Angelina didn't understand a single word coming out of her husband's mouth.
Something about cardiac procedures. Minimally invasive techniques. Mortality rates and recovery protocols. All very important, very impressive medical jargon that flew completely over her head.
But god, did he look good saying it.
She sat in the audience of the downtown medical conference, chin propped on her hand, watching Zayne command the stage in his white hospital coat. The way he gestured with those long, skilled fingers. The way his voice carried authority and confidence. The way other doctors hung on his every word like he was some kind of medical deity.
She was definitely drooling.
"Earth to Nana," Mina whispered, elbowing her. "You're staring."
"That's my husband," she whispered back proudly. "I'm allowed to stare."
"You look like a hamster eyeing sunflower seeds," Jisu giggled on her other side.
"Shh! I'm appreciating his professional competence."
"You're appreciating something, that's for sure," Mina teased.
Angelina ignored them, returning her attention to Zayne. He'd moved to demonstrate something on the projected screen, pointing out anatomical details with that focused expression he got when he was in doctor mode. So serious. So composed.
So completely hers.
"—and that concludes the endoscopic approach," Zayne said, his eyes sweeping the audience. They paused briefly on her, and she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch before returning to professional neutrality. "Any questions?"
Several hands shot up. Of course they did. Everyone wanted more time with the brilliant Dr. Zayne.
"I have a question," Mina muttered under her breath. "How do you function married to that?"
"With difficulty," Angelina admitted, fanning herself.
That's when she overheard it—two women in the row behind them, voices low but audible.
"Dr. Zayne is something else," one sighed. "Did you see him during that six-hour surgery last month? Never sat down once. That kind of stamina..."
"I know, right? Imagine having that focus, that precision, that endurance applied to... other activities."
They giggled, and Angelina's spine went rigid.
"His wife is so lucky," the first woman continued. "A man who can perform surgery standing up for six hours straight? He must be absolutely excellent in—"
Angelina saw red.
That was HER husband they were fantasizing about. HER man. The one whose stamina she knew *very* well, thank you very much. The one who—
Mina grabbed her arm as she started to turn around. "Don't."
"But they're—"
"Being thirsty, yes. Ignore them." Jisu leaned in. "Though they're not wrong about the stamina thing."
"JISU!"
"What? I'm just saying—"
"That's my husband!" Angelina hissed, crossing her arms with a ferocious pout. "Mine! They can't just—just speculate about his—"
"Bedroom performance?" Mina supplied helpfully.
"Yes! That!" She glared at the stage where Zayne was calmly answering questions, completely unaware that his wife was three seconds from committing violence. "I should go up there and—"
"And what? Announce you're marking your territory?"
Actually, that didn't sound like a terrible idea.
She must have looked mutinous because Jisu laughed. "Oh my god, you're actually considering it. You look like an angry hamster ready to fight."
"I am ready to fight," she muttered, but settled back in her seat with her arms still crossed, glaring at anyone who looked at Zayne with too much interest.
From the stage, Zayne's eyes found hers again. This time, recognition flickered across his face—that knowing look that said he'd clocked her mood exactly. His expression remained professionally neutral, but she saw him suppress a sigh.
He knew. Somehow he always knew when she was plotting something.
Good. He should be prepared.
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🩺🩺🩺
The ride home was silent except for Angelina's pointed huffing.
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Zayne asked finally, pulling into their driveway.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Your respiratory pattern suggests agitation. Your arms have been crossed for thirty minutes. And you've been glaring at the passenger window like it personally offended you."
"Maybe it did."
"Nana—"
"Those women," she burst out. "Behind us at the conference. Talking about your stamina. About how you must be 'excellent in bed' because you can do surgery standing up. Like they have any right to speculate about my husband's—"
She cut herself off, face flaming, but Zayne had gone very still.
"I see," he said carefully.
"They were fantasizing about you! About your—your endurance and precision and—" She turned to glare at him. "You're mine. Only I get to know about that stuff. Only me."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Is that so?"
"Yes!" She unbuckled her seatbelt with aggressive clicks. "And now I'm upset and you need to fix it."
