Zayne was in his home office, reviewing patient charts, when he heard it.
CRASH.
Then: "NO NO NO NO—"
SIZZLE.
*"HOW IS IT ON THE CEILING?!"*
He closed his eyes behind his reading glasses.
She broke something again. Statistically, we're on day 3 post-Christmas. Average household item destruction rate: 2.7 items per day. Current count: unknown. Probability of kitchen still standing: 40%. Probability of needing fire department: rising.
Sigh.
He found his wife standing in the kitchen, surrounded by culinary carnage:
- Frying pan: MELTED in the center, smoking
- Eggs: somehow on the WALLS, dripping
- Smoke detector: screaming
- Nana: about to CRY, covered in flour, holding a spatula like a weapon
"I just wanted to make BREAKFAST," she whimpered, lower lip trembling. "But the pan got SO HOT and the eggs went FLYING and I don't understand PHYSICS—"
* She doesn't understand physics. She doesn't understand cooking. She barely understands gravity based on how often she falls. But she DOES understand how to make my chest hurt in ways that have nothing to do with cardiology.*
*Deep breath. Clinical assessment. Wife: distressed. Kitchen: destroyed. My sanity: critical condition.*
He removed his glasses, cleaned them slowly (buying time to process the egg on the ceiling), and put them back on.
"Nana."
She FLINCHED. "I'M SORRY! I'll fix it! I'll— I'll—" Her eyes welled up.
* Abort. ABORT. Crying wife protocol activated. All logical responses offline. Emotional override engaged.*
He crossed the kitchen in three strides and scooped her up, setting her on the counter. She was still holding the spatula. He gently removed it from her death grip.
"How," he asked carefully, "did you break the pan?"
"I don't KNOW! It just— the fire was big and then the pan went— it BENT—"
*She bent a frying pan. My wife has either developed super strength or violated several laws of thermodynamics. Possibly both.*
"And the eggs?"
"They EXPLODED! Like— like fireworks! But EGGY!"
Eggy fireworks. I married a chaos deity. This is my life now.*
He looked at the destruction. The melted pan. The wall eggs. The flour footprints leading to three different rooms.
"You'll have to pay for the broken pan."
She blinked up at him, eyes still wet. "Pay? But I don't have money! You said I don't need allowance because you'll buy me anything—"
"Not that kind of payment."
"Then what—OH." Her eyes went WIDE. "You mean... sunflower payment?"
I've created financial terminology for sexual favors. My medical school professors would be so disappointed.*
Clears throat.,"Yes."
She tilted her head, innocence personified. "But I don't have money for that either! What if I just clean the house really REALLY well? And cook MORE? I'll get better! And I'll draw you better pictures! Not stick figures! With DETAILS! Like your muscles and your pretty face and—"
She thinks she can negotiate with art and more cooking. More cooking means more destruction. This is counterproductive.*
A huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.
She GASPED. "YOU LAUGHED! Was that laugh number TWENTY-ONE?!"
"Stop counting—"
She grabbed his face. "ADMIT YOU LOVE MY CHAOS!"
*Internal Zayne: I do. I absolutely do. This is a medical emergency.*
Instead of answering, he kissed her.
She made a soft surprised sound, and he took advantage, tilting his head to deepen it. "Open," he murmured against her lips.
She did, and his tongue swept inside. She tasted like the macarons she'd definitely been eating in secret at 7 AM.
*She's kissing back. Technique improving. Mina's influence remains dangerous but effective. Current heart rate: elevated. Rational thought: departing. Sunflower: very interested in payment plans.*
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her to the edge of the counter. She wrapped her legs around him automatically—learned behavior from constant koala climbing.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
"The payment," he said, voice lower than usual, "is non-negotiable."
"But the pan—"
"Every broken thing requires payment."
She WHIMPERED. "That's not FAIR! I break things on ACCIDENT!"
*Your honor, I'm being manipulated by my own wife's incompetence. This is entrapment.*
His hands slid under her shirt—his shirt, actually, she'd stolen it again—finding warm skin. "Life isn't fair, Mrs. Li."
