One hour.
One entire hour of watching her husband read that stupid medical journal while she'd been sitting right there, looking cute in her pastel pink loungewear, practically radiating "pay attention to me" energy.
Angelina had tried everything.
First, she'd rolled across the carpet near his feet like a cat demanding pets. Nothing. He'd just adjusted his reading glasses without even glancing down.
Then she'd climbed the apple tree in their yard—her signature move when upset—and come back inside with leaves tangled in her auburn hair, bits of bark on her clothes. Surely that would get a reaction?
Zayne had looked up, sighed that long-suffering sigh of his, and returned to his journal.
"Nana, you're twenty-one. Please stop climbing trees."
"You're not the boss of me," she'd muttered, picking leaves out of her hair.
"I'm your husband and a medical professional. Tree-climbing poses unnecessary risk of—"
She'd stopped listening and started plotting.
Which led to her current position: standing on a chair, reaching for the top shelf where Zayne had hidden the macarons. The *forbidden* macarons. The ones he'd confiscated last week after she'd eaten an entire box in one sitting and complained of a stomachache.
"I can see you," came his voice from the living room, still maddeningly calm.
"No you can't. You're reading."
"I have peripheral vision. Get down before you fall."
"I'm not going to fall, I'm—" She stretched higher, fingers brushing the box. "Almost... got it!"
The box tumbled down, and she caught it triumphantly, hopping off the chair with a victorious grin. She marched into the living room, plopped onto the couch directly in his line of sight, and opened the box with deliberate slowness.
Zayne's eyes lifted from his journal. He stared at her. She stared back, maintaining eye contact as she bit into a pistachio macaron.
"Those are confiscated," he said evenly.
"Finders keepers."
"You literally stole them from their hiding place."
"Prove it." She took another bite, pleased with herself.
He set down the journal with careful precision—never a good sign—and she saw the moment he decided to simply outlast her tantrum. He picked the journal back up.
The audacity.
Angelina ate three more macarons in rapid succession, each one a small rebellion. Zayne didn't even blink, just kept reading about whatever boring cardiac procedure was apparently more interesting than his wife.
Fine. She'd pull out the big guns.
She clutched her throat dramatically. Made a choking sound. Another one, more desperate.
The journal hit the coffee table before she could blink.
"Angelina!" Zayne was beside her in an instant, medical training overriding everything else. His hands moved to assess her airway, professional and efficient even in panic. "Can you breathe? Nod if you can hear me."
She made another gagging sound, really selling it, though she had to fight not to laugh at the genuine fear in his eyes.
"Dammit—" He positioned her forward, hand between her shoulder blades, preparing to perform back blows. "I told you not to eat them so fast—"
She cracked one eye open and grabbed his tie, pulling him close.
"Only one thing can save me now," she wheezed dramatically.
Suspicion flickered across his face. "Angelina—"
"A french kiss from my doctor husband," she declared, dropping the act entirely, grinning up at him. "It's the only cure."
The fear in his expression transformed into something else entirely. Something dark and promising.
"You," he said slowly, dangerously, "just faked a medical emergency."
"Maybe."
"You made me believe you were choking."
"You were ignoring me for an hour!" She jutted out her lower lip in a pout. "An hour, Zayne! I could have died of loneliness and you wouldn't have noticed because of that stupid journal!"
"It's research for a complex surgery I'm performing next week—"
"I don't care about the surgery! I care about you paying attention to me!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."
"I'm adorable."
"You're a menace who just stole confiscated macarons, climbed a tree, and faked a choking incident." His voice dropped lower. "That deserves punishment."
Her eyes widened. "Punishment?"
"Flamingo position. Over my knee. Right now."
Heat flooded her face even as defiance sparked. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" He sat back on the couch, patting his thigh expectantly. "You wanted my attention. Now you have it."
She should move. Should accept her consequences. But instead she deployed her secret weapon: the puppy eyes. Big, pleading, with just a hint of trembling lower lip.
"But husband," she whispered, "I was so lonely. And you looked so handsome reading, but you wouldn't look at me..."
She watched him waver. Saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.
"Those eyes are unfair," he muttered.
"Is it working?"
"Unfortunately." He tugged her onto his lap—her favorite spot, as always. "But you still owe me that kiss you prescribed yourself."
"I said french kiss," she clarified, sliding her arms around his neck. "Very specific medical treatment."
"Then I suppose I should administer it properly." His hand cupped the back of her neck. "As your doctor and your husband, I'm obligated to follow treatment protocols."
"Such a dedicated professional," she teased, but her breath caught when his eyes darkened.
"Open," he commanded softly.
She did.
The kiss was nothing like their sweet morning pecks or even the heated kisses from their first time together. This was claiming, possessive, a reminder of who exactly she'd been tormenting for the past hour. His tongue swept against hers with devastating skill, swallowing her surprised gasp, teaching her exactly what a proper french kiss entailed.
When he finally pulled back, she was dizzy, clinging to his shoulders.
"There," he murmured against her lips. "Treatment administered. Feeling better?"
She whimpered—actually whimpered—and the sound made his grip tighten on her waist.
"Nana." His voice was strained now, that clinical control starting to fray. "That sound is inadvisable if you want me to stop at just kissing."
"What if I don't want you to stop?"
Wrong thing to say. Or right thing, depending on perspective.
