Zayne stood at the kitchen counter, preparing breakfast with surgical precision—eggs cooked to exact specifications, toast at optimal browning, coffee brewed to perfection (from his new coffee machine, purchased with extreme prejudice after the massacre of its predecessor).
Nana sat at the counter, watching him with soft eyes, chin propped on her hands.
They hadn't made eye contact yet this morning.
*The incident. We're both pretending the incident didn't happen. This is fine. Professional avoidance. Very mature.*
"Breakfast," he announced, sliding a plate toward her.
"Thank you, husband!" She beamed, immediately digging in.
*She's acting normal. Maybe she forgot? Maybe the trauma of bonking into walls erased her memory?*
"Zayne?" she said between bites.
"Mm?"
"You really do look like a Greek statue. I wasn't lying. Very... sculpted. Everywhere."
*She did not forget. She remembers EVERYTHING.*
His ears turned red. "We're not discussing—"
"I'm just saying! For accuracy! Medical accuracy!" She smiled innocently. "You don't need to be embarrassed. You look very handsome. And big. Everywhere."
BIG. SHE SAID BIG. EVERYWHERE.
*I'm going to combust. Right here. In my kitchen. Spontaneous human combustion.*
"Eat your breakfast," he said flatly, returning to his coffee.
"Okay!" She went back to eating, humming happily.
*She's humming. She saw me naked, confirmed inappropriate correlations, and now she's HUMMING.*
Twenty minutes later, they were both ready to leave—him in his doctor's coat and tie, her in her art college outfit with paint stains already somehow present.
"Ready?" he asked, grabbing his keys.
"WAIT!" Nana rushed over and grabbed his tie.
*Oh no. Not the tie. We've established ties are dangerous with her—*
She pulled.
Hard.
The fabric tightened around his throat.
*I'm being strangled. Again. This is becoming a pattern.*
"Nana—" he choked out, "—what are you—"
"Kiss!" she announced, still pulling. "Husbands kiss wives goodbye! I saw it in a drama! It's what married people do!"
*She's using strangulation as negotiation tactics. This is concerning.*
"You're—choking—me—"
"Oh!" She loosened her grip immediately. "Sorry! I just wanted a kiss!"
*Could have just asked. Like a normal person. Without attempted homicide.*
Zayne bent down—way down, his spine protesting the familiar angle—bringing himself to her height.
*The height differential. My eternal nemesis.*
Nana immediately planted a kiss on his lips—quick, sweet, innocent.
Then his cheek.
Then his other cheek.
Like a baby hamster distributing affection.
*Why is this adorable. This should not be adorable. I was just strangled.*
Then she pressed her face against his doctor's coat and nuzzled into it.
*She's... nuzzling me. Like a cat. My wife is a cat now.*
"Hamster, what are you doing?"
"Nuzzling!" she said, voice muffled by his coat. "So you smell like my perfume! Then everyone at the hospital knows you're taken!"
*She's scent-marking me. Like territory. I'm territory now.*
"Everyone at the hospital already knows I'm married," he pointed out.
"But now you'll smell like me ALL DAY!" She pulled back, looking pleased with herself. "So those nurses who cry about you will KNOW!"
*She's jealous of the nurses. My wife is jealous. That's... that's actually kind of...*
*Don't say cute. Don't think cute.*
...cute.
He sighed, but found himself smiling despite everything. "Come on. I'll drive you."
Zayne pulled up to the university entrance, preparing to drop her off quickly—he had surgeries scheduled, rounds to complete, patient files to review.
But Nana had other plans.
Before he could even put the car in park, she unbuckled her seatbelt and launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug.
"Nana, we're in public—"
"I DON'T CARE!" she announced loudly. "EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW YOU'RE MY HUSBAND!"
*She's making a scene. She's actively making a scene. There are students staring.*
"Let people see!" She pulled back, grinning. "Let them see I have the handsomest husband! The one who looks like a Greek statue!"
