Your saree is folded up neatly at the waist, pallu pinned across your shoulder, as you stand in the kitchen stirring the boiling dal. You’re humming a little under your breath, almost at peace — almost — until you sense the looming presence behind you. You don’t even need to turn.

Smack!

A firm palm lands right between your shoulder blades.

You yelp. “Rudra!”

“Proper back,” your husband mutters with mock disapproval, stepping around you to the fridge like he’s done nothing criminal.

You scowl, rubbing your spine. “You do that every time I bend!”

He shrugs, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off those ridiculous forearms. “Because you’re going to throw it one day. Poor form.”

You make a dramatic face behind his back, rolling your eyes as he pops a grape into his mouth and strolls out of the kitchen like a black-clad menace.

Later that day, while folding laundry, an idea begins to bloom in your mind — mischievous and sweet, like mango pickle laced with chili. You glance toward the bathroom where your dear fitness-freak husband is refilling the big blue bucket for his post-workout cold water splash routine.

You pad into the bathroom doorway in your soft cotton saree and lean against the wall. “Rudra?”

He glances over his shoulder, still crouched next to the tap. “Hmm?”

“Can you take that full bucket to the terrace? The plants need water. I would’ve done it but…” you trail off, fluttering your lashes, one hand on your hip, the other innocently brushing your tummy pouch.

He sighs but stands with ease, bucket sloshing. “Fine.”

You follow him silently.

On the stairs, he’s still shirtless, only in joggers, bucket in hand, back muscles rippling slightly as he walks ahead. You resist the urge to laugh. He opens the terrace door and steps outside, setting the bucket down, then bends — perfectly, annoyingly — to adjust the lid of the compost bin near the plants.

You strike.

Smack!

Your palm lands squarely between his shoulder blades with a loud thwack.

He jerks upward, startled. “Sweta?!”

You stand behind him, face composed, voice sweet. “Proper back, Rudra.”

His mouth falls open. “You—did you just—”

“Proper back,” you repeat solemnly, wagging a finger. “You bent wrong. I had to correct you. It’s for your own good.”

He blinks at you, betrayed. Then narrows his eyes. “This was revenge.”

You fold your arms, chin lifted like a queen. “Absolutely.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he starts laughing — deep, low, and rare. You rarely see him laugh like that — full teeth, eyes crinkling. But it makes your chest flutter.

He steps closer suddenly, and your bravery retreats. “Wait—don’t slap me back—”

But instead of a slap, he leans down and kisses your cheek, warm and quick. “Next time you sweep,” he whispers, “I will retaliate.”

You nudge him with your elbow, cheeks hot. “Go lift your proper bucket.”

He obeys, but not without one last look — that soft, unreadable look he only gives you, the one where the mean and secretive Rudra Chandratreya vanishes, leaving behind the man who kisses your forehead when you’re asleep and secretly reads your social media captions like poetry.

And as he walks back toward the plants, you grin to yourself.

Because this time, you won.

Properly.