The morning after the project's successful completion, the office hummed with a palpable, victorious energy. A collective sigh of relief seemed to have lifted the very ceiling, replacing the usual tension with a buoyant chatter. Laughter, genuine and unforced, echoed from the breakroom, and the rich, spicy aroma of celebratory samosas wafted through the air, a promise of indulgence.
Yet, amidst this harmony, a familiar discordant note was struck.
"Who put tape on my mouse?!" Meera's voice, sharp as a shard of glass, sliced through the cheerful din. She held up her wireless mouse, a single strip of transparent tape neatly plastered over its sensor. On her screen, the cursor remained stubbornly, infuriatingly frozen, no matter how desperately she swiped.
Aarav, positioned a few desks away, leaned back in his chair with an air of sublime nonchalance, sipping his milky tea as if observing a mildly interesting bird outside the window. "Tsk. Perhaps it's exhausted, Meera," he suggested, his tone dripping with faux concern. "You work the poor thing to the bone. Even silicon and circuits need a nap."
Meera's eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. She slowly peeled off the tape, her movements precise and deliberate. "You are going to profoundly regret this, Aarav."
A chorus of snickers erupted from their colleagues, who were now openly watching the spectacle. The stage was set.
Instead of a retort, Meera did something far more menacing. She calmly placed her mouse down, picked up her favorite pen—a sleek, silver instrument—and with a flick of her wrist, sent it skittering across the polished floor. It spun to a perfect stop, tapping gently against the toe of Aarav's shoe.
Aarav looked down, then back at her, a single eyebrow arching in theatrical curiosity. "And what's this? A token of your surrender?"
"No," she replied, her voice saccharine sweet, a stark contrast to the daggers in her gaze. "Consider it a warning shot. The next object I send your way will be heavier, pointier, and thrown with significantly less affection."
The entire floor burst into roaring laughter. Aarav pressed a hand to his heart, his face a masterpiece of wounded pride. "Such aggression! And after all we've been through. I thought we had something special, Meera."
"Special?" she scoffed, the sound dry and dismissive. "You wouldn't recognize 'special' if it walked up and introduced itself with a PowerPoint presentation."
---
The Lunch Outing: A Strategic Seating Failure
The manager, riding the wave of success, herded everyone to a bustling local restaurant for a celebratory lunch. The air was thick with the sizzle of tandoori grills and the warm, garlicky scent of fresh naan.
Meera, employing tactical evasion, swiftly secured a chair at the farthest end of the long table, creating a fortress of colleagues between herself and the anticipated nuisance. Her victory was short-lived. Like a heat-seeking missile of chaos, Aarav wove through the crowd and dropped into the seat directly opposite hers, his signature grin already in place.
"You," she muttered, the word a low sigh of resignation.
"Destiny, Meera ji," he declared, snapping his napkin open with a flourish. "It has a sense of humor, and apparently, it finds us hilarious."
The meal unfolded as a series of perfectly timed skirmishes. When a gleaming platter of golden jalebis arrived, Aarav's hand shot out with uncanny precision, his fingers closing around the largest, syrupiest one just as Meera's reached for it.
Their hands hovered, suspended over the plate for a charged second.
"Really?" she said, her voice flat, her glare promising retribution.
He brought the jalebi to his lips and took a slow, deliberate bite, never breaking eye contact. A drop of syrup clung to his lip. "Mmm… divine. Almost as sweet as your temper, Meera."
"Finish that sentence," she warned, her tone dangerously low, "and I will personally ensure your chai is forever lukewarm."
Their colleagues howled, banging the table in delight. One of them, emboldened by the festive mood, leaned in and stage-whispered, "I'm telling my parents I want a love like this. Look at them! It's like a romantic comedy, but with more glaring."
Meera choked on her water. Aarav, seizing the moment, reached over and patted her back with exaggerated concern. "Easy there, wifey. Don't get all flustered on me."
She swatted his hand away, a furious blush scalding her cheeks. "I am NOT your wife!"
Aarav's eyes sparkled with unrepentant mischief. "Not yet," he corrected slyly, delivering a wink that sent the entire table into a frenzy of whistles and applause. Meera, defeated, buried her burning face in the soft fabric of her dupatta.
---
The Forgotten File: A Crisis Averted
The following day, professionalism reasserted itself with a vengeance. Meera, in a rare moment of forced trust, had asked Aarav to email her a critical data file for the final client review. Assured by his casual "Consider it done," she hadn't double-checked.
As the conference room lights dimmed and her presentation flashed onto the screen, her blood ran cold. The pivotal slides, the ones housing the final revenue projections, were blank. Hollow templates stared back at the expectant clients.
Her head swiveled slowly toward Aarav, who was lounging in a corner seat. Her eyes conveyed a silent, volcanic fury.
You forgot, she mouthed, each syllable a sharp, soundless accusation.
He winced, his sheepish expression a cocktail of genuine apology and panicked realization. Oops, he mimed back.
