The morning sun slipped through the thin curtains, casting a warm glow over the small, slightly messy bedroom. Kohinur sat cross-legged on the bed, glaring at the neatly folded clothes on the chair as if they had personally offended her.
" Brother Rahan," she said , she calls him " brother " for being too older . her voice low and suspicious. "Are you seriously going to… organize these again? Every. Single. Day."
From across the room, Rahan, tall and impossibly graceful despite the sleepy rumples of his robe, paused mid-step. His eyes, sharp yet faintly playful, fixed on her. "Of course," he said, smirking. "A home without order is a home without respect. And a wife who refuses to respect her husband's organizational genius… well, that's a crime."
Kohinur rolled her eyes, but a small twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed that she was slightly amused. She knew better than to argue seriously—Rahan was both stubborn and dramatic, a combination that had somehow carried them through these awkward early years of marriage.
"Organizational genius?" she repeated, dryly. "You mean obsessive cleaning. And please, don't pretend you're doing it for me."
Rahan tilted his head, eyes glinting. "And yet, you're the one who keeps walking into my perfectly folded piles and… disrupting the system."
Kohinur huffed, standing abruptly to pace. "It's not my fault the floor seems to attract your color-coded socks. I can't control the laws of physics!"
He chuckled, watching her pacing like a small, scolding storm. He liked these mornings. They were calm, predictable—mostly—and gave him the chance to enjoy her reactions without the chaos of the outside world.
"Calm, Kohinur," he said, stepping closer, hands clasped behind his back. "The socks aren't attacking you. You're perfectly capable of—"
She whirled around, pointing an accusing finger. "See! That's exactly what I mean. You speak in riddles when you want to distract me from—"
Before she could finish, Rahan lunged forward—not aggressively, but with a sort of dramatic flourish—and swept the nearest pile of socks off the chair. "I distract you? Never! I am a master of protection, not deception!"
Kohinur blinked. "Protection? From socks?"
"Yes, Kohinur. From chaos. From disorder. From—" He paused, glancing at her with a faintly pleading expression. "…and yes, maybe a little from you kicking me out of bed last night."
Her cheeks flamed crimson. " brother Rahan!" she hissed. "I—"
He held up a hand, mock-solemn. "Now, now. I know you are scared of… closeness. It's perfectly fine. I shall respect your boundaries. But,"—he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice—"you cannot escape my affection by running away."
Kohinur backed up another step, muttering, "Affection, my foot…" But even as she tried to sound angry, she couldn't deny the small flutter in her chest. He had always been… intense. Dramatic, yes. Slightly terrifying at times. But undeniably dedicated.
Rahan smirked at her hesitance, straightened his shoulders, and decided to escalate the morning theatrics. "Come now. Breakfast waits."
"Breakfast waits?" she repeated, suspicious. "Or you've prepared some ritual to—"
"Ritual?" His grin widened. "Merely a humble attempt at making the most delicious eggs and toast this side of the city. Surely, a wife as discerning as you will appreciate it."
Kohinur hesitated, suspicious, but followed. She had learned long ago that resistance rarely won. Rahan had… ways. Small, subtle, and sometimes ridiculous ways of bending the household to his whims. She suspected he might be plotting a dramatic breakfast scene involving extra butter or a dangerously wobbling stack of toast just to see her flinch.
In the kitchen, Rahan's fingers moved with precision, cracking eggs, whisking, and humming a strangely heroic tune—one she could never place, but it always seemed to match his personality perfectly: grand, absurd, and slightly ominous. Kohinur leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like a wary cat.
"You know," she said finally, "one day, someone's going to write a story about you, Rahan. And it won't be flattering."
He turned, eyebrows raised. "A story? Oh? And what would it say? 'The obsessive, terrifyingly meticulous man who bound his young cousin into a marriage so she'd tolerate breakfast?'"
She blinked. "...Something like that."
"Perfect," he said, bowing slightly. "I would insist on a movie adaptation too. Naturally, I would star as myself."
Kohinur groaned, hiding her face with her hands. "You are impossible."
"Ah," he said, leaning closer, lowering his voice in mock gravity. "But you married me, dear Kohinur. You knew the risks."
She lifted her head, meeting his playful eyes, and for a moment, the awkward tension between them shifted into something softer—something resembling trust, or at least familiarity. She didn't like it, but she admitted, silently, that she might have chosen him even if she had the option.
Just then, a small crash from the other room made them both jump. Kohinur darted back, heart thumping, only to see the cat that lived next door had somehow entered, knocking over a vase. Rahan chuckled, shaking his head.
"See?" he said, turning to her, "Life will always throw chaos your way. Might as well face it with me."
Kohinur muttered under her breath, "Chaos, my foot…" but she followed him anyway, resigning herself to breakfast. The ritual continued, awkward, slightly tense, but with tiny moments of levity that kept the household alive.
And as they sat down, Rahan leaned back, smirking, and whispered, almost to himself, "Soon… you will understand. I am not just obsessive. I am relentless."
Kohinur shivered—not entirely from fear.