*GREEK STATUE. IN PUBLIC. SHE SAID IT IN PUBLIC.*
"Nana—"
"With the long elegant hands and—" she started, and Zayne immediately covered her mouth with his hand.
*NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. WE ARE NOT DISCUSSING CORRELATIONS IN A SCHOOL PARKING LOT.*
"We're not finishing that sentence," he said firmly.
She giggled against his palm, eyes sparkling with mischief.
*She's doing this on purpose. She knows exactly what she's doing.*
He removed his hand and she immediately kissed his cheek again—loud, exaggerated, definitely for the benefit of the watching students.
"BYE HUSBAND! I LOVE YOU! SEE YOU TONIGHT!"
She bounded out of the car before he could process—
Wait.
Did she just—
Did she say—
Love?
She was already running toward her friends—he spotted Mina and Jisu waiting near the entrance, both waving at him with knowing grins.
She said love. Casually. Like it's a fact. Like—
His phone buzzed. Text from Nana:
"I nuzzled you so now you smell like me! Everyone will know you're taken! 💕🐹"
He stared at the text, then at his doctor's coat, which did indeed smell faintly of her vanilla perfume.
*She marked me. Verbally claimed me. Said she loves me. And marked me with perfume.*
*I'm territory. Beloved territory.*
*That's... that's...*
He found himself huffing a quiet laugh as he put the car in drive.
*She's ridiculous.*
*Completely ridiculous.*
*And I—*
*—I might love her too.*
*Might.*
*Probably.*
*Definitely.*
*Oh no.*
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🌻🌻🌻
Zayne arrived home to find his kitchen transformed into a disaster zone.
Flour covered every surface. Syrup dripped from the cabinets. Something was smoking in the oven. And in the center of this chaos stood Nana, covered head to toe in various cooking ingredients, holding a spatula like a weapon.
"HUSBAND!" she announced proudly. "I MADE DINNER!"
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
"Nana, what—" he stepped into the kitchen, assessing the damage with growing horror. "What happened here?"
"I cooked!" She gestured enthusiastically at the stove, where something was definitely burning. "My mother said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach! So I made pasta! And pancakes! And—"
"Why are there pancakes with pasta?"
"I got confused about which meal!"
*She got confused. About which meal. This explains nothing.*
Zayne moved quickly to turn off the stove and oven, preventing further disaster.
The pasta was... creative. Somehow both overcooked and undercooked simultaneously. The pancakes were burnt on one side, raw on the other, and covered in what appeared to be the entire bottle of syrup.
*She committed kitchen arson. Actual arson. There's char.*
"I wanted to make you a good meal!" Nana explained, looking distressed now. "Because you always cook for me and I wanted to do something nice and mother said a good wife knows how to cook and—"
*She tried. For me. She destroyed the kitchen. For me.*
"Hamster," he said gently, pulling her into a hug despite the flour covering her. "The way to my heart is much shorter than my stomach."
She pulled back, blinking up at him with confused eyes. "Shorter than stomach?"
"Yes."
"Like... HERE?" She pointed down. Way down. Below stomach territory.
WHAT.
*NO.*
*THAT'S NOT—*
*WHY WOULD SHE—*
Zayne choked on absolutely nothing—no food, no liquid, just air.
"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" he managed, coughing.
"But you said shorter than stomach and that's—"
"I MEANT MY HEART!" He gestured emphatically at his chest. "The organ! Right here! In my thoracic cavity! Shorter distance! Not—not THAT!"
"Ohhhhh!" Understanding dawned on her face. "Your actual heart! That makes more sense!"
*WHAT DID SHE THINK I MEANT. WHY IS SHE LIKE THIS.*
"You already have my heart," he continued, still recovering from the choking. "You don't need to cook. Or destroy kitchens. Or commit culinary crimes against pasta."
"Really?" She smiled hopefully.
