The morning sun hadn't even touched the skyline when Diana stirred awake, blinking at the dim blue glow of the room. The alarm hadn't rung. No one had stirred. Aryan, lying beside her, was still deep in sleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. It was 4:45 a.m., and the world was silent.

She usually hated mornings. Hated how the light crept in, how everything was too quiet, too still. But today was different. Today, she wanted to do something. Something that made her feel like she belonged—not just as Aryan's wife, but as someone who could stand in this new family and hold her own.

She carefully slid out of bed, not wanting to wake Aryan. She tiptoed to the bathroom, turning on the light with a click. A quick shower later, she stood in front of the mirror, tying the strings of her soft pastel-pink Anarkali suit. Her hair was open, freshly washed and fragrant with the scent of her favorite shampoo. She applied a little kajal, a bindi, and slipped on the bangles she had unpacked only the previous night.

By the time the clock hit 5:15 a.m., Diana was in the kitchen.

It was quiet and dark, with just a streak of early dawn light slipping in from the window. She turned on the light, tied an apron around her waist, and set her phone on the counter. With trembling fingers, she opened YouTube and typed in: "Simple Aloo Paratha recipe."

She had watched her mother cook it a hundred times—but watching and doing were not the same. Still, Diana rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

She mashed the boiled potatoes, nervously glancing at the clock every few minutes. Her mother-in-law would be awake by 5:30, and Aryan by 6:00. That meant she had less than forty-five minutes to make magic—or disaster.

The flour refused to cooperate at first, sticking to her fingers like chewing gum. The stuffing spilled out of the dough. She cursed under her breath in three languages. A small amount of filling splattered on the counter, some on her kurta, and she wiped it with the back of her hand, determined not to cry.

But by the third try, something miraculous happened: the paratha stayed whole.

She squealed softly in delight and gently placed it on the tawa. The smell of ghee sizzling against the dough was heavenly. Encouraged, she made a second. And then a third. The pile began to grow.

By 5:45, a small plate of imperfectly shaped but golden-brown aloo parathas sat proudly on the counter. Diana wiped her forehead, took a deep breath, and turned her attention to the chai.

The masala she added was her own touch. A little cinnamon, a little cardamom—just like how she liked it. She didn't know if they would, but that didn't matter. Today wasn't about perfection. It was about trying.

Upstairs, Aryan stirred. The soft scent of masala and fried ghee wafted into the room like a tempting dream. His brows furrowed in confusion as his body slowly woke up.

He blinked at the ceiling. Saturday. No office. But why did the house smell like—

Parathas?

Still half-asleep, he threw off the blanket, slipped into his slippers, and trudged toward the stairs. He rubbed the back of his neck and made his way to the kitchen.

And stopped cold at the doorway.

There she was.

His wife. His crazy, bold, unpredictable wife—wearing the most adorable pink Anarkali, hair cascading down her back, bangles jingling softly as she stirred the chai. She was humming—off-tune but cheerfully. The sunlight now filtered through the window and painted her in a soft golden hue.

She turned just then and saw him. "Oh," she said, biting her lower lip. "You're up."

Aryan blinked, still stunned. "You... made breakfast?"

She smiled sheepishly and held out the plate. "Aloo paratha. Don't ask me how they taste. I may have bribed the universe."

He stepped closer, staring down at the misshapen but clearly heartfelt offering. "You woke up at...?"

"4:45." She beamed. "Surprised?"

Aryan nodded, still not quite believing it. "You... actually cooked? Willingly?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not completely useless, Aryan. I just like to pretend."

He took a bite. It was... delicious. Slightly too spicy, the shape was all wrong—but it was warm, and comforting, and full of something even better than flavor: effort.

He chewed slowly, watching her. "This is... really good."

She raised a triumphant eyebrow. "Told you. Bribed the universe."

As he ate another bite, she poured him a cup of chai and set it beside his plate.

Just then, his mother walked into the kitchen. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"You're up early," she said to Diana.

"I wanted to try," Diana replied, slightly nervous. "Just thought I should give it a shot."

His mother's gaze softened. She walked over and took a bite of the paratha as well. Her expression didn't change much, but her nod was approving.

"Not bad," she said with a rare smile. "You'll get better."

Diana grinned as if she had just won the Nobel Prize.

After his mother walked away, Aryan leaned in and whispered, "What happened to the girl who claimed she couldn't even boil water?"

"She had a point to prove," Diana said, sipping her tea. "I may not know how to be the ideal Indian bahu yet, but I can learn."

Aryan looked at her for a moment, a warmth spreading in his chest. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. But if you make this a regular thing... I might just fall harder for you."

Diana laughed, her eyes lighting up. "Now that is bribery."

"No, this is bribery," Aryan said, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trying. For waking up early. For making something for me, for us. For just... being you."

Diana didn't say anything. But her cheeks flushed slightly as she turned away to sip her tea again.

That morning, they ate together at the dining table, just the two of them. The parathas were slightly burnt at the edges, the chai a bit too strong. But it didn't matter.

Because for the first time since their whirlwind marriage began, they shared a quiet morning. A moment that didn't involve drama or teasing or misunderstandings—just simple effort, and love being built brick by brick.