The first morning after their wedding was, for all intents and purposes, a quiet one. The house, which had once been a symbol of wealth and privilege to Diya, now felt like a foreign land. It was a place she didn't belong, a house filled with polished marble floors, dark wood furniture, and perfectly curated décor. Every inch of the Roy mansion was meticulously arranged, from the rows of gleaming silver picture frames to the strategically placed vases that seemed to be more about style than function. It was cold in its perfection, a far cry from the warmth Diya had grown up with.

She stood in the kitchen, staring at the fridge, unsure of what to do next. It was strange-almost suffocating-how everything seemed to be in its place, as though every corner of the house had been designed with purpose, with order. Diya wasn't used to that. At her own apartment, the kitchen was always a bit of a mess, utensils scattered across countertops, the fridge half-empty save for the half-drunk bottles of water and the takeout boxes she'd forgotten about.

The reality of living here, in Rudra's world, was starting to settle in.

The sound of footsteps behind her broke her from her thoughts. She turned to find Rudra, freshly showered and dressed in his usual crisp attire, his hair still damp and combed back perfectly. He was a stark contrast to her disheveled appearance, with her uncombed hair and the faded t-shirt she had thrown on for the day.

"Morning," he said, his voice casual, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes as he glanced at the chaos of the kitchen counter. Diya had made a half-hearted attempt at breakfast-scrambled eggs that had turned a bit too brown, toast that was slightly burnt, and an overflowing pile of dirty dishes from last night's late-night snacks.

"Morning," she replied, avoiding his gaze and going back to the fridge. She pulled out a carton of milk, only to realize it had expired. "Great," she muttered, tossing it into the trash with a sigh.

Rudra watched the whole exchange, a small frown forming on his face. He had always been a man of precision, of schedules, of plans. And this kitchen, this house, this... chaos, was nothing like the controlled environment he was accustomed to. He stepped forward, trying to keep his tone light. "You know, Diya, I've never seen a kitchen this... lived-in."

Diya turned sharply, giving him a look that could have been interpreted as a challenge. "What does that mean? I'm sorry if I didn't clean every single square inch of this place. I'm not used to having everything so... perfect."

Rudra raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her defensive tone. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just... different. That's all."

"Well, it's going to stay different," Diya shot back. "I'm not going to suddenly start acting like I'm one of those neat freaks who folds their towels into perfect little squares. If that's what you're hoping for, you're in for a disappointment."

The tension in the air was palpable, and Rudra, despite his usual calm, couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. "I didn't say you had to be a neat freak. I just meant that..." He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's just a bit overwhelming, that's all."

Diya huffed in exasperation. "Well, I'm sorry I'm not organized like you are, Rudra. Maybe I don't have everything perfectly sorted out. But I'm not some robot who gets up at 6 a.m. and goes to bed at 10 p.m. I have my own way of doing things."

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of their words hanging between them. It was clear they were starting to see just how different their lives had been up until now. Rudra, with his regimented lifestyle, and Diya, with her chaotic, unpredictable ways. The tension between them was undeniable, and yet there was something strangely satisfying in their bickering. It was raw, it was real. And for once, Diya didn't feel like she was pretending.

Finally, Rudra broke the silence. "Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No more comments about the kitchen. I'll keep my thoughts to myself."

Diya couldn't help but grin at his defeated tone. "Good. I'm glad we've got that sorted out."

She said trying to get back to her room but the oil spilled on the floor made her slip and Rudra who was few inches away tried to catch her. And there she was in his arms with her right hand on his chest which was beating like drums just like her's both looking into each other's eyes. Coming out of eachother eyes, they stood straight.

Diya murmmers " Thank you". Taking next step, again on the oil floor. This time Diya fell but not only her she too Rudra who was standing beside her as well. Both fell and Rudra moaned with the pain as he well on his back like wise for Diya.

Already it was a failure morning for diya and now it's seems like this day is going to be disaster.

After a few seconds, they both looked away being embarrassed. Both helped each other to get up from oily floor.

