Zayne stood at the back window of their house, coffee in hand, staring at the most ridiculous scene he'd witnessed in his 27 years of life.
His wife was in a tree.
Not just near a tree. Not sitting under a tree.
IN. A. TREE.
Perched on a branch about three meters up, legs dangling, munching on an apple with the posture of someone at a casual café.
And she was talking.
To squirrels.
Three of them, to be specific, all sitting on the branch with her like they were having a neighborhood meeting.
*This is my life now. My wife has squirrel friends. They're having a conference. About what? I don't want to know.*
Except he did know, because the window was open and sound carried.
"—and THEN," Nana was saying to the squirrels, gesturing with her half-eaten apple, "he made me do FLAMINGO position! Can you believe that?! For FIVE MINUTES!"
The squirrels chittered.
*They're responding. They're actually responding to her. I'm hallucinating. This is a hallucination brought on by stress.*
"I KNOW, RIGHT?!" Nana continued, leaning closer to the largest squirrel conspiratorially. "All because I asked about French kissing! Which is NORMAL! We're MARRIED!"
One squirrel—the one with the notably fluffy tail—offered her an acorn.
She took it solemnly. "Thank you, Mr. Fluffytail. You're more supportive than my husband."
*I've been compared unfavorably to a squirrel named Mr. Fluffytail. This is a new low.*
Zayne found himself huffing a laugh despite everything. She's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Sulking in a tree. With squirrels. Because I won't french kiss her.
Nana leaned toward the middle squirrel's ear—a squirrel's EAR—and stage-whispered: "Between you and me, I think he's scared. He gets all stiff and his face turns red and he runs away. Very suspicious."
*SCARED. She thinks I'm scared. I'm not scared. I'm exercising appropriate caution. There's a difference.*
*Also, she's not wrong. I am terrified. But she doesn't need to tell the woodland creatures about it.*
"Maybe he doesn't know how," the smallest squirrel seemed to suggest through chittering.
EVEN THE SQUIRRELS ARE JUDGING ME.
"Maybe," Nana agreed sadly, taking another bite of apple. "But how do I help him? I can't just—wait. Can I? Should I just climb him like I climb this tree?"
WHAT.
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY.
CLIMB ME LIKE A TREE.
The coffee mug paused halfway to his lips.
*No. Absolutely not. Do not give her ideas. Do not—*
"Mr. Fluffytail, you're a genius!" Nana announced.
THE SQUIRREL DID NOT SUGGEST THAT. THE SQUIRREL CANNOT TALK. SHE'S EXTRAPOLATING.
"I'll just be direct! Ask clearly! And if he says no again, I'll... I'll..." She thought hard. "I'll eat ALL his hidden macaron stash!"
*She knows about the stash. How does she know about the stash. I hid them in the back of the freezer behind the vegetables she never touches.*
"Nana," Zayne called from the window, his voice carrying across the yard. "Get down from the tree."
She jumped, nearly dropping her apple. "ZAYNE! How long have you been there?!"
"Long enough to hear you planning to raid my macaron supply."
"I—that was—the squirrels suggested it!"
"The squirrels cannot suggest things. They're squirrels."
"You don't know that! Mr. Fluffytail is very wise!"
*I'm arguing about the cognitive capabilities of a squirrel named Mr. Fluffytail. This is my life.*
"Down. Now. Before you fall and I have to explain to the ER that my wife broke her arm consulting with rodents."
"They're not rodents, they're FRIENDS—okay fine, I'm coming down!" She carefully climbed down, the squirrels chittering what sounded like goodbye.
*She has a better social life with squirrels than I have with humans. This is concerning.*
Nana sat on the couch, apple core disposed of, looking at Zayne with determined eyes.
*Oh no. That's her determined face. This is going to be a disaster.*
"Zayne," she began, with the seriousness of someone about to discuss international treaties. "I have a request."
"If it involves climbing me like a tree—"
"WHAT?! NO! How did—did you hear—THE SQUIRRELS WERE JOKING!" Her face turned bright red.
*So she WAS planning to climb me like a tree. Noted. Terrifying. Moving on.*
"What's your request?" he asked, sitting in his armchair at a safe distance.
Safe being relative when dealing with Nana.
"Just one French kiss," she said quickly. "A real one. Like in the drama. Just ONE. And then I'll stop asking. I promise. I just want to know what it's like. For educational purposes. One time. That's it."
She held up one finger for emphasis.
One kiss. Just one. Then she'll stop asking.
This is a terrible idea.
The worst idea.
*But she's looking at me with those eyes and I've been having stress dreams about this for three days and maybe if I just demonstrate once she'll be satisfied and move on and—
This is definitely a terrible idea.
