Zayne was making breakfast—actual breakfast this time, since Nana was banned from kitchen operations after the coffee machine massacre.
He was very focused on the eggs.
Very focused.
Definitely not thinking about French kissing.
Not at all.
Tug.
He felt a small hand grip the back of his shirt.
"Zayne," Nana's voice came from behind him. "About yesterday's question—"
Oh no.
"The eggs require my full attention," he said quickly, not turning around.
Tug tug.
"But I'm still curious—"
"The eggs are at a critical temperature. Protein denaturation is time-sensitive—"
TUG.
"Zayne, what about the French kissing?"
The spatula clattered into the pan.
*She's not going to let this go. Of course she's not going to let this go. She never lets anything go. This is the squirrel incident times one thousand.*
"Hamster," he said carefully, finally turning around.
She was looking up at him with those big, curious eyes, still gripping his shirt like a baby hamster refusing to let go of its mother.
*Why is that adorable. This should not be adorable. This is psychological warfare.*
"I told you—"
"But you explained it with science words! I want to understand! For educational purposes!" She tugged his shirt again for emphasis.
*Educational purposes. She keeps saying educational purposes like that makes it better. It does not make it better. It makes it WORSE.*
Zayne's sanity, already fragile after multiple cold showers and zero sleep, crumbled a little more.
*Fine. FINE. If she wants an answer, I'll give her an answer that will make her stop asking.*
He made a decision.
A terrible decision.
A decision he would regret approximately 4.7 seconds after implementing it.
"Come here," he said quietly.
Nana blinked. "What?"
"If you want to know, come here."
She stepped closer, tilting her head in confusion.
Zayne reached down, cupped her small face in his hands—his hands were shaking slightly, why were they shaking—and leaned down.
*This is fine. Just a peck. A simple peck. Then she'll stop asking. This is a tactical maneuver. Nothing more.*
He pressed his lips to hers.
Soft. Quick. Chaste.
A peck.
Nothing like actual French kissing.
He pulled back immediately, looking at her with his most serious doctor expression.
"That," he lied smoothly, "is French kissing. For students. Age-appropriate educational demonstration. Any questions?"
*Please don't have questions. Please accept this lie. Please—*
Nana's entire face lit up like sunrise.
"THAT'S IT?!" She beamed, bouncing on her toes. "That's so nice! It's warm and soft and—can we do it again?!"
What have I done.
"Again?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes! For practice! Students need practice, right? That's what Jisu said! You practice things to get good at them!"
*I'm going to freeze Jisu. Solid ice. Forever.*
"That's not—"
But Nana was already tugging his shirt, pulling him down. "Please? Just one more? For practice?"
No. Say no. Be firm. Establish boundaries.
He leaned down and pecked her lips again.
*Why did I do that. Why. My brain has stopped functioning.*
She giggled—actually giggled—and touched her lips with her fingers. "This is so nice! No wonder drama people do it all the time!"
*Drama people do more than this. Significantly more. But she doesn't need to know that. Ever.*
"Now you know," he said, desperately trying to regain control of the situation. "So we can stop talking about—"
"Can we do it again?"
I've created a monster.
The problem with lying to Nana about what French kissing was, Zayne discovered, was that she now wanted to do it constantly.
"Zayne, I'm going to study!" Peck.
"Zayne, I'm making tea!" Peck.
"Zayne, I saw a squirrel outside!" Peck.
Each time she bounded up to him, grabbed his shirt, pulled him down, and demanded a "practice kiss."
*This is my life now. I'm being held hostage by a hamster demanding constant pecks.*
The worst part?
He couldn't say no.
Every time she looked up at him with those expectant eyes, his resolve crumbled like a poorly constructed sand castle.
*I'm weak. This is a medical diagnosis. Weakness. Cause: Wife. Cure: None available.*
Now, at 10:23 AM on a Saturday, Zayne sat on the couch reviewing medical journals while Nana insisted on watching an "educational movie."
She'd climbed into his lap without asking.
Just... climbed up there like it was her designated seat.
*When did my lap become her personal furniture?*
She was currently curled against his chest, her small body fitting perfectly in the space between his arms and his torso, watching a documentary about marine biology.
"Educational" apparently meant "no kissing scenes that will destroy my sanity."
But this position was destroying his sanity for entirely different reasons.
*She fits. She fits perfectly. Why does she fit perfectly. This is concerning.*
Nana shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and—
Oh no.
She wiggled.
Her bottom pressed more firmly against his lap as she adjusted position.
*Stop wiggling. Please stop wiggling. For the love of—*
She wiggled again, completely absorbed in the documentary about dolphins.
*She has no idea. No concept. No awareness that every movement is—*
Zayne's hand tightened on his medical journal, crinkling the pages.
*Clinical thoughts. Think clinical thoughts. Anatomical structures. Cardiovascular pathways. Mitochondria. The powerhouse of the—*
"Zayne, look!" Nana pointed at the screen excitedly. "Baby dolphins!"
She wiggled again for emphasis.
*I'm going to die. Death by wiggling. This is how I die.*
"Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "Very educational."
