The door clicked shut at nearly 11 PM.

Aryan tossed his keys into the bowl near the entrance, loosened his tie, and let out a long sigh. His head was pounding, his back ached, and he'd had a long, soul-crushing kind of day at work. Two deals had fallen through. His junior team messed up a presentation, and to top it off, his phone had not stopped ringing all day. By the time he entered the house, he was hanging by a thread.

The warm lights of the house and the smell of fresh daal greeted him, and so did Diana — in her satin shorts and one of his old oversized t-shirts, holding a glass of water like a dutiful wife but with her usual mischievous smile.

"Hi, pati dev," she grinned, "Late night at the office? Were you secretly dating your Excel sheet?"

Aryan gave a weak smile, took the water from her hand, and murmured, "Thanks."

She followed him into the living room, flopping down on the couch beside him. "You didn't answer my texts. I was going to send out a search party. Maybe file a missing person's report. Tall, broody, allergic to women, answers only in grunts..."

"Diana, not now," he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

"Okay, sorry. But did you at least eat anything? Or did your diet today consist of caffeine and corporate disappointment?"

Aryan's jaw clenched.

She poked his arm gently. "Do you want me to warm some food? Or maybe a massage? Though I only know the 'hit-you-with-a-pillow' kind."

He dropped the glass of water on the table with a little more force than necessary and stood up.

"Can you just stop talking for once?" he snapped. "Why are you always joking? Always making everything into a circus? God! You're not even a proper wife, Diana!"

The silence that followed was louder than the yell itself.

Diana blinked. Once. Twice.

Her lips parted, as if she were about to say something. But then she didn't. She simply stood up, took the empty glass of water from the table, and walked away.

No comeback. No sass. No playful insult. Nothing.

Just silence.

Aryan ran a hand through his hair and sat back down, guilt punching him in the stomach.

He could hear the clinking of utensils from the kitchen. She wasn't stomping. She wasn't muttering. That was worse.

Damn it.

What had he just said?

He'd had a bad day. He had every right to be frustrated. But he didn't have the right to take it out on her.

Not on his Diana.

He walked slowly toward the kitchen. She stood by the sink, rinsing the glass. Her shoulders looked smaller somehow. Quieter.

"Diana," he said gently.

She didn't respond.

He stepped closer.

"Diana... I'm sorry."

Still nothing.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Look, I... had a really bad day. But that doesn't mean I should've spoken to you like that. I didn't mean what I said. I was just... tired. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

She didn't turn around. "You meant it."

"No—"

"You did," she said again, this time her voice steady. "That's how it always goes, doesn't it? People tell the truth when they're angry."

He stepped closer. "Diana, I was out of line. You're right, okay? You're right to be mad."

"I'm not mad," she said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes glistened, but there were no tears yet. "I'm just... disappointed. I gave up everything to come here and be your wife. And maybe I'm not the kind you imagined — I don't cook like your mom, I don't wake up at 5 am to do puja, I wear dresses that make the aunty brigade faint — but I'm trying, Aryan. I'm really trying."

He looked down, guilt pooling in his chest like thick cement.

Then he looked up again. "You're right. You're not a proper Indian wife."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly ready to slap him if he continued down that path.

"But..." He took a step closer and cupped her face gently in his hands. "You're my wife. You're crazy and wild and blunt and funny. You wear lipstick that should be illegal and heels that defy physics. You speak your mind and eat momos on the bed and make heart-shaped laddoos that taste like burnt sugar."

She tried to hide a smile.

"And I'm in love with all of it."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You love me?"

Aryan blinked.

Oh. That wasn't part of the plan. He hadn't even meant to say it. Not yet. Not like this.

But now that it was out there, he couldn't take it back.

He took a deep breath. "Yeah. I do. I don't know when it happened, but I do. So much."

The dam broke.

She launched herself into his arms, and he held her like his life depended on it. She buried her face in his chest, and for a few seconds, they just stayed like that, breathing each other in.

"I'm sorry too," she whispered. "For teasing you so much."

"No, I like that. You bring chaos into my orderly world," he murmured into her hair. "And I need it. I need you."

"Even when I accidentally burn your laddoos?"

"Especially then."

She looked up. "You yelled at me."

He nodded. "And I'll spend the rest of my life making up for it."

She smiled. "I'll hold you to that, Mr. Malhotra."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Deal, Mrs. Malhotra."