Zayne sat in his armchair, reading a cardiology journal, trying very hard to focus on mitral valve repair techniques and not think about French kissing his wife two days ago.
He was failing spectacularly.
*Don't think about it. Don't remember. Focus on the valve. The mitral valve. Important cardiac structure. Not her tongue. Not her sounds. Not—*
"Zayne?"
He looked up to find Nana standing in front of him, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels.
*Oh no. That's her 'I want something' stance.*
"Yes, hamster?"
"I want something sweet."
Of course. She always wants something sweet.
"The macarons are in the—" he started, then stopped. *Wait. I hid them. She can't know where—*
"I KNOW you hid them!" Nana accused, pointing at him dramatically. "You think I don't notice?! You're a macaron thief! You eat them secretly! I saw you yesterday! You ate THREE of MY macarons and then hid the box!"
*She saw that? How did she—I was very careful—*
"I'm monitoring your sugar intake," he said calmly, though he could feel his ears turning red. "As your husband. And your doctor. It's my responsibility to—"
"You ATE them! You're a hypocrite! A handsome hypocrite but still!"
*Handsome. She called me handsome. Focus. Don't get distracted.*
"I had one macaron. As a reward for successful surgery. That's different from your consumption rate of—"
"THREE! You had THREE! I counted!"
*She counted. Of course she counted. She's like a hawk when it comes to her macaron inventory.*
"Fine," he sighed. "I'll return the macarons. But you need to moderate your—"
"I don't want the macarons," Nana interrupted, and suddenly she was pouting—full hamster pout, cheeks puffed, lower lip out.
*Tactical weapon deployed. This is psychological warfare.*
"Then what do you want?" he asked carefully.
She looked at him with big, innocent eyes. "Something sweeter."
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
*She doesn't mean—*
"I want a french kiss," she said, still pouting. "Your tongue tastes like macarons. Better than macarons. So I want that instead."
WHAT.
WHAT IS SHE SAYING.
*She wants to french kiss instead of eating macarons. She's replacing her sugar addiction with kissing addiction. This is—this is—*
"That's not—" he started weakly. "That's not how—you can't just—"
"Please?" She deployed the eyes. The big, pleading, devastating eyes. "Just one? Just a little one? I've been good! I only had two cookies today! And I didn't climb any trees! And I finished my vegetables!"
*She's negotiating for kisses like a child negotiating for dessert. This is my life now.*
"Nana—"
"Pleeeease?" She clasped her hands together. "Husband? My handsome, amazing husband who tastes better than macarons?"
*I'm weak. I'm so weak. This is pathetic. I'm a grown man. A doctor. A surgeon. I have willpower. I have control. I—*
"Come here," he heard himself say.
*I have nothing. No willpower. No control. Just weakness.*
Nana's face lit up like Christmas morning. She immediately scrambled into his lap—her designated spot apparently—straddling his thighs with zero hesitation.
*When did she get so comfortable doing this? When did my lap become her throne?*
She settled in, getting comfortable, and then—
She opened her mouth.
Wide.
Like she was about to eat a hamburger.
Just... sitting there. Mouth open. Waiting.
Zayne stared at her for approximately 3.7 seconds.
Then he huffed a laugh—an actual laugh, surprised out of him by the sheer ridiculousness.
"That's not—" he started, still laughing. "That's not how this works."
"It's not?" Nana looked confused, mouth still open.
"No, hamster. Close your mouth."
She closed it, pouting again. "But in the drama—"
"The drama is not a medical reference." He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks gently. "French kissing involves—" *why am I lecturing again* "—gradual progression. You don't just open your mouth like a fish. The lips meet first, closed, then gradually part as—"
"Show me," Nana interrupted, leaning closer.
*Educational purposes. This is educational. Just teaching proper technique. Nothing more.*
*Liar. You want this. You've been thinking about it for two days straight.*
He pulled her closer and kissed her.
Started soft—lips closed, gentle pressure, giving her time to adjust.
Then he tilted his head, parting his lips slightly, and deepened it.
