Aryan Malhotra stood at the entrance of their bedroom, arms crossed, watching his wife destroy every ounce of decency the bed had ever known.

Diana Mehta—now Diana Malhotra, legally and chaotically—was perched cross-legged on the middle of their neatly made double bed, dressed in a giant T-shirt and shorts, looking like a college student who had just come home after pulling an all-nighter.

In front of her: a giant silver foil box of steaming momos.

And next to it: a dangerously full cup of blood-red chutney.

The kind that could make a grown man cry and turn a white bedsheet into a crime scene.

Aryan blinked slowly.

He had just come in to ask her if she needed help with her half of the wardrobe.

Instead, he found her elbow-deep in momos, one in each hand, with the spicy chutney dripping generously—down her chin, her fingers, perilously close to his pristine bedsheet.

"Diana," he said cautiously, approaching like one would approach a feral animal, "what are you doing?"

She didn't even look up.

"Living my best life," she said, mouth half-full, chewing happily. "Arya and I were dying for these. The soul needed nourishment."

He raised an eyebrow. "On the bed?"

"It's the most comfortable place in the house!" she replied like it was obvious, reaching for another momo and dunking it deep into the chutney like it owed her money.

Aryan sighed, defeated, and turned toward the wardrobe. Her half still looked like a battlefield. Clothes spilled from her open suitcase, some half-folded, most not. A bra dangled off the top like a forgotten flag of war. Makeup items were scattered across the dresser.

He didn't say a word. Just started folding.

Shalwars. Kurtis. A dangerously sequinned lehenga blouse that nearly poked his eye.

As he hung her clothes carefully on padded hangers, he tried not to take offense. He was used to systems—spreadsheets, order, control. She was used to... life. Color. Spontaneity.

And momos.

A lot of momos.

"Please don't spill chutney on the bed," he said, not turning around.

"I won't!" she declared confidently, moments before a chunk of momo dropped directly onto the pillow.

"Diana."

"Oops."

Aryan turned around, slowly, taking a deep breath through his nose.

She gave him an angelic look, reaching for tissues like it would solve everything. "It's not that bad. Just a little spot."

"You're eating bright red food on white sheets."

"Blame your mother for the choice of linen," she muttered. "Who buys white bedsheets for a newlywed couple? That's just asking for trouble."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're supposed to be arranging your wardrobe."

"I am arranging," she said brightly, popping another momo into her mouth. "My stomach wardrobe."

Aryan just stared.

She grinned. "You look like you regret marrying me."

He didn't answer.

"Come on," she said, licking chutney off her fingers, "it's not that bad. I'm fun! I'm spontaneous! I'm—"

"A walking tornado," he interrupted mildly.

Diana laughed. "And you? You're like... a Swiss watch. Precise. Predictable. Boring."

He frowned. "I'm not boring."

"Really?" she challenged, one brow raised.

"I married you, didn't I?"

She blinked, surprised.

Touché.

Aryan smirked slightly, the tiniest curve on his lips, before turning back to the wardrobe.

Behind him, she sat thoughtfully for a second. Then said, "You know, you don't have to fold my clothes."

"I know."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because if I don't, they'll stay in that suitcase until our golden anniversary."

She threw a momo at him. It bounced off his back and landed on the carpet with a sad little plop.

He turned slowly. "You did not just—"

She pointed at the momo on the floor. "Now you have to clean it. Since you're in the mood for tidying."

He walked over, picked it up with a tissue, and said flatly, "Your definition of romance is very twisted."

"I never promised you roses and poetry," she replied, shrugging. "I promised chaos. Remember?"

Aryan looked at her.

Sitting on their bed like a disaster queen. Chutney on her chin. Eyes mischievous. Mouth full of spice and sass.

And yet... he didn't hate it.

In fact, somewhere deep down—deeper than logic, deeper than all the systems he'd built to make sense of his life—he found her ridiculousness oddly... endearing.

"I don't know how you do it," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Do what?"

"Turn every normal moment into a circus."

She winked. "Talent, baby."

He sighed and went back to folding.

A few minutes passed in quiet. She polished off the last momo, licked her fingers clean, and finally stood up.

"Okay. I'll help."

He turned in surprise.

"With what?"

"The wardrobe," she said, wiping her hands. "Can't let you do all the boring work alone. You'll die of over-folding."

He moved aside as she approached.

Together, they started hanging her dresses, organizing shoes, stacking makeup. She tried turning the hangers into puppets. He tried not to laugh.

She failed to fold a salwar properly and turned it into an accidental turban. He corrected her form once, gently.

She giggled. He rolled his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, the wardrobe was done. Barely organized by his standards. Good enough by hers.

"I need a reward," she said, closing the door with flair.

"You had momos."

"I need dessert."

"Your metabolism is going to sue you one day."

She stuck her tongue out and collapsed onto the bed again.

He followed, sitting on the other side.

There was silence for a moment.

Then, softly, she asked, "Do you really regret it?"

He turned to her, surprised. "Regret what?"

"Marrying me."

Aryan frowned. "Why would you think that?"

"You didn't exactly sign up for this, Aryan. The chaos. The chutney. The talking back. The flirting. The momo-fueled madness."

He looked at her seriously.

"No," he said quietly. "But I signed up for you."

She blinked.

"I didn't know what I was getting into," he continued. "I still don't. But every time I want to scream, I also find myself smiling."

A pause.

Then she grinned. "You do love me."

He sighed, muttering under his breath, "I think I need therapy."

She laughed and leaned forward, planting a spicy, accidental kiss on his cheek. "I love you too, boring boy."

Aryan smiled.

Maybe this wasn't the life he'd planned.

But maybe it was better.

Momo stains and al