"Really." He kissed her forehead. "Now go shower. You're covered in... is that flour or cocaine?"
"FLOUR! Why would I have—"
"Go. Shower. I'll clean this and order actual dinner."
"Okay!" She bounded off, leaving flour footprints.
*She tried to cook. For me. Nearly burned down the house. For me.*
*I'm definitely in love with her.*
Catastrophically in love.
They'd eaten takeout—safe, edible, non-burned food. They'd talked about their days. They'd avoided mentioning the naked incident (mostly).
Now they were in bed, Zayne reading, Nana curled beside him, unusually quiet.
*Too quiet. Again. This means she's thinking. Thinking is dangerous.*
"Zayne?" came her small voice.
Here it comes.
"Yes, hamster?"
"Can we do our routine?"
"What routine?"
"The french kiss routine!" She sat up, looking at him with eager eyes. "Before bed! So I have good dreams! You give me french kisses and then I sleep well and dream about nice things!"
*That's not—that's not how sleep works. That's not—*
*She wants a french kiss routine. A nightly french kiss routine.*
*This is dangerous. Very dangerous.*
"That's not scientifically proven to improve sleep quality," he said weakly.
"But I sleep better after!" She insisted. "And I have nice dreams! About you! And macarons! And you TASTING like macarons!"
*I've lost. This argument is lost. I never stood a chance.*
"Fine," he sighed, setting his journal aside. "Come here."
She immediately scrambled into his lap—her designated throne—straddling him with practiced ease.
*When did she get so comfortable doing this? When did I get so comfortable with her doing this?*
"Ready!" she announced, closing her eyes and waiting.
*She looks like she's waiting for communion. This is ridiculous.*
He cupped her face and kissed her.
Started gentle—just lips, soft pressure, giving her what she wanted.
But then her hands moved to his shoulders, gripping lightly.
And her lips parted beneath his.
And her tongue met his with that eager curiosity that destroyed him every time.
*Just a goodnight kiss. Keep it brief. Don't lose control.*
But his hands were already moving—one threading through her hair, the other sliding to her waist, pulling her closer.
The kiss deepened.
*Brief. This was supposed to be brief.*
Her small sound—that whimper that killed him—vibrated against his lips.
*Control. Maintain control. This is just—*
Another whimper, and his grip tightened on her waist.
His tongue stroked against hers more firmly, less teaching now, more claiming.
*Stop. You should stop. This is getting—*
She whimpered again, louder, and shifted in his lap—
His hands wandered.
One stayed in her hair, the other slid from her waist to her hip, then higher, along her ribs, his thumb brushing—
DANGER. STOP. BOUNDARIES.
He started to pull back, to regain control—
And felt her body go limp.
What—
He pulled back completely to find Nana's eyes closed, breathing deep and even, completely asleep.
*She fell asleep. Mid-kiss. She literally fell asleep while I was kissing her.*
She was still sitting in his lap, head lolling forward onto his shoulder, fast asleep like someone had flipped a switch.
*This is—*
*She—*
*MID-KISS.*
*FELL ASLEEP.*
*MID-KISS.*
Zayne sat there, one hand still in her hair, the other on her ribs, completely frozen, trying to process.
*I was kissing my wife. It was getting intense. My hands were wandering. And she fell asleep.*
*Just... fell asleep.*
*Like sleep was more interesting than kissing me.*
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
*This is the most Nana thing possible. Of course. Of course she fell asleep. She probably had a long day. And she always falls asleep like someone shot her with a tranquilizer dart.*
*But still.*
*MID-KISS.*
He carefully adjusted her, lifting her and laying her down on the bed properly, tucking the blanket around her small form.
She immediately curled into a ball, mumbling something about macarons and Greek statues.
*Even in sleep. Even in sleep she's talking about—*
He shook his head, unable to help the smile.
