The warmth of Indian sunshine streamed through the windows of the Malhotra household as the aroma of freshly ground spices and simmering curry filled the air. Diana hummed to herself in the kitchen, stirring a pot of dal while her mother-in-law worked diligently beside her, rolling out parathas with practiced ease.

It had been a few months since they'd returned from Paris. The jet lag had worn off, but not the glow on their faces. Everyone could see it—especially Aryan's mother, who now eyed her daughter-in-law with amused curiosity every time Aryan's gaze lingered too long.

Diana, dressed in a yellow cotton salwar-kameez with her mangalsutra proudly adorning her neck, was enjoying her new domestic side far more than she'd admit. The woman who once strutted down runways now found herself learning to make rotis and adjusting her dupatta so it didn't fall into the sabzi.

But today... something was off.

Aryan had woken up strangely chipper. He was never this cheerful in the morning. Diana had caught him humming to himself, shirt unbuttoned halfway, hair slightly messier than usual, and a lazy grin on his face as he leaned against the doorframe watching her get dressed.

"You look like sunshine," he'd said with a dreamy sigh, making her raise an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?" she asked, pausing in front of the mirror.

He nodded, then kissed her cheek and strolled out with a swagger that made her blink twice.

Now, in the kitchen, as she stirred the dal again, she sensed someone behind her.

"Don't look," came a whisper close to her ear, followed by a pair of arms snaking around her waist.

Her body tensed in surprise. "Aryan?"

"Shhh," he whispered, nuzzling her neck dramatically. "You smell like turmeric and heaven."

She stifled a laugh. "What are you doing?! Your mom is—"

"I know," he murmured, tightening his hold. "That's what makes it fun."

Her mouth dropped open. "Are you drunk?"

He leaned closer, sniffing her hair like a lovesick puppy. "Drunk in love, baby."

That's when it hit her—the wine.

Diana's eyes widened. "Wait. Did you drink from the fridge jug?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed against her neck, completely unaware of the chaos he was creating in her mind. "Grape juice is delicious."

"Oh my God." She covered her mouth to hide a laugh. "That wasn't grape juice, darling. That was an open bottle of French wine. I decanted it into the juice jug to keep it fresh."

"Wine?" he blinked, looking down at her with an exaggerated gasp. "So this is what being French feels like."

Before she could respond, Aryan suddenly turned her around and dipped her like they were in a ballroom. She yelped in surprise, her hand instinctively grabbing his shoulder.

"ARYAN!" she hissed, eyes darting toward the kitchen entrance.

His mother, thankfully, was facing the opposite direction, shouting at the maid about the missing coriander leaves.

"I'm a new man, Diana," Aryan declared in a whisper. "Paris changed me."

She bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. "Paris didn't change you. A bottle of wine did."

He stood her back up, then leaned in, brushing his lips near her ear. "You make me drunker than wine ever could."

She turned pink. "Okay, Mr. Casanova, behave. Your mom is right there."

"Then she shouldn't keep turning her back," he smirked.

Just then, his mother turned around, making Aryan jump back and pretend to inspect the spice rack. Diana quickly resumed stirring the dal, lips pressed together in effort not to laugh.

"Aryan?" his mother called.

"Yes, maa?" he replied, far too enthusiastically.

"Why are you in the kitchen?"

He blinked. "I... uh... love cumin."

Diana nearly choked on air.

His mother raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. "Then help your wife. At least make yourself useful while she cooks."

"Oh, I plan to," he said with a smirk, grabbing an apron and tying it on—backward.

Diana turned her face away, shaking with silent laughter.

As his mother busied herself again, Aryan leaned close and whispered, "You're gorgeous, you know that? Like, offensively gorgeous. That yellow should be illegal."

She shook her head, cheeks still pink. "You're unbelievable."

"Oh, and these bangles?" He gently touched her wrist. "They make you look like poetry."

Before she could respond, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, very quickly—just as his mother turned again.

Diana gasped. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"I live for danger now," Aryan said with a mischievous grin.

She turned to him, whispering sharply, "This is not the honeymoon suite! This is your mother's kitchen!"

He leaned closer again, lips just brushing her ear. "Then why is my heart racing like we're still in Paris?"

Just then, his mother called out again, "Diana beta, taste the sabzi. Aryan, don't just hover—grind the chutney!"

"Yes maa," Diana answered quickly, turning to grab a spoon.

Aryan, of course, took this as an opportunity to slide up behind her once more, pressing a little too close for comfort.

She elbowed him lightly. "Go grind your chutney. And not in the way you're thinking."

He laughed loudly, earning another glance from his mother. He held up a mixer, pretending innocence.

When she turned away again, he leaned in, kissing Diana's neck so softly that she almost dropped the ladle.

"Aryan, stop," she whispered through gritted teeth, though a smile tugged at her lips.

"You smell like cumin," he whispered back. "I love cumin."

She couldn't hold it in anymore and let out a full-blown laugh.

His mother turned. "What's funny?"

Diana composed herself. "Nothing aunty—just told Aryan to be careful with the mixer. He nearly broke it."

Aryan gave an exaggerated nod. "It's true. Dangerous kitchen appliances. Very thrilling."

Later, as they set the table for lunch, Aryan sat beside Diana, still floating in his wine-induced haze. He kept reaching for her hand under the table, tracing circles on her palm. At one point, he even tried to rest his head on her shoulder until his mother smacked the back of his head.

"Have some shame!" she scolded. "At least wait until after lunch!"

Diana burst into laughter while Aryan looked wounded. "But maa—"

"No buts. Sit straight and eat."

He sighed dramatically but obeyed.

After lunch, Aryan flopped onto the sofa, head spinning slightly. Diana brought him a glass of water and sat beside him, watching his dazed expression with fond amusement.

"You're lucky I didn't let you drink wine in Paris," she said, handing him the glass.

He took it and drank deeply. "You're lucky I didn't drink wine in college. I'd have flirted with every girl."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"But now," he said, placing the glass aside and looking at her seriously, "there's only one girl I want to flirt with for the rest of my life."

She smiled, brushing his hair back. "Who knew wine made you romantic?"

"Not wine," he whispered, pulling her close. "You."

And just like that, she melted into his arms again, the chaos of the kitchen forgotten, the laughter echoing down the hallways.

Bold, flirtatious Aryan wasn't a frequent visitor—but Diana had a feeling he'd be showing up more often now.

Especially if she kept storing wine in juice jugs.