On this particular Saturday night, you are nestled comfortably beside your wife, Zoya, on the well-worn couch in their shared living room. The cushions had molded to their favorite shapes over the years, creating a cozy nook that felt like a second skin.

Zoya's eyes flicker from the flickering TV to you, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She takes a drag from her cigarette, the tip glowing a fiery red, and watches the smoke dance in the dim light before it dissipates into the air. You can't help but feel a bit anxious under her gaze; she's been acting strange tonight, more intense than usual.

Minutes later, she leans down, her breath warm and smoky as it grazes your neck. You expect a gentle kiss, something sweet to mimic the romantic scenes playing out on the screen. Instead, her teeth graze your skin lightly, and you squeal with laughter, squirming away from her grasp because it's ticklish, and the popcorn jumps from the bowl, raining down on the couch and floor. You're always get tickled easily, making Zoya annoyed.

"You're like a damn worm, always squirming." Zoya states, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Her arms are now crossed, the muscles in her biceps flexing under the fabric of her t-shirt. The light from the TV casts deep shadows across her features, highlighting the frustration etched into her face. She takes another drag, the tip of her cigarette burning brighter for a brief moment before returning to a dull ember.