*She tried to cook for me.*
*She marked me with perfume.*
*She announced her love in a parking lot.*
*She fell asleep while I was kissing her.*
*She's chaos. Pure chaos. Adorable chaos.*
*And I love her.*
*Completely. Catastrophically. Hopelessly.*
He climbed into bed beside her, pulling her close—she immediately nuzzled into his chest in her sleep, making that content hamster sound.
*French kiss routine, she called it.*
*A routine that ends with her unconscious and me suffering.*
*This is my life now.*
*And I wouldn't change it.*
*Well, maybe the falling-asleep-mid-kiss part.*
*That was mildly devastating.*
*But everything else?*
*Perfect.*
*She's perfect.*
*Even when she's destroying kitchens and falling asleep during intimate moments and confirming inappropriate correlations.*
*Especially then.*
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and closed his eyes.
Good night, hamster.
*My chaotic, adorable, pasta-burning, territory-marking, mid-kiss-sleeping wife.*
*I love you.*
*Even though I'll probably never say it out loud because I'm emotionally constipated.*
*But I do.*
*So much it's medically concerning.*
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🌻🌻🌻
NANA'S DREAM - 9:52 PM
Macarons everywhere.
Pink ones. Blue ones. Lavender ones.
And Zayne, standing in the middle, offering her one.
She reaches for it—
But then he transforms into a giant macaron himself.
A handsome macaron.
A Greek statue macaron.
With long elegant hands.
"The correlation is real," Dream Mina announces from a cloud.
"Very real," Dream Jisu agrees.
Macaron Zayne offers her a kiss.
It tastes sweet.
Like actual macarons.
This is the best dream ever.
Even if it makes no sense.
Dream logic is weird.
*But also nice.
*Very nice.
*She's going to sleep forever if dreams are this good.
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🌻🌻🌻
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 10:15 PM
Medical log - Day Twelve:
Wife said she loves me. Casually. In parking lot. With witnesses.
Wife marked me with perfume. Territory claimed.
Wife destroyed kitchen attempting to cook. Kitchen survived (barely).
Wife asked about "shorter than stomach" and thought I meant THAT.
Wife requested french kiss routine for good dreams.
Wife fell asleep mid-kiss.
Current status: Lying in bed. Wife unconscious on my chest. I'm suffering. She's dreaming about macarons probably.
Observations:
- She said "I love you" (!)
- Did not wait for response
- Possibly didn't realize she said it
- Or knew exactly what she was doing
- Cannot confirm
My response:
- Choked on air
- Froze
- Delayed processing
- Still processing
- Might process forever
She loves me.
She SAID she loves me.
And I—
I love her too.
But she fell asleep before I could say it.
Typical.
She also:
- Tried to cook (disaster)
- Committed kitchen arson (worrying)
- Did it for me (adorable)
- Thought way to my heart went BELOW (mortifying)
- Made me choke on air (again)
French kiss routine status:
- Established
- Nightly occurrence apparently
- Ends with her unconscious
- Leaves me suffering
- Will continue anyway because I'm weak
She whimpered three times tonight. THREE. Then fell asleep. Just... fell asleep. Like it was nothing. Like she wasn't destroying me. Like—
She's adorable even in sleep.
Mumbling about macarons andGreek statues.
Living rent-free in her dreams apparently.
That's... nice.
Everything about her is nice.
Even the chaos.
Especially the chaos.
Prescription for self:
- Accept the routine (done)
- Accept the suffering (ongoing)
- Tell her I love her (tomorrow) (maybe) (probably not) (eventually)
- Survive the french kiss routine (uncertain)
- Buy fire extinguisher (necessary after cooking incident)
She loves me.
I love her.
She's asleep.
I'm awake.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
Prognosis: Deeply in love with wife who falls asleep during kisses.
Life status: Chaotic but perfect.
Sleep status: Impossible because I'm still processing "I love you."
But also holding her close.
And that's enough.
For now.
Tomorrow I'll figure out how to say it back.
Tomorrow.
Maybe.
Probably.
Eventually.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.