Just as a frown began to crease the client's brow, Aarav sprang into action. In a blur of movement, he had his laptop open, the file located, and a USB drive plugged in. He glided to the front, inserted the drive, and with a magician's flourish, handed her the clicker.
"Your numbers, milady," he whispered, his voice laced with a relief he didn't let show on his face.
Meera accepted it, her glare a promise of a slow and painful reckoning, yet she seamlessly integrated the data and delivered the rest of her presentation with icy, flawless precision.
Afterward, in the sterile silence of the hallway, she unleashed the storm. "What is wrong with you? That wasn't a minor oversight; that was a professional derailment! Do you have any concept of the damage you almost caused?"
Aarav held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I know. I know. My fault, entirely. But I fixed it, didn't I? The cavalry arrived!"
"That is not the point!" she fumed, her hands clenched at her sides. "The point is that the cavalry shouldn't be needed! The point is reliability!"
"Then what is the point, Meera?" he asked, his voice dropping its defensive edge, becoming uncharacteristically soft. He took a half-step closer, invading her personal space. The hallway seemed to shrink around them.
For a suspended moment, their eyes locked. The anger in Meera's chest faltered, tripped up by the raw, unmistakable regret she saw in his gaze. The usual shield of teasing was gone.
She looked away first, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a confusing flutter. "Just… don't let it happen again," she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
---
The Power Cut: Shadows and Confessions
That evening, as dusk painted the sky, fate decided to intervene directly. A sudden, deep thud echoed through the building, and the office was plunged into an inky blackness. The emergency generators whirred to life after a heart-stopping pause, bathing the space in a dim, amber glow.
Meera, hunched over her desk, let out a small, involuntary gasp.
"Relax, it's just a power cut," Aarav's voice came from the shadows near his desk. He had stayed late, too. "Probably a transformer somewhere decided it had also had enough of this week."
She sighed, the sound loud in the new quiet. "Fantastic. The perfect capstone to this utterly ridiculous day."
In the weak, honeyed light, the office was transformed. Familiar shapes became soft and indistinct, the world reduced to the pool of light from her desk lamp and the sound of their breathing.
Aarav materialized out of the gloom and settled into the chair beside hers, the motion silent. "Scared?" he teased, but his voice was softer than usual.
"Of the dark? Don't be absurd."
"Of me, then?" he leaned closer, his features half in shadow, a playful glint in his eye.
Meera rolled hers, a gesture he probably felt more than saw. "Your ego remains fully illuminated, I see."
They sat in a comfortable, unusual silence for a few minutes, listening to the distant hum of the generator. Then Aarav spoke again, his tone shifting, losing its edge of mockery.
"You know," he began, his voice thoughtful. "In this light… you actually look… nice."
She went perfectly still. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean it. Not that you don't usually. But the… the sharp edges are gone. You look softer. Less like you're about to declare war on a misplaced comma."
Her lips twitched against her will. "Aarav, when you try to compliment, it somehow always circles back to an insult."
"Fine," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "You look terrifyingly beautiful. Is that better?"
A genuine, unfiltered laugh escaped her before she could cage it. The sound was foreign and lovely in the darkened office, and it left them both momentarily stunned.
When the main lights flickered back on, flooding the room with a harsh, fluorescent glare, the moment broke. But something intangible had shifted in the amber twilight. The shadows had done more than hide; they had revealed, blurring the lines between incessant irritation and a begrudging, undeniable warmth.
---
The Ride Home: A Shared Sanctuary
As they packed up to leave, the heavens opened. Rain sheeted down the glass windows, blurring the city into a watercolor painting.
Meera groaned. "Of course. Because why would anything be easy?"
Aarav appeared at her side, holding a large, sensible black umbrella. "Looks like you're in need of a chariot, madam."
"I'll be fine," she insisted, her pride wrestling with the practical part of her brain that knew her silk blouse would be ruined.
As if on cue, a gust of wind lashed rain against the building, and she instinctively shrank back. Decision made. With a sigh of surrender, she ducked under the shelter of his umbrella.
The space was immediately, intimately small. Their shoulders brushed with every step, a faint, electric contact. The drumming of the rain on the nylon canopy created a private world, isolating them from the glistening streets. She could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the petrichor.
They walked to the metro station in a silence that was neither awkward nor comfortable, but charged. Every accidental nudge, every time her hair caught the wind and brushed against his cheek, felt like a punctuation mark in a sentence neither was reading aloud.
By the time they reached the station entrance, Meera's heart was performing a frantic, irregular rhythm, and Aarav, for once, had run out of jokes.
"Thanks," she muttered, avoiding his eyes as she stepped out from under the umbrella. "For the… shelter."
"Anytime," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, all the bravado washed away by the rain.
As the train doors closed behind her, Meera stared at her reflection in the dark glass—a woman flushed, flustered, and thoroughly confused. For the first time, the question wasn't how to manage Aarav, but what else might he be.
And Aarav, standing alone under the awning as the rain poured down, watched her train pull away, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. The battle was far from over, but he had just gained precious, uncharted territory.