The apartment was quiet when Angelina heard the door unlock. 10:47 PM—later than usual, but she'd waited up, curled on the couch with her thoughts spiraling since art class ended.
*Girl, four months married and he hasn't touched you? That's not normal,* Mina's voice echoed in her head. *Maybe he doesn't find you attractive enough.*
The words had burrowed under her skin all evening.
"Nana?" Zayne's deep voice cut through her thoughts as he stepped inside, loosening his tie. His hazel eyes found her immediately, and something in his expression shifted. "You're still awake. Your circadian rhythm—"
"Do you love me?"
The question hung in the air. Zayne froze mid-step, his hand still on his tie.
"What brought this on?" His tone was measured, clinical—the same voice he used to discuss test results. It made her chest ache.
"We've been married four months." Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleep shirt. "You kiss my cheek. Sometimes my forehead. But you never..." She couldn't finish, heat flooding her face.
Zayne set his briefcase down with deliberate care. "Angelina—"
"Don't call me that right now." Her voice cracked. "Mina said married couples are supposed to—to want each other. And you don't even... am I not attractive to you? Is it because I'm too short? Too childish? I know I climb trees and eat too many macarons and—"
"Stop."
The word came out rougher than his usual tone. He crossed the space between them in three strides, crouching before her so they were eye level. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized were falling.
"Your perception of my feelings is entirely inaccurate." His jaw tightened. "I maintain distance because you were sheltered your entire life. You've never been in a relationship. You're—" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Medically speaking, you're untouched. I won't rush you into physical intimacy you're not ready for."
"But I am ready!" The words burst out before she could stop them. "I want you to touch me. I want to be a real wife, not just someone who lives here and sits in your lap sometimes and—"
"You have no idea what you're asking." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Do you understand how difficult it is? How my control frays every time you climb into my lap like it's your personal throne? When you look at me with those eyes and that innocent expression while doing things that are decidedly not innocent?"
Her breath caught. "You... you want to?"
"Want to?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "Nana, I'm a cardiac surgeon. I understand the cardiovascular system intimately. I'm acutely aware that my resting heart rate elevates approximately 15-20 beats per minute whenever you enter a room. My blood pressure spikes when you touch me. Basic physiological responses I can't control, despite my training."
"Then why don't you—"
"Because intimacy isn't just physical." His thumbs continued their gentle stroking across her cheeks. "It starts with smaller steps. We haven't even kissed properly. I wanted to give you time to—"
"Kiss me."
His eyes darkened. "Angelina—"
"Nana," she corrected, emboldened by the crack in his composure. "You call me Nana when I'm good. So kiss me. Please, husband."
She watched his control fracture in real time—the way his jaw clenched, his pupils dilated, his breathing pattern changed from measured to slightly irregular.
"This is inadvisable," he murmured, even as his hand slid to the back of her neck. "Once I start, I may not—"
She closed the distance herself, pressing her lips to his.
For a heartbeat, he was still. Then something in him snapped.
The kiss was nothing like the chaste pecks on her cheek. His mouth moved against hers with barely restrained hunger, teaching her the rhythm, the pressure, the devastating slide of his tongue against hers when she gasped. Her small hands fisted in his shirt, trying to pull him closer, needing more of whatever this was that made her feel like her fire Evol was burning under her skin.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers.
"Your heart rate is elevated," he observed, voice rough. His fingers found her pulse point, professional habit even now. "Approximately 120 beats per minute."
"Yours too," she whispered, palm pressed over his chest. "I can feel it."
"Yes. Tachycardia induced by arousal." His clinical language was betrayed by the heat in his gaze. "This is what I meant about control. You affect my physiological responses in ways that are... problematic."
"I want to be problematic." The boldness surprised even her. "I want more."
"More," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "Do you understand what 'more' entails? The progression of physical intimacy between married couples?"
She nodded, though her knowledge was mostly from Mina's scandalous explanations and internet searches she'd been too embarrassed to fully explore.
"Then let me educate you properly."
He stood, pulling her up with him, and sat on the couch, guiding her to straddle his lap—her favorite position, though it felt different now with this tension crackling between them.
"Intimacy typically progresses in stages." His hands settled on her waist, thumbs tracing small circles through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt. "Kissing. Touching. Exploration. Each step building arousal until both parties are physiologically prepared for intercourse."
The clinical explanation should have been awkward, but the way his voice roughened on certain words, the way his grip tightened slightly, made heat pool low in her belly.
"Show me," she whispered.
"This is the point of no return, Nana." His eyes searched hers. "If we continue, I won't be able to maintain the distance I've been keeping. Are you certain?"
"I've never been more certain of anything."
She watched the last thread of his restraint snap.
This kiss was different—deeper, more demanding. His hands slid under her sleep shirt, finally touching her bare skin, and she gasped at the contact. His palms were warm, slightly rough, unmistakably possessive as they mapped her waist, her ribs, higher.
"Your skin temperature is elevated," he murmured against her mouth. "Flushed. Pupils dilated. Respiratory rate increased." Each clinical observation was punctuated with kisses trailing down her jaw, her neck. "Classic signs of arousal."
"Zayne—" His name came out breathy when his teeth grazed her pulse point.
"Husband," he corrected, voice dark with satisfaction. "You wanted to be a real wife. Then call me what you always do."
"Husband," she gasped as his hands continued their exploration, learning every curve, every place that made her breath hitch.
Her own hands fumbled with his shirt buttons, clumsy but determined. When she finally pushed the fabric off his shoulders, she paused, taking in the lean muscle, the scars from his medical training, the body she'd only glimpsed before.
