Zayne stood in the doorway of their hotel suite, watching his new wife attempt to close her suitcase.
Attempt being the key word.
"Nana," he said carefully, using the tone he reserved for patients who insisted they were fine while actively bleeding. "Your suitcase is overflowing."
"It's fine!" Nana chirped, sitting on top of the suitcase and bouncing. Clothes, shoes, and—
*Are those macarons?*
Indeed, there were boxes of macarons shoved between her dresses, already starting to look questionable.
"Those will melt during transport," Zayne observed, moving closer. "The ambient temperature in the car will cause the ganache filling to destabilize, leading to structural collapse and potential bacterial growth—"
"ZAYNE NO!"
Nana launched herself at him like a tiny, vengeful hamster, wrapping her arms around the macaron box he'd just picked up.
They collided.
Zayne, not expecting a 153cm projectile to tackle him, stumbled backward. His careful composure shattered as he tried to maintain balance while a small woman clung to his torso like a koala defending its eucalyptus.
"Give. Them. Back!" Nana demanded, her cheeks puffed out in indignation.
*She's pouting. She's actually pouting at me. Her cheeks look like a hamster storing food. This is—*
"You look like an offended hamster," he said flatly.
"I AM offended! Those are MINE!"
They stood there in a stalemate—him holding the macarons above his head (unfair height advantage), her clinging to him and glaring up with those big eyes.
Medical assessment:
- Wife is adorable when angry: Confirmed
- Wife has surprising tackle strength: Noted
- My ability to deny her anything: Questionable
Zayne sighed—a sound he was certain would become his signature response to married life—and handed back the macarons.
"Thank you!" Nana beamed, immediately forgetting she was angry, and carefully tucked the boxes back into her suitcase.
*She has the attention span of a goldfish. This is my life now.*
The house Zayne had purchased was in the upscale Bloom Forest district—three floors, modern design, floor-to-ceiling windows, and enough space that Nana could probably get lost in it.
Which she was currently doing.
"ZAYNE!" her voice echoed from somewhere upstairs. "THERE'S A BATHTUB THE SIZE OF A SWIMMING POOL!"
"It's a standard luxury soaking tub," he called back, carrying in the last of the luggage. "Approximately 1.8 meters in length—"
"I'M GONNA LIVE IN IT!"
*Note to self: Establish bathroom time boundaries.*
He found her spinning in circles in the master bedroom, arms spread wide, taking in the space. Her suitcase had exploded across the floor—clothes everywhere, shoes scattered, macarons somehow on the nightstand.
"This is SO BIG!" She spun again, nearly tripping over a dress. "We could fit like, ten of my old room in here!"
Zayne caught her elbow before she face-planted into the bed. "Perhaps you should unpack systematically instead of creating a textile hazard."
"You sound like a doctor even at home," Nana giggled, but started gathering her clothes.
*I AM a doctor. At home. At work. In my sleep. It's not something I can turn off—*
His thoughts derailed as Nana suddenly appeared in front of him, turning around.
"Zayne, can you help me?"
He blinked. "Help you with what?"
"The zipper. It's stuck. I can't reach it." She looked at him over her shoulder, completely innocent. "Please?"
*Oh no.*
Time seemed to slow down.
The zipper. Of her wedding dress. Which meant he would have to unzip her wedding dress. Which meant—
*Clinical. Stay clinical. This is a simple mechanical task. Zipper malfunction. Nothing more.*
"Turn around," he managed, his voice remarkably steady.
Nana obediently turned, sweeping her hair over one shoulder, exposing the long line of her back.
Zayne's hands were steady when performing microsurgery. He'd sewn vessels 2mm in diameter without trembling. He'd operated for 14 hours straight without breaking focus.
His hands were not steady right now.
*It's just a zipper. Just a zipper. You're a medical professional. You've seen countless—*
He grasped the zipper. It was indeed stuck, caught on some internal mechanism. He worked it carefully, trying very hard to focus on the mechanical problem and not the fact that his fingers were brushing against her skin.