*Just teaching. Just demonstrating. Just—*
Her mouth opened eagerly beneath his, and her tongue met his with zero hesitation this time.
*She's a fast learner. Of course she is. She learns everything fast.*
The kiss intensified. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers threading through her soft hair, angling her better.
*Better access. Better—*
She whimpered.
That sound.
That devastating, needy, adorable sound that destroyed his sanity.
His other hand tightened on her waist, pulling her closer against his chest.
*Stop. Don't lose control. This is just teaching. Just—*
She whimpered again, louder this time, and her small hands fisted in his shirt.
Oh god.
His tongue stroked against hers more firmly, showing her the rhythm, the pressure—
*Educational. Still educational. Just very thorough—*
Another whimper, and his grip tightened.
*I'm dying. This is how I die. Death by wife's sounds.*
He pulled back, breathing hard, every muscle tense.
Nana sat in his lap, lips swollen and wet, eyes glazed, breathing unsteady.
"More!" she demanded immediately, reaching for him.
What.
"More french kisses! That was so good! Like candy! Better than candy! More!"
*She's treating kissing like candy. Like a sugar rush. Like an addiction.*
*I've created a monster.*
"Nana, that's enough—"
"NO!" She pouted, bouncing slightly in his lap. "MORE! Just one more! Please please please?"
*The bouncing. She's bouncing. In my lap. While asking for more kisses. This is torture. Exquisite torture.*
Zayne stared at her—at her pleading eyes, her kiss-swollen lips, her flushed cheeks.
His eyes darkened.
*I should say no. Should establish boundaries. Should—*
But he was looking at her lips again. And her eyes. And her small body pressed against him. And—
*One more. Just one more. What harm could—*
Famous last words.
He sighed—a sound of defeat, of surrender.
"The sounds," he said quietly, his voice rough. "You need to stop making those sounds."
"What sounds?"
"The—" he paused, searching for clinical terminology. "The vocalizations. The whimpering. It's—distracting."
"Oh!" She looked thoughtful. "Okay! I'll be quiet! I promise! No sounds!"
*This is a terrible idea. But I'm doing it anyway.*
He pulled her close and kissed her again.
Deeper this time. More intense. Less teaching, more—
*Want. This is want. Pure want.*
Nana tried—she really tried—to stay quiet.
Lasted approximately 4.2 seconds.
Then she made a small sound in the back of her throat, muffled but still there, and—
Zayne groaned.
Actually groaned into her mouth.
*That was not clinical. That was not professional. That was—*
She wiggled in his lap, trying to get closer, and—
*Oh god. The wiggling. The cursed wiggling.*
His hands moved almost involuntarily—one to her lower back, pressing her against him, the other to her hip, holding her still.
*Stop wiggling. Stop moving. If you keep—*
She wiggled again, making another muffled sound, and Zayne's control—already fragile—snapped completely.
In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting her with him, and laid her back on the couch.
*Again. We're doing this again. Why does she always end up underneath me.*
*You know why. You put her there. Because you want her there.*
He was on top of her now, one hand beside her head, the other still on her waist, kissing her like a man possessed.
*This is not teaching. This is not demonstrating. This is—*
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and made another one of those sounds—
*I'm going to die. Right here. On this couch. Death by French kissing my wife.*
His tongue stroked deeper, tasting, exploring, completely abandoning any pretense of education.
*She's so small. So soft. So—*
Her legs shifted, making space for him between them, and—
DANGER. ABORT. RED ALERT.
He pulled back sharply, breathing like he'd run a marathon.
Nana lay beneath him, hair spread across the couch cushion, lips red and swollen, eyes dazed, breathing hard.
"Why—" she started breathlessly, "—why did you stop?"
*Because if I don't stop now I won't stop at all. Because we're heading toward territory we haven't discussed. Because I want you so badly I can't think straight and that's dangerous.*
"Because," he managed, his voice wrecked, "this is supposed to be just kissing."
"It is kissing!"
"It's—" he paused. *How do I explain this clinically?* "It's progressing toward activities beyond the scope of the current lesson."