"Fine," he heard himself say.
WHY DID I SAY THAT. ABORT. TAKE IT BACK.
"REALLY?!" Nana's entire face lit up.
*Too late. Can't take it back now. She'll climb the tree again and complain to Mr. Fluffytail.*
"Once," he emphasized, standing up. "One demonstration. Then we never speak of this again."
"YES! Okay! One time!" She bounced excitedly. "So how do we—do I sit? Stand? Should I close my eyes? Do I—"
"Come here," he said quietly.
She immediately scrambled over to him, looking up with eager, curious eyes.
*This is fine. This is professional. Educational demonstration. Nothing more. Just show her what it is, satisfy her curiosity, and move on with life.*
Keep telling yourself that, Li Shen.
Zayne sat down on the couch, and in one smooth motion, pulled her to stand between his knees.
*Better height management this way. My spine thanksme.*
"Okay," he began, his voice dropping into what he mentally called 'doctor lecture mode.' "French kissing, actual definition: intimate oral contact involving tongue interaction, increased duration, and deeper—"
*Why am I lecturing? Stop lecturing. Just demonstrate.*
"Zayne," Nana interrupted, "are you nervous?"
*Yes. Terrified. Absolutely terrified.*
"No," he lied. "I'm simply being thorough."
"Your hands are shaking."
Betrayed by my own body. Typical.
"Standard physiological response," he said flatly.
"To what?"
*To you. To this. To the fact that I'm about to kiss my wife properly and I have no idea what I'm doing and—*
"To the situation," he finished vaguely.
She smiled—soft and sweet. "It's okay to be nervous. I'm nervous too."
*She's trying to comfort me. My wife is trying to comfort me about kissing her. This is backwards.*
"Tilt your head slightly," he instructed, cupping her face with both hands.
She obeyed, tilting to the right.
"Other way."
She giggled and tilted left.
*She's giggling. This is serious educational demonstration and she's giggling.*
"When I—" he started, but stopped. *Just do it. Stop talking. Just demonstrate.*
He pulled her closer and kissed her.
Not a peck this time.
His lips pressed against hers with more pressure, more intention. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and carefully—so carefully—parted his lips slightly.
*Educational. This is educational. Just showing her the basic—*
Nana made a small sound—surprise, maybe—but then her lips parted too, tentatively following his lead.
*Okay. Good. She's a fast learner. This is fine. Just a simple demonstration of technique—*
Then her tongue touched his.
Everything stopped.
Time. Thought. Breathing.
Oh.
Oh no.
It was soft. Hesitant. Curious.
*She's exploring. Of course she is. She's curious about everything.*
Zayne's grip on her face tightened slightly.
Keep control. Maintain composure. This is a demonstration. Clinical. Educational. Just—
"Mmm.."
She whimpered.
That sound.
That small, needy, adorable sound.
His composure cracked.
Like ice under too much pressure, everything he'd been holding back fractured.
His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. His other hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer—between his knees, against his chest.
The kiss deepened.
*I'm supposed to be teaching. Demonstrating. Not—*
But his tongue was definitely not demonstrating anymore. It was claiming. Exploring. Tasting.
*She tastes sweet. Like apples. And something else. Something uniquelyher.*
Nana made another sound—higher, needier—and her hands grabbed his shoulders for balance.
*She's kissing back. She's actually—*
Her tongue met his again, less hesitant now, more eager. Like she'd figured out the concept and was now fully committed to the execution.
*Of course. Of course she's committed. She commits to everything with full enthusiasm. Including this. Including—*
His control, already fractured, shattered completely.
He stood, lifting her with him, and in one smooth motion laid her back on the couch.
What am I doing. What—
He was on top of her now, one hand beside her head, the other still on her waist, kissing her like a man drowning and she was air.
Her legs shifted, making space for him, and—
Oh god. This position. This is—
He kissed her deeper, swallowing another one of those sweet sounds she made. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned—actually groaned—into her mouth.
Stop. Stop this. This is too far. This is—
But he couldn't stop.
His tongue stroked against hers, showing her the rhythm, the pressure, the—
*Educational. This is still educational. Just very thorough education. Very—*
Nana arched slightly beneath him, making another whimpering sound, and his hips pressed forward involuntarily.
ABORT. ABORT MISSION. CRITICAL SITUATION.
He pulled back—finally, with superhuman effort—breaking the kiss.
A string of saliva connected their lips.
Oh god.
He stared down at her.