*Why does the universe hate me. What did I do. I'm a good doctor. I help people. I save lives. Why am I being tortured.*
She leaned back against his chest, sighing contentedly, her hair tickling his chin.
*She's comfortable. She trusts me completely. She has no idea that I'm having a cardiovascular crisis.*
His hand moved automatically to rest on her waist—just to steady her, he told himself. Nothing more.
*Her waist fits perfectly in my hand. I've noticed this multiple times now. This seems significant.*
"This is nice," Nana murmured, half-watching the documentary. "Watching movies with you."
*It would be nicer if you stopped wiggling. And if you weren't in my lap. And if I could think clearly. And if—*
"Mm-hmm," he responded, because actual words were beyond him.
She tilted her head back to look up at him, smiling. "Can I have a practice kiss?"
*We're on kiss number 47 today. I've counted. This is excessive.*
But he leaned down and pecked her lips anyway.
*I'm weak. So weak.*
She giggled and settled back against him, returning to the dolphins.
Zayne stared at his medical journal, seeing nothing, thinking only about:
1. How she fit in his lap
2. How she wiggled
3. How she kept asking for kisses
4. How he kept giving them to her
5. How screwed he was
Very screwed. Medically, professionally, personally screwed.
Zayne had retreated to his study under the guise of "important research" which was actually "hiding from my wife who keeps asking for kisses."
He lasted approximately 23 minutes before she found him.
"ZAYNE!" Nana burst through the door, tablet in hand, face flushed with excitement.
*Oh no. That's her 'I discovered something' face. This is going to be a disaster.*
"Yes, hamster?"
"I was watching the drama with Mina over video call and—look!" She thrust the tablet at him.
On screen, paused mid-scene, were two actors engaged in what was very clearly actual French kissing. Mouths open. Tongues visible. Highly intimate.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
"THAT'S French kissing!" Nana announced. "What we've been doing is just PECKING! You LIED to me!"
*Technically yes. But for good reason. For self-preservation. For—*
"That's—" he started.
"Mina said you tricked me! She said real French kissing has TONGUE! And it's open-mouth! And it's—" she gestured at the screen, "—like THAT!"
*I'm going to kill Mina. Slowly. With ice. Lots of ice.*
"So can we do the REAL kind now?!" Nana looked at him expectantly.
Zayne's brain short-circuited.
Again.
*She wants to do the real kind. The actual kind. With tongue. And open mouth. And—*
NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. I CAN BARELY SURVIVE PECKING. ACTUAL FRENCH KISSING WOULDKILL ME.
"No," he said firmly.
"Why not?!" She pouted. "We're married! It's normal! And I'm curious!"
"You're always curious. Your curiosity is going to be the death of both of us."
"But—"
"And furthermore," he continued, standing up to his full height to look more authoritative, "you've consumed excessive sugar today. I've counted. Three macaron boxes. Two chocolate bars. A slice of cake. Your glucose levels are—"
"You're changing the subject!"
"I'm addressing your health concerns—"
"ZAYNE!" She stomped her foot. "I want to learn about French kissing!"
"Flamingo position. Five minutes. Now."
"WHAT?! For asking a question?!"
"For excessive sugar consumption AND inappropriate questioning influenced by terrible friends."
"This is so UNFAIR!"
"Corner. Now."
Nana glared at him—actually glared, her hamster cheeks puffed out in indignation—but trudged to the corner.
She assumed the flamingo position with the energy of someone being deeply wronged.
"This is tyranny!" she announced.
"This is appropriate boundary setting," he replied, sitting back down.
"I'm going to tell my squirrel friend about this!"
"Your squirrel friend doesn't care about your marriage problems."
"Yes he does! He's very supportive! Unlike SOME PEOPLE!"
*I'm being compared unfavorably to a squirrel. This is my life now.*
Zayne tried to return to his research, but his mind kept wandering to:
1. The image on her tablet
2. What actual French kissing would be like
3. With her
4. Her tongue
5. Her mouth
6. Her making sounds
7. Her hands in his hair
8. Her—
STOP. FOCUS. WORK.
But the truth was gnawing at him.
The truth he didn't want to admit.
The truth that made this whole situation more complicated.
*I've never actually done it either.*
Women had always been intimidated by him. His height. His cold demeanor. His intense focus on work. His stoic expression that apparently screamed "unapproachable."
Never.
He'd never cared enough about anyone to want to.Because he waiting his soulmate to rebirth.
Until now.
Until her.
This is problematic. Very problematic.
"Time's up!" Nana announced, dropping her leg. "So can we—"
"No."
She pouted harder. "You're mean."
"I'm practical."
"You're scared," she accused, narrowing her eyes.
*Yes. Terrified. Because I want to way too much.*
"I'm cautious," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Mina said—"
"Mina needs to stop existing," he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Flamingo position. Another five minutes for mentioning that name."
"ZAYNE!"
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
That evening, Zayne lay in bed reading a medical journal while Nana got ready for sleep.
She emerged from the bathroom in her usual tiny pajamas—shorts that should be illegal and a tank top that was barely there.
*Why. Why does she own these. Why does she wear them. This is psychological warfare.*
She climbed into bed beside him, unusually quiet.
