O udti patang jaise

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Masti si chadh gayi humko turant aise

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Abhi abhi utra ho net se torrent jaise

Nashe si chadh gayi oye

"Hey there, my lovely Patakas! Get ready for a little chaos, a few sparks, and loads of laughs. This is a story about the kind of sparks that never stop—and never weigh you down. So, buckle up, have fun, and remember: a little mischief makes everything better!"

Aage badne se pehle thoda Pyaar , Vote aur aapki Krupa mujhpe Barsaiye hihi

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Some mornings are made for coffee. Some for chaos. And some mornings... well, some mornings throw strangers at you like a live wire.

Because when a smirk meets a glare for the first time, something clicks. Not like love at first sight. Not like instant admiration. More like... a warning. A challenge. A spark you didn't ask for but can't ignore.

It's the kind of spark that whispers: this stranger is going to ruin your perfectly ordered world—and you might just let them.

And that's the thing about certain collisions—they're not accidents. They're subtle, chaotic, and perfectly timed. They make you laugh when you shouldn't, question your patience constantly, and maybe, just maybe... reconsider what you thought you wanted.

Some mornings are ordinary. Some are chaotic. Some... are unforgettable.
This was one of those mornings.

Ayaan Rathore had the kind of confidence that could make people either cheer or roll their eyes—and mostly, it worked in his favor. He thrived on applause, winning, and the kind of attention that came with a celebrity life carefully curated to look effortless. Rules? He followed them, when convenient. Etiquette? Only when he wanted. Patience? Rarely.

Dr.Anika Mehta, meanwhile, lived for precision. Words, movements, schedules—everything had a purpose. She noticed everything, judged swiftly, and gave zero apologies for it. She wasn't cold. She just didn't waste energy on nonsense. Ego? It meant nothing. Bragging? Forget it.

And then there was fate—or maybe karma—deciding to throw them into the same street, at the same chaotic second. He was focused on avoiding a collision with a stray bike. She was focused on surviving a city full of careless humans. And when they met? Sparks flew. Not the romantic kind. The "you're-insufferable-and-I-want-to-slap-you" kind.

"You're lucky I don't charge for public disasters," she said, eyes narrowed, tone flat but lethal.

"Depends," he smirked. "Do you always lecture strangers, or am I special?"
She didn't flinch. "Special? No. You're just loud, clumsy, and dramatic. Welcome to my morning."

And just like that, two strangers had made the first mark on each other—one with a smirk, one with a glare—and neither would ever be the same.
Because some collisions aren't accidents. They're the beginning of a war disguised as chemistry.

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Read it for the banter. Stay for the chemistry. And maybe, just maybe, enjoy watching chaos meet precision in a way that nobody walks away unscathed.