His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back. "You spent an hour being mischievous. Making chaos. Stealing forbidden items. Faking medical emergencies." Each accusation was punctuated with a kiss along her jaw. "And now you're asking for more?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Greedy little hamster."
"Your greedy little hamster," she corrected, rolling her hips against his lap and feeling the immediate response. "And you've been ignoring me. I think you owe me more than just one kiss."
"I was working."
"You were reading about hearts. You could have been paying attention to the one sitting right in front of you." She trailed her fingers down his chest, emboldened by the way his breathing changed. "Don't you want to give me attention now?"
"Want is an understatement." His hands slid under her shirt, finally touching skin, and she gasped. "Your body temperature is elevated. Heart rate increased. Pupils dilated." The clinical observations were betrayed by how roughly he pulled her closer. "Classic signs of arousal."
"Then do something about it."
"Is that a request or a demand?"
"Both."
He laughed, low and dark. "Then let me properly examine my wife. Since she's so desperate for my attention."
Her shirt disappeared. Then his. The medical journal was definitely forgotten now, knocked to the floor when he shifted her beneath him on the couch.
"This surface is suboptimal for—" he started, ever the practical doctor.
"I don't care about optimal," she interrupted, pulling him down for another kiss. "I care about right now."
"Impatient." But he was smiling against her mouth, that rare soft smile reserved just for her. "Though I suppose I did neglect you for an hour. That requires thorough compensation."
His hands mapped familiar territory with new urgency, relearning every place that made her arch, gasp, beg incoherently. When he kissed down her neck, her collarbone, lower, she threaded her fingers through his dark hair.
"Husband—"
"Shh. Let me work." His mouth continued its devastating path. "Consider this my apology for ignoring you."
"This is a very good apology," she managed, then lost all coherent thought when his hands and mouth coordinated their efforts.
Small flames danced across her fingertips—her Evol responding to the intensity building inside her. He noticed, of course, always monitoring her responses.
"Fire manifestation already?" He pressed a kiss to her hip bone. "I've barely started."
"Your fault for being so—ah!—good at this."
"Anatomical knowledge has its benefits." His fingers traced patterns that made her see stars. "I know exactly where—"
"Stop talking like a doctor," she pleaded, though the clinical precision of his touch was driving her insane in the best way.
"Can't help it. You're—" He moved back up her body, settling between her thighs. "—fascinating. Every physiological response, every sound you make." His forehead pressed against hers. "Do you have any idea how difficult it was to focus on that journal when you were rolling around on the carpet? Coming back with leaves in your hair? Those jeans should be illegal on you."
"You noticed?"
"I notice everything about you. Always." He kissed her softly, tenderly. "Even when I'm trying very hard to finish reading about surgical techniques."
"Then next time pay attention to me first," she demanded, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Research second."
"Noted." His hand slid between them, making sure she was ready even as she squirmed with impatience. "Though your methods of getting my attention need work."
"They worked perfectly—oh!" Her back arched when he finally, finally gave her what she wanted.
"Breathe," he instructed, voice strained. "Your body needs to adjust—"
"Already adjusted," she gasped, rolling her hips to prove it. "Did this four days ago, remember?"
"Yes, and you were sore after, so I need to be—careful—" The last word came out strangled when she clenched around him deliberately.
"Don't be careful. Be here. With me."
That shredded what remained of his control. The careful, measured pace gave way to something more desperate, more raw. His clinical detachment dissolved entirely, replaced by gasped endearments, her name like a prayer, the kind of undignified sounds she loved coaxing from her usually composed husband.
"This is—highly irregular—" he managed between thrusts.
"What is?"
"Conducting intimate relations on the couch. Insufficient support for your spine, no proper—"
She pulled him down for a kiss just to shut him up, and he surrendered with gratifying speed, all his protests forgotten in favor of making her fall apart beneath him.
When she did—fire blazing bright enough to make him glance up in alarm—he followed immediately after, her name a broken sound against her neck.
They stayed tangled together, breathing hard, his weight pressing her into the couch cushions.
"Your Evol is getting stronger during intimate activities," he observed eventually, though his voice was wrecked. "We should discuss control techniques."
"Later. Right now I'm enjoying being ignored no longer." She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Was I distracting enough?"
"Devastatingly so." He shifted, pulling her with him so she was draped across his chest. "Though I draw the line at fake medical emergencies. You took years off my life."
"You love me anyway."
"Unfortunately." But he was stroking her hair, pressing kisses to her forehead. "Even when you're stealing macarons and climbing trees and rolling around on carpets like a cat."
"A cute cat though, right?"
"The cutest menace I know." He paused. "Though you're still not getting the rest of those macarons back. Your blood sugar levels—"
"Zayne."
"—require monitoring, and excessive sucrose consumption—"
She kissed him again. It was becoming her favorite method of winning arguments.
"Fine," he conceded when they parted. "One more macaron. But I'm supervising."
"Deal." She snuggled closer, tracing idle patterns on his chest. "Love you, husband."
"Love you too, hamster." His hand settled on her waist, possessive and gentle all at once. "Even when you're terrorizing me."
"Especially when I'm terrorizing you," she corrected, and laughed when he sighed that long-suffering sigh of his.
But his arms tightened around her anyway.
And his medical journal stayed forgotten on the floor for the rest of the night.
.
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🩺🩺🩺
THE END.