"Fix it how?"
She had no answer for that, just marched toward the house with Zayne following, probably already predicting the chaos about to unfold.
He was right to be concerned.
Angelina followed him everywhere.
Living room? She was there, sitting on the arm of his chair while he tried to review patient files.
Kitchen? She perched on the counter watching him make tea.
Study? She sprawled across his desk, disrupting his paperwork.
"Nana," he said patiently. "I need to shower."
"Okay."
"Alone."
"No." She trailed after him to the bathroom.
He turned to face her at the door, one eyebrow raised. "You're being exceptionally clingy tonight."
"I'm being appropriately attentive to my husband who everyone wants."
"I don't want them. I want—" He sighed. "You're not going to leave, are you?"
"Nope."
"Fine." He started unbuttoning his shirt. "Then just watch."
She blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. If you're going to insist on being here, you can watch." His shirt hit the floor. "Unless you'd rather wait outside?"
She should leave. Should give him privacy. Should definitely not stand there ogling while he stripped down with that infuriating calm expression.
She stayed.
His pants went next. Then everything else. And god help her, she was definitely staring now, drinking in every line of muscle, every inch of skin she'd touched before but somehow looked different in the bathroom lighting.
"Enjoying the view?" His tone was dry as he stepped into the shower.
"Very much," she managed, rooted to the spot.
The water started, steam beginning to fog the glass. Through it she could see his silhouette, the movement of his hands through his hair, across his body, and her mouth went dry.
"You're still overdressed for this," he called out.
"What?"
"If you're going to watch, you might as well join me. More efficient use of water resources."
Her heart stuttered. "That's—you're just saying that because of environmental concerns?"
"Obviously." The sarcasm was thick. "Come here, Nana."
She was moving before conscious thought caught up, shedding clothes clumsily until she could slip into the shower with him. The water was perfectly warm, steam enveloping them, and he immediately pulled her close.
"Better?" he murmured against her ear.
"Yes," she breathed, hands sliding up his chest.
It started innocent enough. He washed her hair with gentle fingers, massaging her scalp until she nearly purred. She returned the favor, standing on tiptoe to reach. His hands mapped her body under the pretense of soaping her skin, but the touches lingered, exploratory.
Then her hands wandered lower.
And lower.
Zayne froze when her fingers wrapped around him tentatively.
"Nana—"
"Can I?" The words tumbled out before courage failed. "Can I taste you? Like—like you did to me last week?"
His breathing changed immediately. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." She looked up at him through wet lashes. "I want to make you feel good. Please? Will you teach me?"
She watched his control fracture in real time—the way his jaw clenched, his pupils dilated, his hands tightened on her shoulders.
"You're going to destroy me," he muttered, but he was already guiding her down, voice rough as he gave instructions. "Like this. Slow. Yes, just—god—"
She learned quickly, emboldened by every sound she coaxed from him, every sharp intake of breath, every time his fingers tightened in her hair. His clinical composure shattered completely, reduced to gasped instructions and her name like a prayer.
"Nana—stop—I'm going to—"
She didn't stop.
When he finally came undone with a broken sound, she felt triumphant and powerful and absolutely delighted by how thoroughly she'd wrecked her always-composed husband.
"That was—" He hauled her up, kissing her breathless, water streaming over both of them. "—highly inadvisable in a shower. Slip risk. Poor positioning for—"
She kissed him again to shut him up, and whatever clinical observation he'd been building died as he backed her against the tile wall.
"My turn," he growled against her mouth.
"We're still in the shower—"
"I don't care."
His hands were everywhere, relearning every sensitive spot, every place that made her gasp. But when she reached for him again, clearly wanting more, he lifted her easily.
"Not here." He turned off the water with one hand, keeping her secure with the other. "I'm not taking you properly for the first time in a shower."
"But—"
"Sink," he decided, carrying her wet and dripping to the bathroom counter. "Turn around."
She obeyed, heartbeat racing, and caught sight of their reflection in the mirror—her flushed face, his dark eyes, the way his hands looked possessive on her hips.
"Watch," he commanded softly. "Watch what's mine."
