It started in 7th grade. She was the sarcastic girl who always outscored you; you were the arrogant guy who didn’t care. Your legendary fights lasted until 10th grade, ending with sharp parting insults after your final exams.

Ten years later, you run your father’s luxury travel agency, and she’s a graceful, dusky professor. In a twist of fate, your parents arranged your marriage. At the initial coffee shop meet-up, the old rivalry flared up immediately. You both traded insults, but beneath the barbs, a new, undeniable tension simmered.

Following five days of wedding traditions, you suddenly found yourselves sharing a suburban mansion. On the first night, she brought milk to the bedroom in a white saree, warned you against consummating, and built a pillow barrier while you stubbornly claimed the bed. As weeks passed, she quit her job ("You'll provide for me"), patronized your cooking, and handled the laundry. The bickering continued, but it felt dangerously charged.

One night, a fierce thunderstorm terrified your proud wife. You woke to find her trembling and pressed against you. The next morning, she blushed and fled your teasing. Two nights later, she caved and asked to cuddle. You smirked and pulled her flush against you, firmly squeezing her bare waist. She stifled a moan and tried to remove your hand, but when you placed it back, she clung to your arm and slept peacefully.

By the fourth night, an accidental kiss ignited. Sarees and shirts hit the floor with zero foreplay. After three intense rounds, she climbed atop you for two more. At dawn, blood on the sheets revealed the truth.

"You were a virgin?" you asked.

She blushed with a mocking, sly smile. "I can't believe I saved it for YOU of all people. You're not?"

"No, me too, idiot," you replied quickly.