Hot Chai Accidents

If Timtim thought the battle was one-sided, she was about to get schooled.

Because Aariz Sheikh Pataudi, beneath that silent exterior and mafia-don-jawline, wasn’t the type to just tolerate nonsense.

No.

He studied patterns. He controlled outcomes.

And more importantly — he never lost.

So the morning after the Great Loudspeaker Attack, Timtim woke up to find… her favorite balcony plant hanging upside down by a string outside her window.

With a sticky note attached.

> “Reshma needed some air. — Tenant Saab”

She screeched loud enough to scare two pigeons off the roof.

“How dare he touch Reshma!” she cried, dramatically banging her palm on her study desk.

Her mother didn’t even look up from kneading dough. “Maybe Reshma wanted a little sunlight and maturity in her life.”

But Timtim was not one to back down.

So by 11:30 AM, she had an idea.

A powerful one.

A dangerous one.

A plan fueled by her two strongest forces: vengeance and boredom.

---

The Plan: Offer him Chai. Innocently. Casually. Sweetly.

And then maybe "accidentally" ruin something important.

Timtim made the chai herself — extra hot, extra ginger. The kind of chai that could cure heartbreak, back pain, and bad vibes.

She wore her favorite outfit — a powder blue kurti with tiny mirror-work, white leggings, a lemon yellow dupatta that fluttered like a rebellious flag, and her silver jhumkas that hit her collarbone when she moved. Her mole below her lip was visible, and she'd even put on a dash of kajal because confidence was key during combat.

Balancing the steel tray with cups and Parle-G biscuits (for diplomacy), she climbed upstairs, knocked once, and pushed the door open slightly — just as he turned from the balcony, shirt half-buttoned, hair still wet from a recent shower.

Oh no.

Her brain glitched again.

Why did this man always look like he walked out of an expensive perfume ad?

“Chai,” she chirped, pretending not to care. “Peace offering.”

He stared at her suspiciously.

“You made this?”

She nodded, smiling innocently. “I made it with love.”

He took the tray slowly, placed it on his desk — filled with open documents, scribbled notes, and a sleek black laptop.

And that’s when the universe decided to bless her.

Because the tray tipped slightly — and one entire cup of hot chai toppled over.

Right onto his documents.

There was a full ten seconds of silence.

Steam. Soggy paper. A soaked corner of the desk.

Timtim gasped with the enthusiasm of an Oscar-winning actress. “Oh. My. God.”

Aariz didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.

That same unreadable expression. Half glacier, half wildfire.

“Oops?” she offered weakly, pressing her palms together in a fake apology.

He walked over slowly.

She stepped back.

He walked closer.

She backed into the balcony door.

He leaned down, their faces just inches apart.

“You know,” he said in a low, calm voice, “I’ve met diplomats. Spies. Corporate sharks. Arms dealers.”

She blinked rapidly.

“But none of them,” he continued, “have tested my patience the way you do.”

“Aw,” she smiled nervously. “I’m honored.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I prefer spirited.”

He looked at her finger again — the same one she pointed at him with yesterday. That small, stubborn finger had more fight in it than most people he’d ever met.

He exhaled slowly and stepped away, reaching for a tissue to dab at the papers.

And that’s when she said the most Timtim thing possible.

“You should’ve just given me my room, you know. All this could’ve been avoided.”

He didn’t look up.

But a smirk ghosted his lips.

“Careful, Miss Mishra,” he said without turning. “You’re playing a very dangerous game.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“I was a Sanskaari girl, you know,” she said thoughtfully. “Until you hijacked my balcony dreams.”

Then, with her dupatta fluttering and anklets clinking like tiny war drums, she disappeared.

And Aariz Sheikh, powerful, disciplined, ruthless — leaned back against the desk…

…and laughed.

It was short, unexpected, and rare.

But real.

He didn’t know what it was about her — that insane chaos, that fearless mouth, or that ridiculous plant — but something about Timtim Mishra was crawling under his skin.

And he wasn’t sure if he hated it… or liked it too much.