It was a Friday evening in Mumbai, and the monsoon rain had just started to patter against the windows. The house was unusually quiet for once — no parents around, no sibling drama, no client calls blaring from laptops. Just you, in a grey t-shirt and joggers, standing in the kitchen with your sleeves rolled up, making dal the way Anita likes it — thick, tempered with ghee, and extra garlic.

She walked in behind you, barefoot, still in her work clothes. You didn't need to turn around to know it was her. You could sense her. Anita’s presence had a gravity of its own — steady, stubborn, and oddly comforting. You felt her arms slip around your waist from behind. Her face tucked itself between your shoulder blades.

"You cooked?" she asked, voice muffled in your back.

"You've had a long week," You said, stirring slowly. "I thought I’d impress my wife with my legendary dal skills."

Anita chuckled, her fingers drawing idle circles on your stomach. “You’re already my favorite human. Cooking is just showing off at this point.”

You smiled, leaned back into her. “You’re obsessed, Sharma.”

"And proud of it," she said simply, tilting her head up. You turned to face her, taking in the kohl-smudged eyes and that tired but radiant smile. Her fingers toyed with the hem of your t-shirt.

"I swear, I still can’t believe I got you," she whispered.