She blinked at him in confusion. "What?"
She has no idea. No concept. Completely innocent.
And I'm here wanting things that are decidedly not innocent.
"Trust me," he said quietly. "We should stop."
"But I want more!"
*I want more too. That's the problem.*
"Later," he said, pushing himself up and off her with superhuman effort.
"But—"
"LATER, hamster." He ran a hand through his hair—his hair that she'd been tugging again. "I need—I need to check something. In my study. Medical thing. Very urgent."
*I'm running away. Again. Like a coward.*
"You keep having urgent medical things," Nana observed, sitting up and touching her lips. "Are you okay?"
*No. I'm dying. Your fault. Completely your fault.*
"I'm fine," he lied.
"Your face is red."
"Elevated blood flow. Normal physiological response."
"To what?"
*To you. To kissing you. To wanting you so badly I can barely function.*
"To the situation," he said vaguely, already backing toward his study.
"Wait!" Nana scrambled off the couch. "Can I have more later? After your medical thing?"
*More. She wants more. Of course she wants more.*
"We'll see," he managed.
"That's not a no!" She smiled brightly. "Okay! I'll wait! But not too long! Because your tongue tastes really good and I want more!"
*She's talking about my tongue tasting good. Casually. Like discussing the weather.*
He fled to his study before he did something catastrophic like agreeing to give her unlimited kissing privileges.
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🌻🌻🌻
NANA'S THOUGHTS - 8:23 PM (ON THE COUCH)
Nana sat on the couch, touching her lips, smiling like an idiot.
That was AMAZING.
Better than the first time. Better than macarons. Better than ANYTHING.
She flopped backward on the cushions, giggling.
He made sounds. Deep sounds. Groaning sounds. That means he likes it too, right?
Definitely likes it.
His eyes got so dark again. And his hands—
She touched her waist where he'd gripped her.
He held me like he didn't want to let go. Like he wanted to keep me there forever.
And then he put me underneath him again.
Why does he keep doing that?
Not that I'm complaining. It feels... nice. Safe. And also exciting? And tingly?
She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow.
He said I made sounds. Distracting sounds.
I tried to be quiet! But it's HARD! Because kissing him feels so GOOD and I can't help it and—
Wait.
She sat up suddenly.
If my sounds distract him... that means he's affected by them. That means... he likes them?
But he also said to stop.
Mixed signals!
Boys are confusing. Husbands are confusing.
But also...
She smiled again, touching her lips.
He keeps kissing me. Even though he says we should stop. Even though he runs away after. He keeps coming back.
That has to mean something.
And he said "later." Not "no." Not "never." LATER.
That's practically a promise!
She bounced excitedly on the couch.
I discovered the best thing. Better than macarons. Better than climbing trees. Better than talking to squirrels.
Kissing my husband.
French kissing my husband.
I want to do it all the time. Is that normal? Mina said married people do it a lot. So it's probably normal.
Very normal.
Educational.
She giggled at that.
He keeps saying educational. Like he's teaching me. But he looks like he's dying. In a good way? A struggling way?
Men are weird.
But I like MY man.
My handsome, tall, serious, sweet-tongue man who keeps putting me on my back and then running away.
I should ask Mina about that. The running away part.
Actually no. This is private. Special.
Just me and Zayne.
And his tongue that tastes like macarons.
And his hands that hold me like I'm precious.
And his sounds that make me feel tingly.
Yeah.
I definitely love him.
And I'm definitely going to ask for more french kisses.
Later.
When he's done with his "urgent medical thing."
Which I'm pretty sure is just him hiding.
She smiled and settled into the couch, already planning her next kissing negotiation.
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🌻🌻🌻
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 8:45 PM (STUDY)
Medical log - Day Ten - Emergency entry:
SOS. MAYDAY. CRITICAL SITUATION.
Wife has developed kissing addiction. Replaced macaron addiction with french kissing addiction. This is worse. Significantly worse.
