The First Encounter

The next morning in the Mishra household began as usual — with the sound of the pressure cooker whistling, a radio humming an old Kishore Kumar song, and Timtim Mishra plotting crime.

Not actual crime. Just strategic chaos.

Wearing her faded cotton pink shorts, a long oversized white tee with a sleepy cat printed on it, and her hair tied up in a messy pineapple bun with two bright blue scrunchies, she tiptoed like a cartoon ninja towards the backyard water connection.

Her anklets were wrapped in cotton, tied with rubber bands — an old war technique she invented in 10th standard to move quietly.

“Sorry, Papa,” she whispered to the water pipes, “but this is for a greater cause. Operation Evict Tenant begins now.”

With a slightly dramatic expression and all the seriousness of a soldier, she slightly twisted the valve that controlled the upstairs water supply.

Just a tiny bit. Enough to make it frustrating. Enough to cause inconvenience, but not suspicion.

She wiped imaginary sweat off her forehead like a plumber in a spy movie, looked up at the balcony above — her balcony — and smirked.

Soon, he’d be gone.

—

Upstairs, in the room that once belonged to Abhishek Mishra, Aariz Sheikh Pataudi stood under the shower… frowning.

Cold water. Then no water. Then a sound that suggested the pipe was coughing.

He stepped out, wrapped in nothing but a towel, droplets sliding down his toned back. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with olive-golden skin and the kind of face that made people feel like apologizing — even if they’d done nothing wrong.

Sharp jaw. Stormy grey eyes. Brows that constantly looked annoyed with the world.

He didn’t like inconvenience.

He liked control. Order.

And right now — this house, this pipe, this entire city — felt out of his control.

He exhaled deeply and opened the door of his room, walking towards the staircase. He needed to talk to the landlord.

And that’s exactly when Timtim, still crouching in her mission-success pose, turned around and collided straight into his — wet, shirtless — chest.

Thud.

Her face smacked the center of his bare skin.

Time froze.

She blinked. He didn’t move.

Her cheek was still stuck to his chest.

"Um," she squeaked.

He looked down at her like she was a fly that had developed speech. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

Timtim’s brain short-circuited.

He was not a bald uncle.

He was not middle-aged.

He was not average.

He looked like he belonged in a mafia movie — and on a Vogue cover. And now, he was standing with water sliding down his body, towel dangerously low, and she was touching him with her face.

Perfect.

“Are you sniffing me?” he asked, deadpan.

She stumbled back in horror, tripping on her own dupatta, which she'd thrown around for drama earlier. “WHAT?! No! I was— I’m— I was gardening!”

“You’re holding a spanner.”

She looked down at the tool in her hand.

“Yeah. Gardening... pipe-ology. It’s advanced.”

He raised a brow. Just slightly.

She gulped.

“You’re the tenant?” she asked, as if she hadn’t already stalked the rent agreement and peeked through the stair railing last night.

He didn’t answer. Just walked past her.

“Rude,” she muttered, then called after him, “Your pipe isn’t working, by the way.”

He paused mid-step and turned, eyes narrowing.

“Do you know why?”

Her eyes widened. “How would I know, Mr… Wet-and-Accusing?”

He stared for one long second, then walked down towards her father’s room.

She stood there, fuming.

So much attitude for someone who didn’t even have a working tap.

“He’s not going to last a week,” she mumbled to herself. “Not with me downstairs.”

She stormed into the kitchen, flung her spanner like it was a war medal, and told her mother with fire in her voice: “Maa, your tenant is impossible!”

Her mother looked at her calmly. “You touched his chest, didn’t you?”

Timtim turned crimson. “That was an accident!”

Her mother smiled, sipping chai.

“Beta, I think he might outlast you.”

Timtim grabbed a banana and took an angry bite. “Just wait, Maa. Operation Balcony isn’t over yet.”

And up in his room, Aariz wiped his face with a towel, staring out of the window.

She was annoying.

Unpredictable.

Clumsy. Loud.

And somehow… the first real distraction he’d felt in a long, long time.

He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more — that she dared to cross into his space… or that a part of him had let her.