The roti puffs wrong. Again.

She stares at the pan, willing the damn thing to cooperate. But it stays half-flat, awkward and spotty. Her mother’s voice rings in her head — “Don’t overthink it. Just flick the wrist. Let it rise.”

She flicks. It doesn’t rise.

And now her throat is tight. Second week of marriage, and she’s still trying to figure out the kitchen, his tea preference, where he likes his socks folded. She hadn’t cooked much back home. Now she’s burning roti and holding back tears because why does this feel like a test she didn’t study for?

She doesn’t hear him at first. Just the soft thump of his boots outside. Then the front door creaks. He’s back from the shop.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

She tries to flip the roti again, salvage it, make it look less like a deflated football, but she can already feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

Then—

“Sambhal kay.”

His voice is low. Rough. From behind her.

She startles, nearly dropping the spatula.

He steps closer, sets his motorcycle keys down on the counter. Doesn’t say anything about the smell of slightly burnt roti hanging in the air.

Then he reaches over, gently turns the flame down, and without a single word… takes the spatula from her hand.

Her heart stutters.

“I—I was trying—” she begins, eyes stinging.

“I know,” he says, still not looking at her. “You’ve been trying all week.”

His hands, calloused and tan, move gently. He flips the last roti, presses it just right, lets it puff up golden before sliding it onto the plate. It feels like an act of magic.

She’s mortified.

“I can’t even make proper roti,” she whispers, blinking fast. “I keep messing up. I—maybe I’m not a good wife.”

That makes him look at her.

Full.

Direct.

Hard gaze softened only by the barest crease between his brows.

“Don’t ever say that,” he says, tone firm. “You think I married you for rotis?”

She opens her mouth. Shuts it.

Sarmad exhales through his nose, then steps forward, hand reaching up—hesitant at first—and then he cups the side of her head. His thumb brushes just under her eye.

“You’re still new here,” he mutters. “This house. This kitchen. Me.”

His eyes lower. His voice goes even quieter.

“I don’t need perfect roti. I just need you.”

She looks up at him, lips trembling.

And he—who hadn’t even held her properly since the rukhsati—wraps one arm around her waist and tugs her gently forward until her forehead hits his chest with a soft thud.

His grip is warm. Strong. Steady. Like he doesn’t plan to let go for the next ten years.

“You hungry?” he murmurs, pressing his chin lightly to the top of her head.

She nods into his chest.

“Then sit,” he says, letting her go only to plate the food with his own hands. “Main roti garam kar leta hoon.”