Nana lay beneath him, breathing hard, lips swollen and wet, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed pink, looking absolutely—
*Devastating. She looks devastating. Like sin. Like everything I've been imagining. Like—*
His eyes were dark. He could feel it. Feel the want, the need, the absolute hunger in his gaze.
*I need to move. Get up. Leave. Before I—*
"Zayne," she whispered, breathless. "That was..."
*Don't say it. Don't—*
"...amazing," she finished.
*I'm going to die. Right here. Death by French kissing demonstration gone catastrophically wrong.*
He pushed himself up abruptly, putting distance between them, running a hand through his hair—his hair that she'd been tugging, pulling, making his scalp tingle—
"I have—" his voice was rough, wrecked, "—an online meeting. Important. Medical. Urgent."
*LIAR. You have no meeting. You're fleeing. Like a coward. But if you stay here looking at her lying on that couch breathing hard with your saliva on her lips you're going to—*
"Now?" Nana sat up slowly, still looking dazed. "But—"
"Very important. Can't be missed. International colleagues. Time-sensitive." He was backing toward his study, still rambling. "You should—rest. Drink water. Hydrate. That's important. After—after educational activities."
*EDUCATIONAL ACTIVITIES. You just devoured your wife on the couch and you're calling it EDUCATIONAL ACTIVITIES.*
"Oh. Okay." She touched her lips with her fingers, looking at them like they were foreign objects. "Zayne?"
"Yes?" He paused at the study door.
"Your tongue tastes sweet. Like macarons."
WHAT.
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY.
"I—that's—unlikely—improper pH balance—" he stammered.
She smiled, that sunshine smile, completely unaware of what she was doing to him. "I really liked it. Can we do it again sometime?"
*Again. She wants to do it again. Of course she wants to do it again. I created a monster. A curious, eager, adorable monster.*
"We'll see," he managed, then fled into his study and closed the door.
He leaned against it, breathing hard.
*What have I done.*
*What have I DONE.*
That was supposed to be a simple demonstration. Quick. Clinical. Educational.
That was—
That was—
He looked down at himself.
That was catastrophic.
His hands were shaking. His heart was racing—approximately 156 BPM. His lips were wet. He could still taste her.
*Sweet. Like apples. Like sunshine. Like—*
STOP.
He walked to his desk, sat down, put his head in his hands.
*Online meeting. I said online meeting. I need to look like I'm in a meeting.*
He opened his laptop, pulled up a blank email, and stared at it unseeing.
*She whimpered. She made those sounds. She arched. She pulled my hair. She—*
*And now she wants to do it again.*
*"Can we do it again sometime?"*
*With that smile. That innocent, curious smile. Like she didn't just destroy my entire world.*
He touched his lips. They were still tingling.
*Her tongue tastes like curiosity and chaos and everything I shouldn't want but absolutely do.*
*I'm so screwed.*
*So completely, utterly, catastrophically screwed.*
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🌻🌻🌻
NANA'S THOUGHTS - 3:47 PM (ON THE COUCH)
Nana lay on the couch where Zayne had left her, staring at the ceiling, touching her lips.
Oh.
Oh wow.
THAT was French kissing.
THAT'S what Mina was talking about.
That's—
Her heart was still racing. Her lips still tingling. Her entire body felt warm and tingly and—
He was on top of me. Again. But this time he was KISSING me. With his tongue. And his hands. And he made sounds. Deep sounds. And—
She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow, face burning.
His eyes got so dark. Like before. But darker. Like—
Like he wanted to eat me.
But in a good way?
A very good way.
She touched her lips again.
He tasted sweet. And cold. Like his ice powers. But warm too. Somehow cold and warm at the same time. And—
He ran away.
She sat up, thinking hard.
He ran away. Said online meeting. But his face was red. And his hands were shaking. And he looked—
He looked like he wanted more.
But he ran away anyway.
A slow smile spread across her face.
Mina was right. He DOES want to. He's just being... what did she call it? Restrained? Noble? Annoyingly proper?
But I felt how he kissed me. That wasn't proper. That was—
She squeaked and buried her face in the pillow.
I want to do it again. Like, immediately. Right now. Can I go knock on his study door? Is that too much?
He said "we'll see."
That's not a no.
That's a "eventually" answer.
I can work with eventually.
She stood up, still slightly dizzy, and walked to the kitchen for water like he'd suggested.
Hydrate, he said. After educational activities.
EDUCATIONAL.
He thinks that was educational.
If that was education, I want a PhD.
She giggled, drinking her water, already planning.
I'll wait a bit. Let him have his "meeting." Then maybe at dinner, I'll ask about advanced lessons. For educational purposes. Completely educational.