"Zayne—"
His lips found her neck. "That's Doctor Li when I'm collecting payment."
Her head fell back, giving him better access. "Doctor Li is MEAN—"
"Doctor Li is very patient." He nipped at her pulse point. "But even patience has limits."
*Limits reached approximately 847 sighs ago. Currently operating on pure spousal obsession and concerning levels of attraction to chaos.*
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. They'd gone dark, pupils dilated.
"So here's the system," he explained, clinical voice activated despite current... circumstances. "Every item you break requires payment. The more expensive the item, the more... extensive the payment."
She bit her lip. "What if I break something really REALLY expensive?"
Please don't give her ideas. PLEASE.*
"Then the payment takes all day."
Her eyes went WIDE. "ALL DAY?!"
"All. Day." He kissed her again, slower this time, thorough. "Now, are you going to accept the payment terms for the pan?"
She nodded frantically. "YES! Yes, I accept! Very good terms! Excellent negotiation!"
*I've turned marriage into a transaction system based on property damage. I'm either a genius or having a breakdown. Possibly both.*
He hooked his fingers in her pajama shorts—also his, she'd stolen his entire wardrobe—and pulled them down along with her underwear.
"Zayne," she breathed, "someone might see through the window—"
"We live in a private estate. The nearest neighbor is two kilometers away."
"The squirrels—"
"The squirrels have seen worse." He dropped to his knees. "Now stop worrying about witnesses and focus."
*I'm about to perform oral sex in our kitchen while surrounded by egg-covered walls. My life has become a sitcom. An explicit sitcom.*
He draped her legs over his shoulders and dove in.
She YELPED, hands flying to his hair, gripping the dark strands. "ZAYNE! Warning! Give WARNING!"
*Warning would ruin the surprise. Also, her grip on my hair is concerning from a scalp health perspective but I'll allow it.*
He licked a long stripe up her center, and she nearly fell off the counter. He gripped her hips, holding her steady, and got to work.
Clinical precision met enthusiastic application. He mapped every sensitive spot, cataloged every sound she made, adjusted pressure and speed based on her reactions. When her thighs started trembling, he knew she was close.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Please don't— OH—"
She came with a cry that probably scared the squirrels, clenching around his tongue. He worked her through it, drinking her down like he'd been starving.
Taste profile: uniquely hers. Addictive. Concerning from a psychological dependency standpoint. Don't care.*
When he stood, she was panting, flushed, eyes glazed.
"Payment received," he said, wiping his mouth.
She blinked at him. Then: "Can I break more things?"
* I've created a monster.*
Zayne had moved to the living room to read medical journals, thinking the crisis was over.
He was wrong.
Nana appeared in the doorway, holding something behind her back, grinning like a GREMLIN.
* Threat level: rising. That smile means premeditated chaos.*
"Zayne~" She sang his name. "I found something."
"What did you find."
She pulled out a BROKEN FLOWER POT from behind her back. "This! I broke it yesterday! Need payment!"
She's... collecting evidence of her destruction... to demand sexual favors. This is. This is extortion. Adorable extortion.*
He stared at her.
She stared back, grinning.
"...Come here."
She BOUNCED over, presenting the broken pot like a trophy.
He pulled her into his lap, already half-hard again (concerning refractory period reduction, probably stress-related), and kissed her thoroughly.
She melted into him, making soft pleased sounds.
When he pulled back, she was grinning again. "Okay! Be right back!"
"Where are you—"
She RAN OFF.
Oh no.
She returned sixty seconds later with a BENT FORK.
"From last week! When I tried to open a can!"
* That's not what forks are for. That's. Why. How.*
He kissed her again.
She giggled against his mouth and ran off AGAIN.
*This is a game now. I've gamified property damage through sexual rewards. I need to call my therapist. Do I have a therapist? Should I get a therapist?*
She came back with HALF A MACARON BOX.
"I ate them all! Box broke! Payment?"
Kiss.
She left.
Came back with a CRACKED PHONE SCREEN.
