The first week under the same roof had been… quiet, almost painfully so. Aarav and Ishita moved like two perfectly measured pieces on a chessboard—polite, careful, but entirely aware of the other's presence.
But peace is fragile, especially between two people determined not to surrender.
It started that afternoon in the kitchen. Ishita was trying a new recipe, her mother's handwritten notes spread across the counter. Aarav, passing by, noticed a jar of spice out of place.
"Move that," he said curtly.
Ishita froze, spatula in hand. "Excuse me?"
"You're putting it in the wrong spot. It should be here," he said, reaching for the jar.
She stepped back, her hands on her hips. "I think I know where it goes, thank you."
Aarav raised an eyebrow. "Clearly not."
And that was the spark. Words flared, voices rose, both of them stubbornly defending their positions.
"You always have to be right, don't you?" Ishita snapped, glaring.
"I always have to make sense," Aarav replied evenly.
For several minutes, they circled each other verbally, each statement sharper than the last. It was exhausting, yet secretly… exhilarating. For the first time, neither of them could walk away without some acknowledgment of the other's presence.
Finally, Ishita slammed the spice jar down, her face flushed. "Fine. You win this time. Happy?"
Aarav paused, considering her for a moment, then said quietly, "It's not about winning. It's about not… making a mess."
Ishita blinked. The softness in his tone was a surprise, almost disarming. She ignored it, retreating to the counter to stir her sauce, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
Later, when they sat for lunch, the tension had softened—but the undercurrent remained. A glance here, a slight touch as he passed her plate there—tiny sparks of contact neither wanted to admit noticing.
And as they ate, Ishita realized something unsettling: she enjoyed arguing with him.