Mina is going to DIE when I tell her.
Actually, maybe I won't tell her. This feels... private. Special.
Just between me and my husband who tastes like macarons and kisses like he's starving and runs away like he's scared of himself.
I really, really like my husband.
Like LIKE like him.
A lot.
Maybe... maybe I love him?
She paused, water glass halfway to her lips.
Do I love him?
He makes me feel safe. And happy. And curious. And tingly. And—
And when he looks at me with those dark eyes, I feel like I'm the only person in the world.
Yeah.
I think I love him.
Oh no.
I'm in love with my husband.
Who just ran away from kissing me.
This is complicated.
She finished her water and smiled.
But also exciting. And fun. And—
I'm definitely asking for more lessons.
For educational purposes.
Obviously.
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🌻🌻🌻
ZAYNE'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE - 4:23 PM (STUDY)
Medical log - Emergency entry - Day Eight:
CRITICAL SITUATION.
Demonstrated actual French kissing to wife. Was supposed to be simple demonstration. Brief. Clinical. Educational.
It was none of those things.
Timeline of disaster:
- *Started with proper technique demonstration*
- *She touched her tongue to mine*
- *She whimpered*
- *My control: SHATTERED*
- *Ended with her underneath me on the couch*
- *Saliva connecting our lips*
- *Me fleeing like a criminal*
Current status: Hiding in study. Pretending to have online meeting. Have no meeting. Am fraud.
Physiological assessment:
- *Heart rate: Still elevated (142 BPM)*
- *Blood pressure: Concerning*
- *Respiratory rate: Unsteady*
- *Arousal level: CRITICAL*
- *Cognitive function: Severely impaired*
- *Professional composure: Deceased*
She said my tongue tastes like macarons.
MACARONS.
How do I respond to that? There's no medical literature on appropriate responses when your wife says your tongue tastes like French pastries.
She wants to do it again.
*"Can we do it again sometime?"*
With that smile. That innocent smile. While lying on the couch where I'd just been devouring her like a man possessed.
This is bad. Very bad.
She whimpered. Multiple times. Made sounds I will hear in my sleep. Sounds that are now permanently stored in my auditory memory. Sounds I want to hear again. Desperately.
And she arched. Beneath me. While I was—
STOP. Don't think about it. Don't rememberhow she felt. How she tasted. How she—
Too late. Already remembering. Vivid detail. Photographic medical memory is a curse.
*Her lips: Soft, responsive, eager*
*Her tongue: Curious, sweet, perfect*
*Her sounds: Needy, adorable, devastating*
*Her body: Warm, pliant, fitting perfectly beneath mine
I'm in trouble.
Significant trouble.
Because I don't want it to be once.
I want to kiss her again. And again. And again.
I want to teach her everything. Show her everything. Make her make those sounds constantly.
This is concerning.
Very concerning.
Because that wasn't just kissing. That was—
That was me losing control completely. Me wanting her. Me needing her.
In ways that have nothing to do with our arranged marriage.
In ways that are complicated and intense and—
I think I'm falling for my wife.
No.
I think I've already fallen.
Sometime between the coffee machine massacre and her talking to squirrels and her asking innocent questions that destroy my sanity and her sitting in my lap and her wiggling and her sleeping like a tornado and—
I fell.
Hard.
This is bad.
But also...
The way she looked at me after. Dazed. Happy. Like I'd given her something precious.
Like she wanted more.
Like maybe she—
No. Don't speculate. Don'thope. This is an arrangement. Professional. Strategic.
Except nothing about that kiss was professional.
Or strategic.
That was pure want.
On both sides.
She pulled my hair. Like she couldn't get close enough. Like she wanted—
I need another cold shower.
Multiple cold showers.
Maybe I should just move into the shower permanently.
Prescription for self:
- Avoid wife (impossible)
- Avoid kissing wife again (unlikely to succeed)
- Avoid thinking about kissing wife (already failing)
- Accept that "one time" was a lie (done)
- Prepare for her to ask again (inevitable)
- Maybe research? (NO. BAD.)
- Admit defeat (in progress)
She's going to ask again. I know it. She's curious. She always pursues what she's curious about.
And she's curious about French kissing now.
Specifically French kissing me.
I'm so screwed.
But also...
My tongue tastes like macarons.
She thinks my tongue tastes like macarons.
That's... oddly sweet? Concerning? Adorable?
I don't know anymore.
I don't know anything anymore except:
1. I want to kiss my wife again
2. She wants to kiss me again
3. This is dangerous
4. I don't care
Prognosis: Doomed. Completely. Utterly. Catastrophically.
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🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.