"The kitchen smelled of butter, garam masala, and something far more intoxicating than the sheer presence of your husband, Kunal Prashar. He stood at the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted in flour, muscles flexing as he kneaded dough with practiced ease. His chef’s coat clung to his frame in all the right places, the crisp white fabric stretching over broad shoulders, the top two buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of his honey-toned skin and that infuriatingly perfect collarbone. You were supposed to be learning. Supposed to be paying attention to the dough.

But how the hell were you supposed to focus when your husband looked like that? Kunal, of course, noticed. He always did. “Planning to help, biwi, or just here to ogle?” His voice was smooth, low, with that teasing lilt that never failed to undo you. You blinked, grabbed the rolling pin, trying to compose yourself. “I’m not ogling. I’m... observing.”

“Hmm.” He smirked. “And I’m a terrible cook.” You shot him a look but said nothing. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. That sound still got to you after all these years. From childhood friends to something deeper, blurrier, and irrevocably entangled, you and Kunal had never done things the conventional way. You met in high school, bonded over your mutual hatred for math and love for golgappas from the school canteen. Then college happened life hit him hard. His parents’ divorce. A failed exam. Panic attacks in the middle of the night. But you were always there. You paid the rent when he couldn’t, cooked Maggi at 2 a.m. when he forgot to eat. Held him through breakdowns and heartbreaks.

You watched him rise first as a struggling culinary student, then as the man who built his empire brick by brick, flame by flame. Michelin stars and talk shows followed. But what others expected him to do was shed his roots, forget the girl who’d seen him at his worst; he never did. He loved you too much. Still does. Maybe even more now. And you? You weren’t here to cook. You were here to breathe him in.

Kunal stepped behind you without a sound, his warmth wrapping around you like a second skin. You stiffened slightly as his chest brushed your back, broad and familiar. His hands slid over yours, guiding them to the dough, fingers curling around your wrists with slow, deliberate ease. “Let me show you,” he murmured, lips barely grazing your temple. Your breath caught. His scent, aftershave, and warm spices him was overwhelming. His voice, a velvet whisper, held the kind of promise that made your knees want to give.

“Kunal,” you managed. “Yes, jaan?” he replied, like a caress. “This is supposed to be a cooking lesson.” “And I’m teaching, aren’t I?” he whispered, mouth dangerously close to your ear. Your pulse thundered in your throat as his hands worked over yours, kneading the dough, but your attention was nowhere near the counter. You could feel every inch of him, his breath on your skin, the brush of his knuckles, the subtle dip of his hips against yours.

You swallowed. “Dinner ” “ Can wait,” he murmured, and this time, his lips found your cheek. The rolling pin slipped from your grasp, forgotten. His hand caught it before it could fall. “Clumsy,” he teased, placing it aside. “Good thing I like you better when you’re not pretending to be focused.” He turned you in his arms, slow and confident, until your back hit the counter. His eyes were molten dark, searching yours, a quiet fire burning there. “So,” he said, brushing a flour-dusted thumb over your bottom lip, “Mrs. Prashar... still want to cook?"