The dress was fitted. Very fitted. The zipper went all the way down to—
*Don't think about it. Medical mindset. She's a patient. No, not a patient. Wife. WIFE. That's worse. Focus on the zipper.*
"Almost got it," he muttered.
Finally, the zipper released. It slid down smoothly, revealing bare skin and the delicate line of her spine.
Zayne immediately stepped back, averting his eyes, his face carefully neutral. "There. It's open."
"Thanks!" Nana said cheerfully.
And then—without warning, without any sense of modesty—she just let the dress drop.
It pooled around her feet in a puddle of white silk.
Zayne's brain short-circuited.
She stood there in just her undergarments—white lace, delicate, definitely not something he should be seeing on day one of—
*ABORT. ABORT MISSION. SYSTEM FAILURE. BRAIN.EXE HAS STOPPED WORKING.*
"I'm gonna shower!" Nana announced, completely oblivious to his internal crisis, and skipped toward the bathroom.
The door closed.
Zayne stood frozen for approximately 7.3 seconds.
Then he walked to the kitchen with mechanical precision, pulled out the coffee maker he'd installed earlier, and began making coffee.
His face was perfectly neutral.
His hands were perfectly steady.
He definitely wasn't thinking about it.
Definitely not thinking about the curve of her waist, or how small she looked, or how the lace—
*COFFEE. FOCUS ON COFFEE. CAFFEINE. CHEMICAL COMPOUND C8H10N4O2. STIMULANT. BLOCKS ADENOSINE RECEPTORS. INCREASES ALERTNESS.*
He drank the entire cup black and burning hot.
It didn't help.
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🌻🌻🌻
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 1:23 AM
Medical log update:
Patient—WIFE has no concept of appropriate boundaries. Drops wedding dress like discarding medical waste. Shows zero awareness of the physiological response this causes in her husband.
Current status: Brain malfunction. Cognitive processes compromised. Visual memory too vivid. Need more coffee.
Note: She's beautiful. Like a doll. A very real, very dangerous doll.
Additional note: I'm going to die. This marriage will kill me. Day one and my cardiovascular system is already under severe stress.
Prescription for self: Cold shower. More coffee. Medical journals. DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT.
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🌻🌻🌻
By the time Nana emerged from her shower—hair damp, smelling like vanilla and something sweet—Zayne had composed himself.
He was sitting in bed, reading a medical journal about cardiac innovations, his reading glasses perched on his nose, completely in control.
Then Nana walked in wearing short pajamas.
Very short pajamas.
Tiny shorts and a tank top that—
*She's going to kill me. This is how I die. Not in surgery. Not from overwork. From my wife's sleepwear choices.*
Zayne sighed—that was sigh number 47 today, he'd counted—and very deliberately kept his eyes on his journal.
"Aren't you tired?" Nana asked, climbing into bed beside him.
"I'm reviewing recent literature on minimally invasive valve replacement techniques," he replied, which was technically true, though he hadn't absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes.
"Mmkay," Nana yawned, curling up on her side.
Within three minutes, she was asleep.
*She falls asleep like someone flipped a switch. Fascinating. No gradual onset, just immediate unconsciousness.*
Zayne glanced over at her.
She looked peaceful. Soft. Her face relaxed, one hand tucked under her cheek, breathing deep and even.
*She's mumbling something.*
He leaned slightly closer.
"...macarons... mine... Zayne... don't take... mmm..."
*She's sleep-talking about macarons and me. In the same sentence. I don't know how to process this information.*
A small smile tugged at his lips—completely against his will.
*She's adorable. Even in sleep. This is a problem. I should be focusing on establishing appropriate boundaries, not finding her cute when she—*
His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that he was staring at her sleeping face.
And that his hand had somehow moved to gently touch her cheek.
*What am I doing?*
Her skin was soft, warm. She made a small content sound and leaned into his touch unconsciously.