"Dropped it in the garden!"
Kiss.
Left.
Returned with a TORN BOOK COVER.
"Accidentally ripped it when a butterfly landed on the page and I got excited!"
* The butterfly excuse. Classic Nana logic.*
Kiss.
This continued for TWENTY MINUTES.
Every time she brought something back, he kissed her. Each kiss got longer, deeper, more heated. By the tenth item (a somehow shattered lightbulb that he didn't want to know about), she was whimpering into his mouth, grinding against his lap.
"Any more?" he asked, voice rough.
She shook her head, dazed. "I think... I think that's all..."
"Good." He stood, lifting her with him. "Because now we're going to consolidate all those payments into one... extended session."
Her eyes went WIDE. "ALL OF THEM?!"
"You brought me—" he counted mentally, "—fourteen broken items. That's fourteen payments. Hope you cleared your schedule."
"But I— we— that's a lot of sunflower—"
"You created this system." He headed toward the bedroom. "Now you'll experience the consequences of your adorable extortion scheme."
*I'm going to make love to my wife for fourteen rounds because she brought me evidence of property damage. This is my life. I'm fine with this.*
He laid her on the bed carefully, like she was made of glass instead of chaos and audacity.
"Zayne," she breathed, "I was joking about some of them—"
"Too late." He stripped off his shirt. "A deal is a deal, Mrs. Li."
Her eyes tracked over his chest, his abs (the ones she'd compared to chocolate), down to where he was very obviously hard.
"Sunflower looks VERY ready for payment," she observed.
*She named my penis. I'm married to someone who named my penis. And I'm still attracted to her. This is concerning.*
He removed her clothes slowly, methodically, until she was bare beneath him. Beautiful. His.
Possessive thoughts increasing. Primal brain activation detected. Higher reasoning: compromised.*
He settled between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was still wet from earlier, from all the kissing, from being wound up and teased.
"Ready?" he asked, searching her face.
"Always ready for sunflower—"
He pushed in slowly, cutting off her words with a gasp.
* Tight. Warm. Perfect. Home. Wait. Did I just think 'home' about being inside my wife? That's. That's actually very romantic. And concerning.*
When he was fully seated, they both groaned.
"So deep," she whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
"So tight," he countered, fighting for control.
He started moving, slow and steady, building a rhythm. But she wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass—her signature move.
"Faster!"
"Nana—"
"Doctor's orders!"
She's using my own terminology against me. Clever. Infuriating. Very arousing.*
He gave her what she wanted.
His hips snapped forward harder, faster, finding that angle that made her see stars. The bed creaked ominously (mental note: replace bed frame before it murders us).
She bounced in his lap like a doll—small, delicate, completely at his mercy—and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, clinical voice somehow intact despite actively losing his mind.
"W-what?"
"Your clit. Touch it."
Her hand slipped between them, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. She circled it experimentally, and her inner walls CLENCHED around him.
*Not going to last. Absolutely not going to last. Refractory period be damned.*
"That's it," he encouraged, watching her face. "Show me how you like it."
She whimpered his name, working her clit in time with his thrusts. Her eyes were glazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
* Most beautiful patient I've ever treated. Wait. She's not a patient. Wife. Most beautiful wife. Only wife. MY wife.*
"Zayne, I'm— I'm—"
"Come for me."
She SHATTERED, crying out his name, clenching around him like a vice. The sensation dragged him over the edge. He thrust deep and came HARD, spilling inside her with a groan that was definitely not professional.
They collapsed together, panting.
After a moment: "Zayne?"
"Mm?"
"That was only payment one."
*I'm going to die. Death by sexual exhaustion caused by adorable wife's property damage collection. The autopsy will be fascinating.*
"...Sigh."
But he was already getting hard again.
Several "payments" later (he stopped counting at five), Zayne had retreated to the living room to recover.
He was reading a medical journal, trying to pretend his legs worked properly, when he noticed the SILENCE.
*Silence is never good. Silence means planning. Silence means chaos is brewing.*
He looked over the journal.