"Hamster?" he asked, not looking up from his journal. "You're being suspiciously silent."
"I'm thinking," she mumbled.
*Dangerous. Her thinking is always dangerous.*
"About what?"
"About how you won't French kiss me."
*Of course. Of course that's what she's thinking about.*
"Nana—"
"Is it because you don't want to?" Her voice was small. "Or because you don't like me that way?"
Zayne's journal lowered slowly.
*What.*
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
She was curled on her side, facing away from him, shoulders hunched.
*She thinks I don't want to. She thinks I don't like her.*
*When the truth is I want to so badly I can barely function. I like her so much it's becoming a medical concern.*
"Nana," he said quietly. "Look at me."
She turned slightly, peeking over her shoulder with uncertain eyes.
"I—" he paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's not that I don't want to."
"Then why—"
"Because," he interrupted gently, "I'm trying to be appropriate. Respectful. You're curious about everything, but some things... some things need to happen naturally. Not because your friends suggested it. Not because you saw it in a drama."
"But we're married," she said softly.
"Yes. We are." His hand reached out almost unconsciously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And we have time. All the time in the world."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "So eventually?"
Eventually is a dangerous word.
"Eventually," he conceded, because he couldn't lie to those eyes.
She brightened immediately. "Okay! I can wait! I'm very patient!"
*She's not patient. She's the least patient person I've ever met. But I appreciate the effort.*
"Good," he said, returning to his journal with relief.
"Zayne?"
"Hm?"
"Can I still have practice pecks?"
He sighed—sigh number 89 of the day.
"Yes, hamster. You can still have practice pecks."
"YAY!" She immediately climbed across the bed and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Practice!"
Then his other cheek. "Practice!"
Then his forehead. "Practice!"
Then his nose. "Practice!"
*She's giving me practice pecks everywhere except my actual mouth now. This is somehow worse.*
"I think that's sufficient practice for tonight," he managed.
"But what about—"
"Sleep, Nana."
She pouted but curled up beside him—too close, as always, but he'd stopped fighting it.
Within minutes, she was asleep, breathing soft and even.
Zayne looked down at her, so small and peaceful beside him.
*Eventually, she said.*
*Eventually I'll have to actually teach her. Show her. Do all the things I've been imagining.*
Eventually.
His hand moved to stroke her hair gently.
*I'm so screwed.*
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 11:47 PM
Medical log - Day Six:
Made catastrophic error: Told wife that pecking was French kissing. She believed it. Now demands constant pecks. Have performed approximately 67 pecks today. Have lost count. Have lost sanity.
She sat in my lap for three hours. Wiggled constantly. Has no awareness of anatomy or positioning or the cardiovascular crisis she causes. Universe is cruel.
She discovered the truth. Mina revealed my deception. Wife now knows about actual French kissing. Demanded demonstration. Refused. Administered flamingo punishment. She threatened to tell her squirrel.
Additional complications:
- She thinks I don't want to kiss her
- Truth: I want to catastrophically much
- Problem: I've never actually done it properly either
- Bigger problem: I want to do it with her
- Biggest problem: "Eventually" is now a timeline
Observations:
- She fits perfectly in my lap (concerning)
- She asks for kisses 50+ times daily (exhausting)
- She pouts when denied (effective warfare)
- She gives pecks to random parts of my face (confusing but... nice?)
- She believes my lies temporarily (useful)*
- She discovers truth eventually (problematic)
Current status: Lying next to wife who is currently using my arm as a pillow. She's drooling slightly. It's adorable. I'm doomed.
Note: Eventually is approaching. I can feel it. Like a countdown. Like a surgical deadline. Except the surgery is French kissing my wife and I'm completely unqualified despite being a cardiac surgeon.
The irony is not lost on me.
Prescription for self:
- Cold showers (ineffective but trying)
- Distance (impossible)
- Professional boundaries (laughable)
- Acceptance of fate (in progress)
- Maybe research? (No. Bad idea. Would make it worse.)
- Just... survive until "eventually" (current plan)
She wiggled in my lap 47 times today. Forty-seven. I counted because counting helps me maintain sanity.
It doesn't help.
Nothing helps.
She wants French kissing lessons.
I want to give them to her.
This is the problem.
Prognosis: Eventually is going to kill me.
But also... she thinks I don't want to. I told her "eventually" and she smiled. She's willing to wait.
That seems... significant.
She trusts me. Trusts that "eventually" means something.
I should probably figure out what I'm doing before "eventually" arrives.
Note: Do NOT research French kissing techniques. That's admitting defeat.
Additional note: ...maybe just a little research? For educational purposes? To be prepared?
NO. BAD ZAYNE. TERRIBLE IDEA.
But also... she deserves someone who knows what they're doing.
And I have literally no idea what I'm doing.
This is concerning.
Very concerning.
Why did I say "eventually"?
What was I thinking?
Oh right. I wasn't thinking. I never think clearly around her.
Doomed. Absolutely doomed.
But she's drooling on my arm and it's adorable and I don't want to move.
So... acceptably doomed?
Yes. Acceptably doomed.
Until "eventually" arrives.
Then catastrophically doomed.
May god have mercy on my soul.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.