They were on the bed now—Zayne still shirtless from his abs display, Nana in her cute pajamas, both of them settling in for what started as innocent french kissing routine.
*Just kissing. Start with just kissing. Slow. Gentle. Safe.*
"Routine time!" Nana announced, climbing into his lap—her designated throne.
*This position. This cursed position. With me shirtless. This is dangerous.*
"Ready?" she asked, already leaning in.
*No. Never ready. Always ready. Both.*
He cupped her face and kissed her.
Started soft, as always—gentle pressure, tilting his head for better angle, letting her set the pace.
But his hands—
His traitorous hands that had been behaving all day—
Started to wander.
One moved to her waist, the other slid up her side, higher, until—
Her chest.
Through her thin pajama top, he could feel everything.
*Soft. Perfect. Why is everything about her perfect.*
He cupped her breast gently, thumb brushing over the peak, and—
Nana's hands, which had been on his shoulders, slid down to his stomach.
Those abs she'd been touching earlier.
She pressed her palms flat against his abs, feeling the muscles tense under her touch.
And Zayne groaned.
Deep.
From his chest.
A sound he couldn't control.
Nana broke the kiss immediately, pulling back with wide eyes.
"What was that sound?!" she asked, concerned. "You sounded like a hungry bear! Do you need more snacks? Are you hungry? Should I get the fruit—"
*Hungry. Yes. But not for fruit. For YOU.*
"I'm not hungry," he managed, voice rough. "Not for food."
"Then why did you make that sound?"
*How do I explain this. How do I clinically explain that you touching me makes me lose my mind.*
"Because," he said carefully, "when you touch me, it feels good. Very good. And my body responds with... sounds."
"Oh!" Understanding dawned on her face. "Like when you touch me and I whimper! It's the same!"
*Yes. Exactly the same. You're catching on too fast.*
"Yes," he confirmed.
"So you LIKE when I touch you?"
*More than breathing.*
"Yes."
"Where should I touch more?" She looked genuinely curious, hands already moving on his stomach.
*Everywhere. Nowhere. I don't know anymore.*
"Wherever you want," he said, which was a terrible answer but the only honest one.
"Okay!" She smiled and returned to exploring his abs, tracing each muscle with fascination.
*This is fine. I can handle this. Just touching. Just—*
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand on her chest squeezing gently, thumb circling—
She whimpered.
That sound.
That devastating sound.
She pulled back again, blinking.
"I did it again! The whimper! Why do I keep making that sound?" She looked embarrassed. "It's such a silly sound! Like—" she demonstrated, saying his name in that breathy, needy way, "Zayne~"
*Oh god. She just demonstrated. She just said my name like THAT. On purpose. While looking at me with innocent eyes.*
Zayne's control snapped.
His eyes went dark—she could probably see it, the shift from gentle to hungry, from patient to desperate.
He kissed her hard.
Not gentle anymore.
Not patient.
Hungry.
Like a starving man finally allowed to feast.
His tongue stroked deep into her mouth, claiming, demanding, showing her exactly what those sounds did to him.
His hands moved with purpose now—not wandering, not exploring, but touching with clear intent.
One hand stayed on her chest, the other moved down, sliding under her pajama top, touching bare skin—
*Soft. So soft. Warm. Perfect. Mine.*
She was making sounds constantly now—little whimpers, gasps, moans—each one driving him closer to madness.
His hand moved lower, sliding under the waistband of her shorts—
*Stop. Should stop. This is moving too fast. But she's responding. She's not pulling away. She's—*
"Zayne," she whimpered against his lips.
*That's it. That's permission. That's—*
His fingers found her—warm, already wet, responsive to his touch.
*Oh god. She's ready. She's—*
He circled gently, testing, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
She gasped, eyes flying open, hands gripping his shoulders.
"What—what is—" she breathed, "—that feels—"
"Good?" he asked, voice strained.
"Yes—strange—but good—more—"
*More. She wants more.*
He circled again, more pressure this time, and she moaned—loud, unrestrained, beautiful.
