was inflicting.
*Just... accept fate. This is fine. Everythingis fine. You're fine.*
He was definitely not fine.
His hand stayed on her knee—not pushing, not pulling, just... there. His other hand somehow found its way to her back, patting gently, almost unconsciously.
*When did I start patting her back? Why am I patting her back? This is not helping the situation.*
"Squirrel combat..." Nana mumbled, snuggling closer. "Gonna... gonna dual with sticks... honor demands it..."
*She's challenging squirrels to ritualistic combat. With sticks. While her knee is destroying my sanity.*
Zayne stared at the ceiling, patting her back rhythmically, and wondered if this was how he would die. Not in surgery. Not from overwork. But from his tiny, chaos-incarnate wife using him as a bed while threatening woodland creatures in her sleep.
Medical log update:
- Wife sleeps like aggressive starfish: Confirmed
- Wife has ongoing beef with squirrels: Noted
- Wife's knee placement: Catastrophic
- My sanity: Currently orbiting Mars
- Estimated return time: Unknown
He continued patting her back—pat, pat, pat—like soothing an infant, while his body betrayed him completely.
This is fine. I'm fine. We're fine.
Prognosis: Liar. None of us are fine.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
Morning arrived like a merciful rescue.
Zayne had somehow survived the night, though "survived" was a generous term. He'd gotten approximately 2.3 hours of actual sleep, spent 4.7 hours in acute awareness of every point of contact with his wife, and the remaining time questioning his life choices.
Nana woke up cheerful and refreshed, having apparently won her dream-battle against the squirrels.
"Good morning, husband!" She beamed, sitting up and stretching.
*She has no idea. No concept of the torture. The absolute chaos.*
"Morning, hamster," he managed, his voice slightly rougher than intended.
She scrambled off the bed—and off him—with the grace of a newborn giraffe. "I'm gonna make breakfast! Wait—no, you said I'm not allowed near the kitchen without supervision."
"Correct."
"Okay! Then I'll help you get ready for work!" She bounced excitedly. "I saw in a drama that wives help their husbands with their ties!"
Oh no.
Zayne stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his dress shirt. He'd already survived one disaster this morning (the knee incident). Surely nothing else could go wrong.
"Let me help!" Nana announced, appearing with a necktie.
"I'm perfectly capable—"
"Please?" Those eyes again. "I want to do wife things!"
*Wife things. She considers strangling me with a necktie a wife thing. This is concerning.*
"Fine," he sighed (number 8 of the morning). "But be careful. Neckties can be—"
Nana was already dragging a chair over.
*Why does she need a—oh. Right. Height differential.*
She climbed onto the chair with the determination of a feral hamster claiming territory, bringing her closer to his height. Now they were almost face-to-face.
*This is fine. She's just going to tie my necktie. Simple. Professional. Nothing could—*
Nana looped the tie around his neck and immediately pulled wrong.
The fabric tightened.
Around his throat.
Cutting off his airway.
*I'm being strangled. By my wife. With my own necktie. On a Tuesday morning.*
Zayne made a choking sound, hands immediately going to his throat.
"Oh no! Oh no oh no!" Nana's eyes went wide with panic. "I didn't mean—it's stuck—I don't know—"
She started pulling harder, trying to fix it, which only made it worse.
*ABORT. MAYDAY. OXYGEN DEPRIVATION IMMINENT.*
"Nana—" he choked out. "Stop—pulling—"
"I'M TRYING TO HELP!" Her hands flailed wildly, like a hawk attempting flight—or combat. "WHY IS IT NOT WORKING?!"
The chair started rocking.
*The chair is rocking. She's panicking. The chair is going to—*
Tip.
Everything happened in slow motion.
The chair tilted. Nana yelped—a sound of pure panic. Her hands grabbed for stability, which happened to be his shirt. Zayne lunged forward to catch her.
They went down together.
THUD.
Zayne's back hit the carpet. The air left his lungs in a whoosh.
And Nana landed on top of him.
No—not on top.
Underneath.