*Angelina Wang. Art college student. Talented painter according to her file. Sheltered upbringing. No dating experience. Innocent curiosity about the world.*
*And somehow now my wife.*
*How did this happen?*
He pulled his hand back, adjusted his glasses, and returned to his journal with renewed focus.
He made it approximately twelve minutes before—
WHACK.
Pain exploded in his lower back.
*What—*
Nana had suddenly SPUN in her sleep like a tornado, her legs flailing wildly, and kicked him directly in his lumbar region with surprising force.
"Ow—" Zayne grunted, nearly dropping his journal.
Nana continued spinning, completely asleep, now fully perpendicular to her original position. Her feet were where her head should be. She'd somehow kicked off all the blankets. She looked like someone fighting an invisible enemy.
*She sleeps like a tornado. A literal tornado. This is a safety hazard.*
THUMP.
Another kick, this one catching his hip.
*I'm being assaulted in my sleep. By my unconscious wife. This is not covered in any medical literature.*
Zayne carefully tried to relocate her to her side of the bed, but she was surprisingly strong for someone unconscious. And slippery. Like trying to reposition a very determined eel.
WHACK.
Her foot connected with his posterior with enough force to send him off balance.
Zayne found himself on the floor.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, processing.
*Day one. I've been married for one day. I'm on the floor. My wife kicked me out of my own bed. She's still asleep.*
He sat up, adjusted his glasses, and looked at the bed.
Nana had now claimed the entire mattress, sprawled across it like a starfish, blankets tangled around her legs, making small content snoring sounds.
Fine.
Zayne grabbed his pillow and medical journal and relocated to the couch in the reading nook.
It was actually quite comfortable. Quiet. No one was kicking him.
He settled in, opened his journal, and made it through two paragraphs before—
THUMP.
He looked up.
Nana was on the floor.
Still asleep.
Somehow, in her tornado-sleep, she'd rolled herself right off the bed and was now on the carpet, wrapped in blankets like a burrito, wrestling with them unconsciously.
*She's fighting her own blankets. In her sleep. On the floor.*
Zayne closed his journal.
He walked over, carefully extracted her from the blanket cocoon, and lifted her back onto the bed. She weighed almost nothing in his arms.
*153 centimeters. Approximately 45 kilograms. Structurally tiny. Somehow capable of kicking me off a king-size bed.*
He tucked the blankets around her, making sure she was secure.
She immediately kicked them off and spun 90 degrees.
I give up.
Zayne returned to the couch, pulled a spare blanket over himself, and tried to read.
He lasted five minutes before looking at her again.
She was half off the bed, one arm dangling, blanket on the floor, hair everywhere.
*She's going to hurt herself. I should—*
*No. Let her sleep. You need rest. You have surgeries scheduled tomorrow. Be professional.*
He looked at his journal.
Looked at Nana.
Journal.
Nana.
This is my life now.
With a resigned sigh (number 53), Zayne got up, carefully positioned several pillows around the bed like bumpers to prevent her from rolling off, adjusted her position one more time, and returned to the couch.
This time, he made it through three pages before dozing off himself.
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 3:47 AM
Medical log - Day One conclusion:
Wife sleeps like a tornado. Kicked me off bed. Nearly injured herself multiple times. Required protective pillow barriers for safety.
Wife has no concept of personal space, appropriate dress codes, or zipper etiquette.
Wife is adorable. Dangerously adorable.
Current status: Sleeping on couch. Spine complaints: Moderate. Sanity: Declining.
Grocery list for tomorrow:
- Coffee (large quantity)
- Macarons (make wife happy)
- More coffee
- Possibly a helmet
Prognosis: I'm doomed. Completely doomed.
But when she smiled at me today... heart rate increased 34%. That seems... significant.
Final note: Request chiropractic consultation. The height differential, combined with nocturnal assault, suggests musculoskeletal issues ahead.
Secondary final note: She's beautiful even when attempting to murder me in her sleep.
I'm definitely doomed.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.