*I need to prepare her. Make sure she's ready. Make sure—*
Carefully, so carefully, he slid one finger inside.
Slowly.
Watching her face.
She whimpered—not the good kind.
The hurt kind.
"Ow—" she breathed, "—it—it pinches—"
*Too tight. She's so tight. Just one finger and she's—*
"It's okay," he murmured, staying still, letting her adjust. "Your body needs time. Breathe."
She breathed, tried to relax.
He moved his finger slowly, gently, trying to help her body adjust, while his thumb circled that sensitive spot to distract from discomfort.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little—still pinches—but also—also feels good? Both?"
*Both. That's normal. First time. It'll get better. It has to get better.*
He moved carefully, slowly, adding more of that good sensation, watching her face shift from discomfort to—
"Oh—" she gasped, "—oh that's—"
*Good. That's good. She's adjusting. Maybe I can—*
Very carefully, he tried to add a second finger.
She cried out—definitely pain this time.
"OW! Zayne—that hurts—"
He stopped immediately. Completely still.
*Two fingers. Just two fingers and she's hurting. And I'm—*
He looked down at himself, still constrained in his pants, and felt dread.
*I'm bigger than two fingers. Significantly bigger. If two fingers hurt her, then I—*
*I'll hurt her.*
*Badly.*
The realization hit him like ice water.
*I can't do this. Not tonight. Not when she's this tight. Not when two fingers make her cry out. I'd break her. I'd hurt her so badly and—*
"Zayne?" Nana's voice was small. "Why did you stop?"
*Because I'm trying not to hurt you. Because I love you more than I want you. Because—*
He very carefully withdrew his fingers, adjusted her pajamas, and pulled her into a hug.
A tight hug.
Wrapped the blanket around them both.
*Safe. Covered. Not looking at her. If I look at her I'll want to try again and I CAN'T. I can't hurt her.*
"Zayne?" She sounded confused. "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he said quickly, voice muffled against her hair. "You're perfect. You did nothing wrong."
"Then why—"
"Because you're hurting," he said quietly. "Two fingers hurt you. And I'm—" bigger"—it would hurt worse. Much worse. I can't—I won't hurt you like that."
She was quiet for a moment.
"But... it clearly hurts you too," she observed. "You're all tense. And your breathing is weird. And—" she wiggled slightly in his arms, "—something is poking me."
*STOP WIGGLING. PLEASE STOP WIGGLING.*
"I'm fine," he lied.
"You're lying. I can tell." She pulled back to look at his face. "Your face is all red. And you look like you're in pain. Are you in pain?"
*Yes. Physical pain. From wanting you. From stopping. From choosing your comfort over my desire. But it's the right choice. The only choice.*
"I'm managing," he said.
"But—" she looked distressed, "—I want to do the honeymoon activities! I want to—"
"Not tonight," he interrupted gently. "Tonight we just tried. We learned. We discovered that your body needs more time. More preparation. That's okay. That's normal."
"But you want to! I can tell you want to!"
*Want to? I'm dying. Actually dying. But—*
"I do want to," he admitted quietly. "Very much. But not at the cost of hurting you. Never at that cost."
She was quiet, processing.
"How do other people handle this?" she finally asked. "Do all women hurt the first time?"
*Most do. Some more than others. It depends on anatomy, preparation, patience—*
"Many do," he said honestly. "It gets better with time. With practice. With patience. Your body will adjust. But rushing it will only cause more pain."
"So... no honeymoon activities tonight?"
"No activities tonight," he confirmed, pulling her close again. "Just kissing. Touching. Learning. That's enough."
"Is it enough for you?"
*No. But it has to be.*
"Yes," he lied. "You're enough. Always enough."
She snuggled into his chest, seemingly accepting this.
But Zayne lay awake, staring at the ceiling, body still tense, still wanting, still suffering.