His wife was STARFISHED on the floor, arms and legs spread out, staring at the ceiling.
"Nana?"
"My husband doesn't love me anymore," she announced dramatically to the ceiling. "He's reading BORING JOURNALS for an HOUR. He's forgotten I exist. I'm INVISIBLE."
*Current elapsed time: 11 minutes. Her concept of time rivals her concept of cooking.*
He put the journal down. "I can see you."
"You're READING instead of LOOKING AT ME."
"I was looking at you three minutes ago."
"THREE MINUTES?!" She sat up, betrayed. "That's FOREVER! I could've DIED in three minutes!"
* Dramatic tendencies increasing. Possibly influenced by K-drama exposure. Must limit her screen time.*
"You're not going to die from—"
She FLOPPED back down. "I'm dying NOW. Of loneliness. And abandonment. And— and— BOREDOM."
* She's been married to me for three months and already developed my flair for dramatic sighing.*
He stood, walked over, and sat beside her floor-corpse.
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being NEGLECTED."
He cupped her face, tilting it toward him. She looked up at him with those big eyes, trying to maintain the pout but failing.
"So handsome," she whispered, completely derailed from her dramatic death.
*Distraction successful. Clinical victory achieved.*
"SO HANDSOME!" She grabbed his face now. "My husband is SO PRETTY! Look at this FACE! And these EYES! And—" She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "—big pink sunflower."
* Every life choice has led me here. To this moment. On the floor. While my wife compliments my genitals. The universe is either testing me or laughing at me. Probably both.*
"Nana—"
"I should paint your portrait! Naked! With sunflower! For ART!"
"Absolutely not—"
"For SCIENCE?"
"That's not how science—"
She kissed him, quick and sweet, then pulled back grinning. "You're blushing!"
"I'm not—"
"YOUR EARS ARE RED!"
*Physiological response to spouse detected. Embarrassment levels: high. Denial protocol: failing.*
She giggled, rolling to sprawl across his lap now instead of the floor. "I love you."
The words hit him like a defibrillator shock.
*She said it. She— she's said it before but it's still. It's still like the first time. Every time. Cardiac arrhythmia detected. Emotional override complete.*
"I love you too," he said quietly.
"SAY IT LOUDER!"
"I love you."
"LOUDER!"
"The neighbors will hear—"
"THERE ARE NO NEIGHBORS! YOU SAID SO!"
"I LOVE YOU!" he shouted, and she SHRIEKED with laughter, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"That's smile number TWENTY-TWO!"
*She's counting. She's always counting. My smiles, my sighs, my everything. She pays attention to everything I do even when I think she's not looking. She—*
*She loves me.*
*Even with all my cold exteriors and clinical deflections and ice powers that could hurt her. She loves me anyway.*
*This is terrifying and perfect and I would destroy the world for this woman.*
He kissed the top of her head, breathing in her scent (macarons, chaos, home).
"What are you thinking?" she asked, playing with his hair.
*That I'm completely gone for you. That you've ruined me for any semblance of normalcy. That I want to keep you safe and also watch you destroy every kitchen appliance we own because it makes you happy.*
"I'm thinking we need a stronger frying pan."
She BEAMED. "Can we get PINK?"
"...Fine."
"And matching pink spatulas!"
"Don't push it."
She snuggled into his chest, content. "You're the best husband."
*I'm the only husband you've ever had. Also, you burned down our kitchen this morning. But yes. I am the best husband. Because I'm yours and you're mine and—*
He looked down at her, already half-asleep in his lap, and thought:
*I would break the world before I let anything hurt you.*
Then she farted.
In her sleep.
On his lap.
* Marriage is beautiful. Marriage is sacred. Marriage is... my wife farting on me while unconscious.*
*I regret nothing.*
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
Mr. Fluffytail sat on the windowsill, having witnessed EVERYTHING.
He turned to Mrs. Fluffytail.
"The humans are insane."
"But they're happy."
"Fair point."
They went back to eating the premium nuts Nana had left out.
.
.
.
.
.
🌻🌻🌻
To be continued.