Somehow, in the chaos of falling, his doctor reflexes had kicked in. He'd twisted mid-fall, positioning himself to take the impact, cradling her head with one hand.
So now he was on top.
Pinning her to the carpet.
One hand beside her head. The other still tangled in the necktie around his throat—which she was still gripping. His body pressed against hers. Their faces inches apart.
Time stopped.
Medical assessment:
- Situation: Catastrophic
- Her position: Underneath me
- Her breathing: Unsteady
- Her eyes: Wide, shocked, beautiful
- Her lips: Slightly parted
- My thoughts: WILDLY inappropriate*
- Prognosis: I'm going to hell
Nana stared up at him, breathing hard from the panic and fall. Her hair was spread across the carpet like a halo. Her cheeks flushed pink. Her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him.
She looked beautiful.
Devastatingly, dangerously beautiful.
*She's underneath me. My wife is underneath me. Looking up at me with those eyes. Her lips are right there. Right. There.*
Zayne's gaze dropped to her mouth—soft, slightly parted, so close he could—
*NO. STOP. CLINICAL THOUGHTS. THINK CLINICAL THOUGHTS.*
But his body wasn't listening to his brain.
His hand tightened slightly in the carpet beside her head. His other hand—still tangled with hers in the necktie—trembled slightly.
*I want to kiss her. I want to kiss my wife. That's normal. That's acceptable. We're married. This is—*
*—completely inappropriate timing. She just tried to strangle me. This is not romantic. This is a disaster.*
But she was so soft. And warm. And looking at him like—
"Zayne?" she whispered, her voice breathy. "Are you okay?"
*Am I okay? No. No, I'm not okay. My sanity is on Mars. My professionalism is in shambles. My self-control is nonexistent. I'm imagining things. Wild things. Inappropriate things.*
*Like how easy it would be to just lean down and—*
"I'm fine," he lied, his voice rough and strained.
*Liar. You're dying. This is how you die. Death by adorable wife and catastrophic positioning.*
Her eyes searched his face. "You're staring."
"I'm ensuring you're not injured. Standard medical assessment." *Liar. You're staring at her lips. You're thinking about—*
"Your face is red."
"Elevated body temperature from the fall. Normal physiological response." *Liar. You're blushing. Blushing. You don't blush. This is her fault.*
"Oh." She bit her lower lip—a completely innocent gesture that nearly destroyed what remained of his composure. "I'm sorry I strangled you."
*She bit her lip. She bit her lip while underneath me. I'm going to hell. I'm going directly to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.*
"It's fine," he managed, though his voice sounded strangled for entirely different reasons now.
*Get up. Move. This position is dangerous. Abort mission.*
But he couldn't move.
His body had apparently decided to mutiny against his brain. He was frozen—one hand beside her head, the other still tangled with hers, body pressed against hers, staring at her like a man possessed.
*She's so small. I could just... if I just leaned down a little...*
*NO. BAD THOUGHTS. WRONG THOUGHTS. SHE NEARLY KILLED YOU. THIS IS NOT THE TIME.*
"Zayne?" Nana's voice was soft, curious. "Why do you look like that?"
"Like what?" *Please don't say 'like you want to devour me' please don't say—*
"Like... I don't know. Intense? Your eyes are really green right now. And dark. Are you sure you're okay?"
*My eyes are dark because I'm having wildly inappropriate thoughts about my wife while she's pinned beneath me on our bedroom carpet at 7:34 AM on a Tuesday and I'm supposed to be at the hospital in 26 minutes.*
"I'm fine," he repeated, finally—FINALLY—forcing himself to move.
He pushed himself up, carefully extracting himself from the tangle of limbs and necktie. His hands were steady through sheer force of will.
Once he was standing, he reached down and lifted her to her feet in one smooth motion.
She swayed slightly, and he steadied her with hands on her waist.
*Don't think about how perfectly her waist fits in your hands. Don't think about—*
"I'm sorry," Nana said again, looking genuinely distressed. "I ruined your tie. And almost killed you. I'm a terrible wife."