*I did the right thing. Stopping. Protecting her. That's what matters.*
*Even if every cell in my body is screaming to try again.*
*Even if I'm physically aching.*
*Even if this might be the hardest thing I've ever done.*
*She's worth it.*
*She's worth waiting for.*
*Even if the waiting kills me.*
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 11:34 PM
Medical log - Day Fifteen - Honeymoon Night One:
Status: CRITICAL. SUFFERING. ALIVE BUT BARELY.
What happened:
- French kiss routine (escalated)
- She touched my abs (groaned)
- She demonstrated her whimper (nearly died)
- I lost control (kissed her hard)
- Prepared her with fingers (she hurt)
- Stopped halfway (responsible but painful)
- Chose her comfort over my desire (right choice)
- Am currently dying (metaphorically) (mostly)
Current situation:
- Wife asleep on my chest
- I'm wide awake
- Body still responding
- Mind at war
- Did the right thing
- Suffering for it
Medical assessment:
She was too tight. Just two fingers caused pain. And I'm—significantly larger than two fingers. The anatomy doesn't work. Not yet. Not without more preparation. More time. More patience.
If I'd continued, I would have hurt her. Badly. Possibly caused tears, bleeding, trauma. Unacceptable.
So I stopped.
Hardest thing I've ever done.
Harder than 14-hour surgeries.
Harder than medical school.
Harder than anything.
Because I WANTED to continue.
Wanted her so badly I could barely breathe.
Still want her.
Still aching.
But she's worth waiting for.
Worth any amount of suffering.
She asked "how do other people handle this?"
Answer: Barely. With difficulty. With patience.
Some rush it. Cause pain. Regret it.
I won't be one of those people.
I'll wait.
As long as it takes.
Until she's ready.
Really ready.
Not just mentally but physically.
Even if the waiting kills me.
Which it might.
Current physical status: UNCOMFORTABLE. Very uncomfortable. Painfully uncomfortable.
Solution: Cold shower? Third one today? Fourth?
No. Can't move. She's sleeping on me. Can't disturb her.
So I'll just... lie here. Suffering. Choosing her comfort.
This is love.
Love is choosing someone else's wellbeing over your own desire.
Love is stopping when you want to continue.
Love is waiting when you're ready.
Love is her.
She's worth it.
All of it.
The waiting. The suffering. The choosing.
Tomorrow we'll try differently.
More preparation. More patience. More time.
Eventually.
That word again.
Eventually.
But this time it means something different.
Eventually when SHE'S ready.
Not when I'm ready (I've been ready).
When her body is ready.
When it won't hurt.
When I can love her completely without causing pain.
That's worth waiting for.
She's worth everything.
Even this.
Even the suffering.
Even the stopping.
I love her.
So much.
And that's why I stopped.
Because love means choosing her.
Always her.
Even when it hurts me.
Especially when it hurts me.
That's what love is.
Prescription for tonight:
- Don't move (wife is sleeping)
- Don't think about it (impossible)
- Accept the discomfort (ongoing)
- Remember why I stopped (always)
- Plan for tomorrow (more patience)
- Love her anyway (forever)
She's perfect.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.
Good night, hamster.
Sleep well.
I'll keep suffering quietly.
For you.
Always for you.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
NANA'S SLEEPY THOUGHTS - 11:47 PM
Zayne stopped.
He stopped even though he wanted to continue.
I could tell he wanted to.
His breathing. His sounds. His body.
But he stopped.
Because it hurt me.
Because he cares more about my comfort than his desire.
That's...
That's love, right?
Mina said men always want to continue.
But Zayne stopped.
For me.
He's uncomfortable now. I can feel it. He's tense. His breathing is still weird.
But he's holding me gently.
And he said I'm enough.
Even when we didn't finish.
Even when he's clearly suffering.
I'm enough.
I love him.
So much.
Tomorrow I'll tell him.
Properly.
Not in a parking lot.
Not casually.
Properly.
Because he deserves to hear it.
The man who chose my comfort.
Who stopped when it hurt.
Who holds me even when he's suffering.*l
That's love.
And I love him.
So much.
Thank you, husband.
For choosing me.
Always choosing me.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.