What happened:
- She wanted something sweet
- She wanted MY MOUTH
- She said my tongue tastes better than macarons
- She climbed in my lap
- She opened her mouth like a hamburger (adorable idiot)
- I laughed (fatal mistake)
- I kissed her (another fatal mistake)
- She whimpered (game over)
- She asked for MORE (catastrophic)
- She bounced in my lap demanding kisses "like candy" (death)
- I told her to stop making sounds
- She promised (lasted 4 seconds)
- She wiggled (critical failure)
- I groaned (lost all credibility)
- She ended up underneath me AGAIN (this is a pattern)
- I fled AGAIN (also a pattern)
Current status: Hiding. Again. This is becoming my default state.
Observations that are destroying my sanity:
1. She replaces macarons with my mouth
- *Concerning
- *Flattering
- *Devastating to my self-control
2. She demands kisses like treats
- *"More! Like candy!"
- *I'm candy now
- *My life is absurd
3. She bounces when excited
- *In my lap
- *While asking for kisses
- *This should be illegal
4. She can't stay quiet
- *Whimpers constantly
- *Makes sounds that kill me
- *Promised to stop
- *Failed immediately
- *I don't even want her to stop
5. She always ends up underneath me
- *Every time
- *Without fail
- *Because I PUT HER THERE
- *Because I want her there
- *This is a problem
Physiological response catalog:
- *Heart rate when she asks for kisses: 134 BPM
- *Heart rate when she whimpers: 156 BPM
- *Heart rate when she wiggles: 178 BPM
- *Heart rate when she's underneath me: CONCERNING
Things I groaned about today:
- *Her sounds
- *Her wiggling
- *Her taste
- *Her everything
This is not professional. This isnot clinical. This is not appropriate.
This is me wanting my wife so badly I can't function.
She said my tongue tastes like macarons. Said it AGAIN. Casually. Like it's a fact she's discovered.
"Your tongue tastes really good and I want more!"
How do I respond to that? What's the appropriate medical response?
There isn't one. Because this is not a medical situation. This is me falling apart.
She wants more. Later. After my "urgent medical thing."
She knows I'm hiding. She KNOWS. And she's just... waiting. Patiently. Formore kisses.
Like I'm a vending machine.
Insert request, receive french kiss.
This is my life now.
The worst part?
I want to give her unlimited kisses. Want to teach her everything. Want to makeher make those sounds constantly.
Want to keep her underneath me and—
STOP.
Don't finish that thought.
Too late. Already finished. Already imagining.
I'm weak. So weak.
"I'm a weak man especially for Nana."
This is my diagnosis. Official. Medical. Documented.
Weak.
For my wife who climbs in my lap demanding kisses like they're candy.
Who wiggles and whimpers and makes sounds that destroy me.
Who looks up at me with those eyes and asks for "more."
Who tastes like curiosity and sunshineand everything I shouldn't want but absolutely do.
I'm going to give her more.
Later.
When she asks.
Because I can't say no to her.
Ever.
*Prescription for self:
- *Accept fate (done)
- *Stop running away (unlikely)
- *Figure out how to kiss wife without losing all control (impossible)
- *Come to terms with being kissing vending machine (in progress)
- *Admit I love her (NOT READY)
Wait.
Did I just—
Love her?
Do I love her?
...
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
I love her.
I'm in love with my wife.
My chaotic, macaron-eating, tree-climbing, squirrel-talking, wiggling, whimpering, adorable disaster of a wife.
This is bad.
Very bad.
Because she probably just likes kissing. Likes the sensation. The sweetness.
She doesn't—
She couldn't—
Could she?
No. Don't hope. Don't assume. Just... survive.
One french kiss at a time.
Like candy, she said.
I'm candy now.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
Prognosis: I'm completely, utterly, catastrophically in love with my wife who thinks my tongue tastes like macarons and wants to kiss me "like candy."
And I'm going to give her exactly what she wants.
Because I'm weak.
So weak.
But also... happy?
Doomed and happy.
New status: Acceptably doomed and surprisingly happy.
God help me.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.