I chuckle as Ayane retells the story, my cheeks burning a little out of embarrassment as my hands settle on her hips.
"Yeah, that sure was something, wasn't it? I just.." I huff in some air, then puff it out".. it's weird but thinking back, in that moment, I had not a single ounce of doubt in my mind that you wouldn't be able to handle the situation. You are amazing, you know?" I lean closer, opening a steady shower of kisses up as I trace every line of her features with my lips, while whispering sweet little nothings in-between pecks,"My Desert Rose, My Angel, My Baby, My Love." then I pause, flashing a teasing wink at her,"Future Mrs Carrington." before bracing for the impact of the slap I'm about to receive as a reward.
His words, his praise, were a warm blanket, and she snuggled deeper into the feeling of being cherished. The shower of tender pecks across her face was bliss, a gentle rain after a long drought. "My Desert Rose," she sighed internally, a happy warmth spreading through her chest. "My Angel," her heart fluttered. "My Baby, My Love," she was melting, a puddle of pure, contented affection in his lap. This was perfect. This was—
"Future Mrs Carrington."
The words, delivered with a teasing wink, were not a key turning a lock. They were a tactical nuclear device detonating directly inside her brain.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute, like a circuit breaker tripping in her soul. Her entire body went rigid in his arms. The soft, pliant affection of a moment ago vanished, replaced by the tensile strength of a drawn bowstring.
A blush of apocalyptic proportions erupted across her face, a wave of pure, concentrated heat that seemed to radiate into the air around them. Her halo, which had been a steady, soft crimson, flickered erratically, sputtering like a faulty neon sign. Her mind, the precision tool of the Foreclosure Task Force, didn't just crash; it vaporized.
"B-b-b-b-wha—!" she stammered, the sound a high-pitched, garbled mess that was half-squeak, half-static.
Her hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, flew up. But it wasn't for the slap he was bracing for. It was a panicked, flailing gesture as she tried to cover her own incandescent face. She ended up pushing weakly, nonsensically against his chest, a gesture with all the force of a startled kitten.
"That's—you can't—that is an entirely unsanctioned and premature projection!" The Secretary part of her brain was trying to reboot, grasping for the familiar comfort of protocol in the face of emotional annihilation. "The—the logistical parameters! The paperwork alone—!"
She couldn't continue. The sentence collapsed under its own flustered weight. Giving up on forming coherent thought, she surrendered completely to the overload. With a final, mortified squeal, she shoved her face into his chest, hiding from the world, from him, and from the impossible, terrifying, wonderful idea he had just planted in her heart.