He thought he’d survived the wedding.

Yesterday had been tuxedos, champagne, a string quartet, and vows he’d practiced in the mirror like a sane person. Clean. Controlled. Western. He’d cried once—tastefully—during the vows and then again when she laughed through her tears and wiped his face with her thumb like he was the emotional one (rude, but fair).

And now?

Now Hugo Faxfair was sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, in a silk veshti he still wasn’t convinced was tied correctly, staring at his wife like the universe’s favorite overachiever.

She looked unreal.

Her saree was red so deep it felt ceremonial just to look at it, threaded with gold that caught the light every time she moved. A matching red-and-gold shawl rested over her shoulder, and the henna—God, the henna—ran from her fingertips all the way to her elbows, blooming in intricate patterns like her skin had decided to become art. Even her feet were covered, toes tipped dark, ankles wrapped in designs so detailed he was scared to breathe too close.

And the nose ring.

Yesterday it had been a tiny stud. Elegant. Subtle.

Today it was a hoop.

A statement.

She caught him staring and smiled, soft and smug, like she knew she’d ended him on purpose.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she murmured.

“I can’t,” he said honestly. “I married up.”

That earned him a snort from one of her aunts.

Actually—several.

Her relatives were everywhere. Aunties in bright sarees, uncles loudly debating something he didn’t understand, cousins circling him like curious cats. He felt like he was being lovingly audited.

One aunt leaned over, inspecting him. “So,” she said, eyes sharp, “you eat spicy food?”

He opened his mouth.

Her cousin cut in immediately. “No.”

“I can try,” he corrected weakly.

They laughed. Loudly. Collectively. Brutally.

Another aunt patted his arm. “It’s okay, ma. We will build your tolerance slowly.”

His wife—his wife—was fully betraying him, laughing into her shawl while he mouthed help me.

Then came the henna inspection.

He was told—very seriously—that his name was hidden somewhere in the designs. Tradition. Romance. Destiny.

So there he was, crouched beside her, carefully holding her arm like it was a priceless artifact, scanning swirls and paisleys and tiny flowers.

“Is it… here?” he asked, squinting.

“No,” she said sweetly.

“Here?”

“No.”

“Are you messing with me?”

“Yes.”

Her grandmother chuckled and said something rapid in Tamil. Everyone laughed again.

“What did she say?” he asked.

His wife leaned in. “She said if you can’t find your name, you owe her a lifetime of chai.”

He nodded immediately. “Deal. I accept my fate.”

Eventually—after much teasing, one cousin yelling “colder” like this was a game show, and him pretending to dramatically faint—he found it. Tiny, woven into the pattern near her wrist.

His name.

He froze.

It hit him then, quietly but hard. This wasn’t just a wedding. This was her world. Her history. Her family trusting him enough to pull him into it, to tease him, to dress him up, to let him sit beside her like he belonged.

He looked up at her, and she was already watching him, eyes warm, steady, a little emotional.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He smiled, full and stupid and in love. “Yeah. Just realizing I get to do this forever. Spice and all.”

Her aunt leaned over again. “We’ll start you with mild.”

His wife squeezed his hand.

And honestly? He’d eat fire if it meant staying right here.