Aryan sat at the edge of the bed, his laptop resting on his thighs, glasses perched on his nose as he scrolled through a string of client emails. The warm yellow lamp on the nightstand bathed the room in a soft, golden glow. He was trying hard to concentrate, eyes flicking across numbers and projections, but something kept tugging at his attention. It wasn't the usual ding of a new message or the pressure of deadlines.

It was her stare.

He could feel it, hot and direct, coming from the bed where Diana lay in her oversized hoodie, her legs tangled in the blanket like she owned the whole mattress. He tried ignoring it, but the intensity didn't fade. It grew. Piercing through his carefully constructed mental firewall.

Finally, he sighed and looked up, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What?" he asked, his voice lined with amusement and a hint of tiredness.

She didn't hesitate. "I was just wondering," she said, her voice slow and teasing, "is the reason you're never shirtless because you don't have abs? Or do you have abs and you're just scared they might kill me?"

Aryan blinked. Hard.

The water bottle he had just picked up missed his mouth and sloshed all over his T-shirt.

"W-what?" he choked, dabbing his shirt with a tissue as he stared at her like she had grown horns.

She smirked like the devil himself. "You heard me. You're always so... conservative. Always dressed. Fully. Like you're hiding state secrets under there."

"I—Diana!" he sputtered, still slightly soaked and now definitely blushing.

"What?" she said, blinking innocently. "We're married. I'm allowed to ask, na? Plus, it's important to know what I'm working with before the honeymoon."

He looked like someone had short-circuited his brain. "I don't even—why are you like this?" he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Diana flopped back onto the bed with a laugh. "You should've read the fine print before agreeing to marry me, Aryan Malhotra."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I didn't get fine print. I got a tornado in heels."

She winked. "You're welcome."

Deciding he had suffered enough for the evening, Aryan cleared his throat and changed the subject like his life depended on it. "So... honeymoon. Where do you want to go?"

Diana rolled over on her stomach, chin resting on her hands, eyes glittering. "Now you're talking," she said. "Paris."

"Paris?" he repeated. "Why Paris?"

Her tone softened a little. "I grew up there. Every corner of that city has a story. I want to show you the cafés I used to skip class in, the streets I walked with my mum, the places that made me... me."

Aryan looked at her, the teasing moment fading into something warm and quiet between them. "You really love that city, don't you?"

She nodded. "It's not just the Eiffel Tower and croissants, you know. Paris is personal. It's messy and loud and beautiful. Kind of like me."

His lips curled slightly. "Yeah. Sounds familiar."

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it mid-air and chuckled. "I've never been," he admitted. "Europe in general. Never had the time."

"Well," she said, getting up and walking over to him, "you married a woman who knows every street in Paris better than the back of her hand. So now you'll see it through my eyes."

"Will there be less teasing there?" he asked cautiously.

"Nope," she grinned. "In fact, Paris me toh I'll show you what abs really are."

Aryan looked scandalised. "Why do you speak like this? Do you even have a filter?"

"Nope," she repeated. "You got a no-filter edition. Lifetime subscription."

He gave her a long, helpless look, but there was a smile tugging at his lips despite his best efforts. "You're going to give me a heart attack someday."

"I better do it looking fabulous," she said dramatically, striking a pose. "Also, you'll need to get used to matching outfits. Paris trip pe we do couple twinning."

Aryan blinked again. "What?"

"You heard me. Pastel coordinated outfits. You in linen. Me in flowy skirts. Picture perfect."

He groaned and put his face in his hands. "Why me?"

"Because you're the luckiest man alive," she said confidently, perching herself on the armrest of his chair. "Now, say it."

Aryan looked up. "Say what?"

"That you're the luckiest man alive."

"No way."

She leaned closer. "Say it, or I'll tell your mother you want to spend your honeymoon in the Himalayas meditating."

"...You wouldn't."

Her smirk said she absolutely would.

He sighed. "Fine. I'm the luckiest man alive."

"Good boy," she said, patting his head like he was a puppy.

Aryan just shook his head. "And I married you. God help me."

As the night wore on, the teasing settled into soft glances and quiet moments. She helped him shut down his laptop, and he helped her gather the scattered laundry she had abandoned earlier. They brushed their teeth in sync, like they had done this forever. And when they got into bed, she didn't pounce on him or say something that would give him an ulcer.

Instead, she turned to him under the blanket and said, "I'm glad I married you."

He looked at her, heart skipping in a way he wasn't used to. "Even though I'm boring?"

"You are," she said, poking his cheek, "but you're my boring."

And somehow, those words meant more than anything she had said all night.