Hriday sat at the dining table, swirling his spoon in a bowl of porridge, freshly made and steaming. It wasn’t bad—actually, it was quite good. And that alone made him smirk.

Just then, his phone rang. His mother’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hriday, did you have your breakfast?”

Maithili asked, her voice laced with maternal worry.

“Yeah, Mom. The cook made good food,”

he said casually, taking another bite.

Maithili exhaled in relief. Hriday had been a picky eater since childhood, spoiled and particular about everything from his clothes to his chutneys.

“That's a surprise,” Maithili chuckled.

“You’ve never praised anyone’s cooking but mine. Though, to be honest, I barely cooked.”

“You made that special food, remember?”

Hriday teased, glancing up.

“Special food? Which one?”

Before Hriday could answer, Gauri stepped into the room, unaware he was still on call.

“Sir, what would you like for lunch?”

Hriday turned slightly, looked at her, and grinned into the phone.

“Actually, Mom... I’ll call you back.”

“Wait—Hriday, what do you mean specia—?”

He hung up, resting the phone on the table before looking directly at Gauri.

“Cook, come here. Stand in front of me.”

Gauri frowned but obeyed, standing a cautious six feet away.

“For lunch, I want a full Haryanvi thali.”

Gauri blinked.

“But I’ve never made that before—”

“I hired you as my personal cook. You’ll make whatever I say.”

She ground her teeth.

“Okay, sir.”

“Don’t grind your teeth too hard,” Hriday added with a smirk. “Use your hands instead.”

“I will, sir.”

Gauri muttered, turning on her heel.

As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, she let out a growl.

“Who does he think he is? King of his mansion and emperor of his ego? Just wait. Three months. I’ll survive this tyranny.”

“COOK!”

Hriday’s voice echoed from the other room.

She flinched.

“Yes, sir! Coming!”

Hriday sat back at the table like royalty, a smug look plastered across his face.

After an hour of chopping, sautéing, and a frantic Google search for Haryanvi recipes, Gauri brought out a colorful thali—bajra roti, kadhi, aloo sabzi, and a neatly rolled churma laddu.

Hriday tasted the first bite.

“Too much salt.”

“What?” Gauri’s eyes widened. “I measured it exactly—”

“So I’m lying now?”

Hriday arched an eyebrow. She lowered her gaze immediately.

“I’ll fix it, sir.”

“No. Not next time. Now. Make it again.”

Gauri inhaled sharply but turned back, gritting her teeth so hard she might’ve cracked a molar.

“MAKE. IT. AGAIN,” she mimicked in the kitchen, tossing the entire plate into the dustbin.

Round Two

She prepared everything again with extra care. As she served it, Hriday smiled.

“Salt’s good.”

Gauri started to breathe.

“But now it’s too spicy.”

She stared at him.

“Make it again.”

Round Three

She double-checked every pinch of spice and gram of salt, testing each bite herself.

But Hriday had vanished from the dining room.

Balancing the plate, she walked through the hallway—and smacked straight into him.

The dish hit the ground, shattering her patience along with it.

Hriday didn’t flinch.

“Make it again.”

“This man only knows three words,” she muttered under her breath as she rushed back to the stove. “Make. It. Again.”

When she finally returned—for what felt like the thousandth time—she served the fourth attempt without a word, her jaw tight, her eyes blank.

Hriday looked up at her with a crooked smile.

“You look fine.”

She didn’t respond.

He picked up his spoon, tasting a bite.

Silence.

Gauri stood stiff, waiting for his inevitable verdict.

Hriday slowly reached for another spoonful.

Still silent.

No criticism. No commands.

Just eating.

And that, somehow, annoyed her more than anything else.