*A terrible wife. She thinks she's terrible. While looking up at me with those eyes. After nearly destroying my sanity twice in twelve hours.*
"You're not terrible," he said quietly, adjusting the destroyed necktie with clinical precision. "You're learning. Everyone makes mistakes."
"Really?"
"Really." He straightened his collar, desperately trying to regain his professional composure. "Though perhaps we should practice necktie technique with a mannequin first. For safety."
She giggled—that bright, sunshine sound that made his cardiac rhythm irregular. "Okay. No more necktie help until I practice."
"Agreed."
He moved to select a different tie from his collection, acutely aware that she was watching his every movement.
*I need to get to work. I need distance. I need to stop imagining—*
"Zayne?"
"Yes, hamster?"
"Your face is still red."
*Because I'm still thinking about you underneath me. About your lips. About how soft you felt. About how easy it would be to just—*
"Post-strangulation vascular response," he said flatly, selecting a navy tie. "Completely normal."
Liar. Liar. Liar.
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 7:52 AM (IN THE CAR)
Medical log - Day Three:
Survived night of Knee Incident. Barely. Sanity currently orbiting Mars. Estimated return: Never.
Morning activities:
- Was strangled by wife
- Fell on top of wife
- Had wildly inappropriate thoughts about wife
- Nearly kissed wife
- Considered calling in sick to stay in compromising position with wife
This is concerning. Very concerning.
She was underneath me. Looking up at me with those eyes. Her lips were right there. Her body was soft and warm and—
STOP. CLINICAL THOUGHTS. SURGICAL PROCEDURES. CARDIAC ANATOMY. ANYTHING.
Note: Her waist fits perfectly in my hands. That seems significant.
Additional note: I need to see a therapist. Or a cardiologist. Or both.
Observations:
- She apologized for nearly strangling me
- She called herself a terrible wife
- She giggled when I suggested mannequin practice
- She noticed I was blushing
- She has no idea what she does to me
That last one is probably for the best.
Prescription for self:
- Cold shower (multiple)
- Excessive coffee (deceased machine, tragedy)
- Distance (impossible, she lives with me)
- Professional boundaries (laughable at this point)
- Acceptance of fate (probably theonly viable option)
Current status: Driving to work. Attempting to focus on surgery. Failing. Keep thinking about her underneath me. Her lips. Her eyes. Her—
I'm doomed.
Completely, utterly, catastrophically doomed.
But also... when she looked up at me like that... my heart rate increased 47 BPM.
That seems... significant.
Concerning.
But also... nice?
I need help.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
BONUS: NANA'S THOUGHTS - 7:55 AM (HOME ALONE)
Nana sat on the carpet where they'd fallen, touching her lips thoughtfully.
When Zayne had been on top of her, looking at her with those intense eyes...
Her heart had done something weird.
Something fluttery.
Like butterflies. But more.
He looked like he wanted to kiss me, she thought, feeling her cheeks heat up.
But that's silly. We just got married. He probably thinks I'm just a clumsy disaster who breaks coffee machines and strangles people.
She flopped backward on the carpet, staring at the ceiling.
But he called me hamster. And he caught me when I fell. And he touches my waist like... like I'm precious.
Does he like me? Like, LIKE like me?
Or is he just being a good husband because that's what the arrangement is?
She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow.
His eyes were really dark. And intense. And he was staring at my lips.
Mina said that means something. She said when boys look at your lips, it means—
She squeaked and buried her face in the pillow.
I need to call Mina. Or Jisu. Or both.
But also... I kind of hope he does want to kiss me.
Is that weird?
We're married. Married people kiss. That's normal.
But we haven't really kissed since the wedding. And that was just a quick peck.
What if next time—
She sat up suddenly, face bright red.
*What am I thinking?! I sound like Mina! This is her influence! Bad Mina! Bad!*
But she couldn't stop thinking about how Zayne had looked at her.
How his hand had tightened in the carpet.
How his voice had gone rough.
How close his lips had been.
*I'm in trouble,* she thought, smiling despite herself. *I think I really, really like my husband.*
Like LIKE like him.
Oh no.
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.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.