CHAPTER XXIX
A Bed Too Small, A Love Too Loud
The winter night had wrapped the house in its chilly silence, the kind that made every floorboard creak a little louder, every whisper feel a little warmer. Most of the family had already turned in for the night after the long day of ceremonies, laughter, and hushed gossip. But for us—Sita and me—the real entertainment was just beginning.
We were given a guest room with a single bed. A single bed. In the middle of December.
Apparently, someone in the family thought the cold weather would be excuse enough for us to sleep huddled on one bed. If only they knew what a mistake that assumption was—because sharing a bed with Sita was never just about sleep. It was about war. A war of words, of teasing, of who would claim the title of "husband" in our relationship tonight.
As soon as Sita stepped into the room and saw the bed, she turned to me with wide eyes and a smirk already creeping across her lips. "Seriously? Just one bed? How are we even supposed to fit?"
I leaned casually against the doorframe. "Don't think about the bed. Think about something more terrifying—like helping my sister in the kitchen tomorrow."
Sita scoffed, flipping her hair dramatically. "Excuse me? Help your sister? Why would I? I'm not this house's daughter-in-law."
I crossed my arms, suppressing a grin. "No, you married the daughter of this house, which technically makes you the son-in-law."
She placed a hand on her hip. "Exactly. So I should be treated like royalty. Tea in bed, snacks by my side. You should be the one cooking."
I stepped closer, gently took her hand, and looked into her eyes with exaggerated seriousness. "Sita, I may be your wife on paper, but between the two of us, I'm more of the husband."
She gasped, pulling her hand back. "You dare!"
"Oh yes," I said proudly. "I handle responsibilities, make decisions, and stay calm in crises."
Sita raised an eyebrow. "But I'm taller than you."
"That's only because you're wearing heels!"
"Who wears heels inside the house?" she shot back, lifting her foot in protest.
I glanced at her feet and then dramatically placed a hand over my eyes. "No. I can't. You're actually wearing heels indoors. I'm done."
She laughed and stepped closer, poking my shoulder. "Don't be jealous just because I'm the taller, stronger, and clearly superior husband in this relationship."
"Stronger?" I laughed. "I have shorter hair—that's clearly the universal sign of husband energy. And shirts? You steal mine."
"But who wins in an argument?" she teased.
"Who starts them?" I countered.
We stood there like kids in a playground fight, faces inches apart, neither backing down. I was about to shoot back another sarcastic line when she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Face it. I'm the real husband here."
That did it.
I grabbed her wrist playfully and marched her toward the door. "Out. Go help my sister. I can't deal with this disrespect."
She burst into laughter, allowing herself to be led. "Fine, fine. But tonight, I'm sleeping away from you. Maybe I'll go curl up with your sister instead. At least she respects me."
I froze. "You're not sleeping with my sister!"
"Oh? Now you want me beside you?" she grinned.
I turned to her, eyes softening despite the chaos. "Yes. Because even if you're the sexiest, most dramatic version of a 'wife,' you're still mine."
Sita walked back toward me slowly, her tone suddenly softer, almost vulnerable. "You know I only tease because I love you, right?"
I smiled, brushing my thumb over her hand. "And I argue back because I can't imagine a single day without your voice echoing in it."
"I was just joking don't take it seriously." Sita said with teasing voice.
We stood there for a moment, the silence no longer cold, but warm with everything unspoken. Then she said, "Come on, wife. Let's sleep. You'll need the energy to defend your title again tomorrow."
Laughing, we climbed into the too-small bed, limbs tangled, hearts full.
Outside, the night deepened. But inside that little room, we were two souls still learning how to love—through mock fights, sarcastic jabs, and moments so real they felt like magic.
The Dinner Drama
It was nearly time for dinner when my father called out to me from the hallway. His voice, as warm and familiar as ever, echoed down the corridor. I walked over, curious, and he smiled the moment he saw me.
"Tonight's dinner," he began with a proud glint in his eyes, "has been cooked entirely by Sita."
There was a pause.
"She's incredibly talented," he added, nodding with approval. "You've chosen a wonderful life partner. I'm genuinely impressed."
A soft smile tugged at my lips. "I know, Dad. I'm unbelievably lucky to have Sita. And the best part? I didn't even have to work for it. She just… chose me."
He let out a hearty laugh, clapping a hand on my back. "Unlike me," he said dramatically, "I ended up with your mother, who's a fireball of anger. Nothing came easy there."
I gasped, eyes wide, stifling a chuckle. "Dad! If she hears you saying that to me of all people, you're doomed."
He grinned mischievously. "I'll take my chances."
We laughed together as we made our way to the dining room, our light-hearted conversation echoing behind us like old memories.
As we entered, the soft clatter of plates and serving spoons filled the space. Sita was at the dining table, carefully placing dishes one by one with practiced ease. Her hands moved gracefully, her expression calm but focused. She looked like she belonged there—not just in the room, but in my world.
My sister stood beside her, helping with the last of the plates. Even my mother, who wasn't the easiest person to impress, looked on with quiet approval. That silent nod from her… it meant more than words. My heart swelled with relief. She may still be upset with me, but at least she'd accepted Sita. That was all I could hope for.
I walked over and sat down on the same chair I'd used since childhood—the one near the corner, where I used to dangle my legs and swing them back and forth. My father, ever the smooth operator, pulled a chair for Sita and placed it right beside mine. Close enough that our elbows would brush. Close enough that she could keep being… well, Sita.
Soon, everyone settled in. The room buzzed with quiet conversation, clinking glasses, and the comforting aroma of warm food. One by one, dishes were passed around, and praises for Sita's cooking filled the space like a gentle rain.
Midway through dinner, just when things were calm and routine, I noticed Sita's mischievous expression. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, and I could almost hear her thoughts without a word spoken.
She gently slid her foot beneath the table, brushing it playfully against my leg.
I shot her a look.
That look said, Don't you dare.
But she smirked, refusing to back down.
I pulled my foot away, suppressing a laugh. But she continued her little game, now trying to seek my foot again under the table with the precision of a secret agent.
Only… she missed.
Sita's foot, in her mission of flirtation, landed squarely on my sister's foot instead.
What happened next was a comedy of epic proportions.
My sister suddenly jerked up from her seat, nearly knocking her glass over, her face twisted in alarm. "Something's under the table!" she cried out, her voice high-pitched with panic.
I nearly choked on my food. My hand flew to my mouth as I struggled to contain the laughter bubbling up inside me. I glanced over at Sita—her face had turned a deep shade of red, like a ripe tomato ready to burst.
She instantly retracted her foot, her lips parted in shock, mortified beyond belief.
I couldn't help it anymore—I burst out laughing. Uncontrollably.
My dad looked confused. My mom narrowed her eyes, suspicious. My sister was still standing, checking under the table, while Sita tried her best to disappear into her chair.
And me? I was laughing like a lunatic with tears in my eyes, gasping for air between fits.
Sita turned to me and whispered through clenched teeth, "You'll pay for this later."
Still giggling, I leaned toward her and whispered back, "It was your foot, darling."
Sita buried her face in her hands, both embarrassed and trying not to smile. Our little moment, as silly and chaotic as it was, had become yet another story in the long list of memories we were writing together.
To be continue....