"You're staring." There was amusement in his tone now, some of that control returning. "See something you like, hamster?"
The nickname made her glare even as heat flooded her face. "Don't call me that right now."
"No?" His hand caught her chin, tilting her face up. "But you are being mischievous. Tempting your husband past his limits. Sitting in my lap in this—" His other hand tugged at her sleep shirt. "—this should be illegal."
"Then do something about it."
Wrong thing to say. Or maybe exactly right, because his eyes flashed with something predatory.
"Careful what you wish for."
He stood in one fluid motion, carrying her with ease despite their height difference, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. The new position pressed them together in ways that made her gasp, made small flames dance across her fingertips.
"Fire manifestation due to emotional intensity," he observed, carrying her toward their bedroom. "Interesting physiological response."
"You're still using doctor words," she complained, though her protest was weak.
"Would you prefer I lose coherence entirely?" He laid her on their bed with surprising gentleness given the hunger in his eyes. "That I stop explaining and just show you exactly what married couples do?"
She nodded, breathless.
"Use your words, Nana. I need explicit consent for each step."
"Yes. Show me. Please, husband, I want—" She didn't even know how to articulate what she wanted, just that she needed more of this, more of him, more of the way he was looking at her like she was something precious and tempting all at once.
"Then let me take care of my wife properly."
His weight settled over her, careful not to crush her smaller frame, and his mouth found hers again. But this time his hands didn't stop at safe territory. They explored with clinical precision and devastating thoroughness—every place that made her arch, gasp, plead incoherently.
Her sleep shirt disappeared. Then his pants. Barriers falling away until there was just skin against skin, heat against heat, his control fracturing with every sound she made.
"Your physical responses indicate you're ready," he murmured against her neck, though his hand still moved between them, making sure, making her see stars. "But tell me. Say it."
"I'm ready, I want this, I want you, please—"
"Shh." He kissed her softly, tenderly, so at odds with the tension coiled in both their bodies. "I'll take care of you. I promise."
And he did.
The initial discomfort made her tense, small flames flickering across her shoulders, but he was patient, careful, murmuring clinical explanations mixed with reassurances until her body adjusted, until discomfort gave way to something else entirely.
"Breathe," he instructed, voice strained. "Just breathe, Nana. Let your body accommodate—"
"Stop talking like a doctor," she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Can't help it. You're—" His forehead pressed against hers, breathing ragged. "You're destroying what's left of my composure."
She rolled her hips experimentally, and his groan was deeply satisfying.
"That's—inadvisable—if you want this to last—"
"Then don't last." Boldness born of desperation. "I want you to lose control. Please."
That did it. His legendary restraint shattered completely.
The rhythm he set was careful at first, monitoring her reactions with a doctor's attention to detail, but as she urged him on, as small heart-shaped flames danced above them in her joy, he finally let go. Clinical language gave way to her name, breathed like prayer and plea, his control utterly decimated by his wife.
When they finally tumbled over that edge together, her fire Evol sparked bright enough to make the smoke alarm chirp once before settling, and she couldn't even be embarrassed because he was laughing—actually laughing, breathless and wrecked, pressing kisses to her face, her neck, anywhere he could reach.
"Structural fire hazard," he managed between kisses. "We'll need to discuss emotional regulation for your Evol during intimate activities."
"You're hopeless," she mumbled, though she was smiling, feeling cherished and thoroughly loved.
"Hopeless," he agreed, gathering her close despite the mess they'd need to clean up. "Completely undone by a 153-centimeter woman who climbs trees and eats too many macarons and drives me absolutely insane."
"Do you regret it?"
"Regret?" He tilted her face up, and his expression was soft in a way she rarely saw. "Nana, my resting heart rate may never return to normal. You've permanently altered my cardiovascular baseline. In medical terms, that's quite serious."
"And in husband terms?"
"In husband terms?" He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. "I love you. Completely. I've been in love with you since you were fifteen and I was terrified of that fact. Waiting these four months nearly killed me, but I wanted your first time to be your choice, not because I couldn't control myself."
Tears pricked her eyes. "I love you too. Even if you use too many doctor words during sex."
"I'll work on that," he promised, though the smile tugging at his lips suggested otherwise. "Now, we should address aftercare. You'll likely experience some soreness tomorrow, which is normal for first sexual intercourse. I recommend—"
She kissed him to shut him up, and he surrendered with gratifying speed.
Later, after they'd cleaned up and she was tucked against his chest, she murmured, "Mina was wrong, you know."
"About?"
"She said you didn't want me. But you wanted me so much you were afraid of it."
His arm tightened around her. "Your friend is a menace who nearly caused my wife unnecessary emotional distress. I may need to have words with her."
"Don't you dare. She's the reason I finally asked."
"Then I suppose I owe her a thank you." He paused. "A very brief, very professional thank you."
She giggled, pressing closer. "So... can we do that again? Soon?"
"Your body needs recovery time. At least 24 hours for tissue healing—"
"Doctor words," she warned.
"—but yes. Soon. As often as you want. I have four months of restraint to make up for."
"Good." She yawned, already drifting off. "Love you, husband."
"Love you too, Nana."
And for once, Dr. Zayne didn't mind at all when she stole all the blankets in her sleep. He'd just pull her closer and accept that his wife had thoroughly, completely, and irrevocably stolen more than just his blankets.
She'd stolen his heart, his control, and his previously stable resting heart rate.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.
.
.
.
.
.
🩺🩺🩺
THE END.