It was strange, how this simple incident indicated deep meaning of marriage, when one is above to fall other is there to rescue and when both fall they help and support eachother. That's marriage, it's all about support and help. Love is not only basement of marriage. Support, understanding, helping, encouragement and being there always is also much needed for marriage just like love.

This marriage is a decision out of frustration of being matchmaking by their parents but still they don't know they are tied by the threat of fate.

---

As the days passed, the friction between Diya and Rudra didn't subside, but it became something else entirely. It became a game. A back-and-forth that neither of them could escape, like a silent challenge they both enjoyed, even if they would never admit it.

The first few days were marked by a series of small incidents that seemed harmless at first but added up, gradually intensifying the friction between their two vastly different worlds.

One morning, Diya found herself in the living room, sipping on her coffee, when Rudra entered the room. He was dressed impeccably, as usual, with a well-fitted suit and a tie that seemed to scream perfection. He had his briefcase in hand, ready for another day of work.

Diya had been reading through an article for a freelance project, her feet up on the coffee table, a blanket draped over her lap. She had gotten used to working in the chaos of her own living space, but Rudra's presence, especially now that they shared the house, was another challenge.

He paused as he looked around the room. Diya was sprawled across the couch, her laptop on her stomach, papers scattered all over the table. The coffee mugs, the empty plates, the half-eaten snack-it was a stark contrast to the pristine order of his own study.

"This is your idea of working?" he asked, his voice a little too condescending for Diya's liking.

She looked up, giving him a pointed stare. "What's wrong with it?"

"I just... don't get it. Why do you need to have everything all over the place? It's distracting."

"Not to me," she snapped, barely containing her annoyance. "I work better in chaos. You don't need to understand it, but that's how it is."

Rudra shook his head slightly, as if trying to wrap his mind around her habits. "I don't get it, Diya. I really don't."

Diya sat up, placing her mug down with a little more force than necessary. "Well, maybe you don't need to. You do things your way, and I'll do things mine."

The truth was, Diya's way of working had always been this way-messy, chaotic, but productive. She had never needed an organized, sterile environment to get things done. But Rudra's world was one of precision, where everything had a time and a place.

And the fact that they were now forced to coexist in the same space, sharing their lives, only made those differences all the more glaring.

---

Later that evening, as they sat down for dinner, the tension between them lingered. The meal was extravagant, as was everything in Rudra's life-a spread of dishes that she could never have afforded, meticulously prepared and served by the Roy family staff. But Diya couldn't shake the feeling that the food, though delicious, was just another attempt to mask the undercurrent of discomfort between them.

Rudra was sitting across from her, his posture as stiff as ever, fork and knife in hand. He'd asked her earlier if she wanted help with the dishes, but she had insisted on doing it herself, not because she didn't appreciate his offer, but because it felt like the one thing she could control in this house.

As the evening wore on, their small annoyances continued to build-a misplaced glass, a fork left too far from the plate, an idle comment that rubbed one of them the wrong way. It was a strange kind of game they played, one that involved irritation, but also a hint of humor.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't comfortable. But in that discomfort, there was a certain lightness-a banter that made their interactions less about their responsibilities as husband and wife, and more about learning to coexist, to push each other's buttons just enough to keep things interesting.

In the end, despite their differences, their bickering brought them closer, in a way. It reminded them that neither of them was perfect, that their marriage was far from a fairytale, but that they didn't have to be perfect to make it work. They just had to be themselves.

---
Next update after 15 votes for this chapter

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Can anyone imagine married life without fight?
Couple atleast fight 2 or 3 time a day? I have seen few old couple they can't live without fighting for a day so fighting is a part of married life.

Without knowing they are fighting like a married couple..

Leave your Vote and comments.. Because I need to know what you think about the story.

Intresting?

List of Ongoing Stories.

1) Sunn Yaara (RagLak)
2) Falling For my Wife (RagLak)(os) ✓
3) The Twist of Fate (TeZain)

Niha🖤