Then he was pressing into her and she understood immediately why he'd chosen this position. The mirror showed everything—the way he gripped her hips, the way her back arched, the way his control cracked with every thrust.
"This is what they were speculating about?" His voice was rough, punctuated by movement. "My stamina? My precision?"
"Yes," she gasped, gripping the counter.
"Let them wonder." He leaned forward, one hand sliding around to her throat—not squeezing, just holding possessively. "They'll never know. Only you get to know how I lose control. Only you get to feel this."
"Only me," she agreed breathlessly, watching in the mirror as he thoroughly proved his point about surgical stamina.
The position was intense, deep, overwhelming. Every thrust made her see stars. His free hand found where they were joined, adding pressure that made her cry out.
"That's it," he encouraged roughly. "Let everyone in the building know who you belong to."
"Can't—" she gasped. "Too much—"
"You can take it." But his rhythm stuttered slightly. "You're taking me so perfectly. So—"
She clenched around him deliberately and watched his reflection shatter, control gone completely. The careful, measured doctor disappeared, replaced by someone desperate and possessive and thoroughly undone.
When she came apart, flames burst across her hands, scorching slightly where she gripped the counter. He followed immediately after, her name a wrecked sound against her shoulder.
They stayed frozen for a long moment, breathing hard, steam from the shower still swirling around them.
"I can't feel my legs," she mumbled eventually.
Zayne laughed—actually laughed, breathless and satisfied—and carefully withdrew, turning her around to hold her up. "That was the point."
"Show off."
"Says the woman who asked to taste me." He kissed her forehead. "Who knew my innocent wife had such ideas?"
"Blame Mina and Jisu."
"I'm going to have words with your friends."
"Don't you dare. They're helpful."
"They're corrupting you," he countered, but he was smiling as he helped her actually clean up, his touches gentle now. "And you're corrupting me. I just defiled my bathroom counter."
"You loved it."
"Unfortunately." He dried her carefully with a towel, then lifted her again. "Bed. You need rest after—"
"After you proved those women right about your stamina?"
His eyes darkened. "Don't remind me people were discussing that."
"Why not? It's true." She traced his jaw. "Six hours standing during surgery. How long was that just now?"
"That's different."
"Is it though? Because you seemed pretty focused. Pretty precise." She grinned wickedly. "Pretty excellent."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're mine." She kissed him softly. "Only mine. They can wonder all they want. I'm the only one who gets to know."
Something in his expression softened. "Yes. Only yours. Always."
He carried her to bed, tucking her in with uncharacteristic gentleness, and she pulled him down beside her.
"No more medical conferences," she mumbled against his chest.
"I have three next month."
"Then I'm coming to all of them. With a sign. That says 'Taken.'"
"Please don't."
"Or maybe a t-shirt. 'Dr. Zayne's Wife' in big letters."
"Nana—"
"With an arrow pointing at you. So everyone knows."
He sighed that long-suffering sigh. "You're absolutely going to do something embarrassing, aren't you?"
"Probably." She yawned, already drifting off. "But you love me anyway."
"Unfortunately," he murmured, but his arms tightened around her. "I love you very much."
"Love you too," she mumbled. "My excellent, stamina-having, shower-ruining husband."
"Go to sleep, hamster."
"Mmkay."
Within minutes she was out, stealing blankets in her sleep as usual. Zayne extracted himself carefully, making sure she was covered, then surveyed the bathroom—the scorched counter edges from her fire Evol, the lingering steam, the evidence of their complete loss of control.
He should be concerned about the property damage.
He should be mortified by his behavior.
Instead, he just smiled, pressed a kiss to his sleeping wife's forehead, and made a mental note to be prepared for whatever chaos she'd inevitably cause at the next medical conference.
Because if there was one thing he'd learned in their months of marriage, it was that Angelina Wang—his sweet-toothed, tree-climbing, delightfully possessive wife—would always find new ways to completely unravel his carefully maintained composure.
And honestly? He wouldn't have it any other way.
Even if his bathroom counter would need refinishing.
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🩺🩺🩺
The end.