The next morning began with the usual chaos in the office: the ringing of telephones, the clattering of keyboards, the sound of printers spitting out papers, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the air. For most people, it was just another workday. But for Aarav and Meera, it was the continuation of an undeclared war.
Meera had already reached her desk at 9:00 sharp, as always. Her files were stacked neatly, her notepad aligned with her laptop, and her pen placed parallel to the edge of the desk. Perfection incarnate. Aarav, on the other hand, strolled in at 9:23, balancing a half-eaten samosa in one hand and his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder.
He plopped into the chair opposite her, his hair slightly messy and his shirt untucked on one side.
"Good morning, partner," he said with exaggerated cheer, crumbs falling from his samosa onto his desk.
Meera looked up from her notes, her expression sharp enough to cut steel.
"Mr. Aarav Malhotra, you do realize the meeting is in 15 minutes, right?"
"Relax," Aarav said, waving a hand. "Fifteen minutes is plenty of time. You don't need a PhD in punctuality."
"You don't need one," she snapped back, "because you clearly failed the basics."
Their colleagues nearby suppressed laughs, pretending to be busy. One of them, Rohan, leaned over to his friend and whispered, "Here we go again. Round three, ding ding ding."
---
The Presentation Clash
In the conference room, their manager introduced them to a client, Mr. Khanna, a sharp-eyed man in his forties. Aarav and Meera were to present their joint proposal.
Meera began, clicking through her meticulously designed slides. "As you can see, our market analysis indicates a projected growth of—"
"Boring!" Aarav muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Meera to hear. He leaned forward and grinned at Mr. Khanna. "What she means, sir, is that this project is like a Bollywood blockbuster. You've got drama, suspense, action, and at the end, a happy ending—with profits."
The client chuckled. Meera froze, glaring at Aarav as if she might strangle him with the projector cable.
"Mr. Malhotra," she said sweetly, her tone laced with venom, "this is not a movie pitch. This is a business strategy."
"Of course, of course," Aarav said quickly. "But I believe in making data… entertaining. Otherwise, who will remember charts and graphs?"
"Professional people," Meera shot back, her jaw tight.
The client raised his hand, amused. "Actually, I like the energy. Keep going, both of you."
And so, they stumbled through the presentation—Meera trying to maintain decorum, Aarav injecting humor at random intervals. When Meera quoted statistics, Aarav dramatized them with hand gestures. When Aarav cracked a joke, Meera rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck in her skull.
But somehow, by the end, the client seemed impressed. "You two are quite the pair," he said, chuckling. "Serious and witty. Reminds me of my own marriage."
The whole room laughed. Aarav gave Meera a triumphant grin. She, however, gripped her pen like a weapon.
---
Office Gossip
After the meeting, the whispers began.
"Did you see them in the presentation? Like husband and wife fighting in front of guests."
"Yeah, Aarav is the goofy husband, and Meera is the strict wife."
"Exactly! A perfect jodi."
By lunchtime, the nickname had stuck. Whenever they passed the hallway, colleagues smirked and called out, "Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra!"
Meera wanted to bury herself alive. Aarav, of course, leaned into the joke. He strolled around the office humming shaadi songs and calling Meera "biwi ji."
"Stop it!" she hissed one afternoon as they left the pantry.
"What, biwi ji? I'm just embracing our reputation," Aarav said, sipping his tea with mock innocence.
"Our reputation?" she snapped. "This is your fault."
"My fault? Hey, I didn't start the gossip. People just recognized our natural chemistry."
"Chemistry?" she repeated, as if the word itself was offensive. "The only chemistry here is me wanting to explode and you providing the spark."
"Boom," Aarav whispered dramatically, mimicking an explosion with his hands. She stormed off, muttering under her breath while their colleagues tried—and failed—to hold back laughter.
---
The Stapler Incident
Later that week, a new battlefront opened: stationery.
Meera sat quietly at her desk, stapling reports, when Aarav reached over and grabbed her stapler without asking.
"Excuse me!" she exclaimed. "That's mine."
"I'll give it back," Aarav said casually, clicking it several times just to annoy her.
"Do you have any idea how irritating you are?"
"Of course," he replied proudly. "It's my superpower."
"Superpower? You're like a mosquito at 2 a.m.—unwanted, irritating, and impossible to get rid of."
The entire team burst into laughter. Aarav clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch, that hurt, biwi ji. Compare me to a tiger, at least. Mosquito is too harsh."
"Tiger?" Meera snorted. "More like a circus clown."
He pretended to wipe away a fake tear. "Fine, I'll take clown. At least clowns make people laugh. What do you do? Bore them to death?"
Before she could retort, their manager walked by and said, "You two done with your domestic drama? Or should I give you a separate room?"
Everyone cracked up. Meera's cheeks turned crimson while Aarav grinned ear to ear.
---
After-Office Banter
That evening, as they packed up to leave, Aarav noticed Meera struggling to close her laptop bag zipper.
"Need help, partner?" he teased.
"No, thank you. I can handle it."
He reached over anyway, yanked the zipper too hard, and the bag spilled open—papers flying everywhere.
"Aarav!" Meera groaned.
"Oops," he said sheepishly, bending down to pick them up. As he handed them back, their fingers brushed. For a second, the world went oddly quiet. Both of them paused, staring at each other.
Meera quickly pulled her hand back, flustered. "Careless," she muttered, stuffing the papers back in.
"Sorry," Aarav said softly, and for once, it didn't sound like a joke.
The moment lingered, unspoken, before Aarav forced a smile. "Come on, let's go. I'll walk you to the metro. Don't worry, I won't trip you on the way… probably."
"Ha ha, very funny," she said dryly. But she didn't refuse his company.
---
The Silent Ride
They walked side by side down the bustling street, surrounded by honking cars and street vendors selling roasted peanuts. Normally, they would have been bickering. But tonight, there was an unusual silence.
Meera stole a glance at him. Despite his immaturity, there was something warm about the way Aarav laughed, the way he handled people, even the way he annoyed her. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't entirely unbearable.
Aarav, on the other hand, sneaked a look at her. Beneath her stern exterior, he had caught glimpses of someone kind, someone who cared too much. Maybe her irritation at him wasn't hatred—it was… something else.
When they reached the metro station, Aarav grinned again, breaking the moment. "Good night, biwi ji. Dream of me."
Meera rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lips twitched in spite of herself.
"Keep dreaming, clown," she shot back before disappearing into the crowd.
Aarav watched her go, smiling to himself. The war wasn't over. In fact, it was only getting started.