Narrated by Aanya Kapoor
There's a specific kind of quiet that settles after a storm.
The kind that whispers, "Enjoy this. Chaos is coming."
So naturally, when Tuesday morning rolled around and nothing caught fire, crashed, or exploded before noon, I felt… suspicious.
No alarm failure. No app malfunctions. No mysterious Slack messages from Ritesh with the word "urgent" in them. I even managed to run a debugging script and feed Simba before he started his daily campaign of dramatic starvation.
I should've known that calm was just the universe winding up for a roundhouse kick to my dignity.
It all started with a notification on my phone that read:
"You're blowing up on TikTok! 245k views and counting."
I blinked.
Excuse me?
Let's back up. I don't use TikTok. Not seriously. I had an account, sure—mostly to lurk, occasionally post a cat video or two. The last one got five likes, two of which were from my mom.
So, who was going viral? And why?
I opened the app.
And there it was.
A video posted by a random user named @CityEatsAnonymous, with the title:
"When your sandwich gets swapped but your delivery guy is hot."
Oh. No.
I clicked.
The video began with a shaky vertical shot of me, flinging open the door, dressed in my Monday depression hoodie, hair in a messy bun, glaring with the intensity of someone who just lost a Game of Thrones finale bet.
Then came Rohan—dripping wet, smiling, handing me the bag.
The audio overlay?
"POV: Enemies to lovers but it starts with the wrong sandwich."
I almost choked on my own breath.
The comments were a war zone of thirst and conspiracy:
"Girl he's FINE. What's the @??"
"Plot twist: They fall in love and name their cat Chipotle."
"This is giving Netflix rom-com energy. Someone fund this."
"Who needs Bridgerton when we have SandwichGate 2025."
Over 200k likes. Nearly 3000 comments.
I was famous.
For yelling at a guy.
Over a sandwich.
While looking like I'd just emerged from the depths of burnout hell.
Fantastic.
---
I was mid-hyperventilation when the doorbell rang.
Of course.
I didn't even check the peephole. I already knew.
Rohan stood there, dressed in a dark blue windbreaker today, helmet in one hand, and—the betrayal—holding another sandwich bag.
"Good afternoon," he said, grinning. "Still mad at eggs?"
I stared.
He held up the bag. "Chipotle chicken. Redemption sandwich."
"You've seen the video," I said flatly.
He tried to look innocent. "What video?"
"Don't play dumb. You've got 200,000 fangirls who now ship us harder than Amazon."
He chuckled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I wasn't going to say anything, but yes. I've read all the fanfiction in the comments. One girl called me 'Rain God Rohan.'"
"I hate that that kind of works."
I followed him to the kitchen, snatching the sandwich like it owed me child support.
"Why did you come back?" I asked.
He leaned against the counter. "I was in the area. Plus, you threatened me last time. I'm scared of you."
"You should be."
He grinned. "Besides, I owed you the right sandwich. And maybe… I wanted to see how the story ends."
I narrowed my eyes. "This isn't a rom-com. This is a woman surviving tech-induced trauma and a man with poor sandwich accuracy."
"Still sounds like a rom-com."
Simba entered the room, tail swishing. He gave Rohan a single approving meow.
"Oh, now I'm part of the club?" Rohan asked.
"Don't flatter yourself. He just thinks you smell like chicken."
---
We sat across the table. I bit into the sandwich.
Heaven.
The spice hit perfectly. The sauce oozed with intention. The bread was toasted like it had dreams.
For a moment, all was right in the world.
"You know," I mumbled through a mouthful, "if this startup thing fails, you could open a sandwich place."
He raised an eyebrow. "You mean like… 'Rohan's Wrongs Righted'?"
"Too long. Go with 'Redemption Sandwiches.' Or 'Hot Guy, Hot Bread.'"
He actually laughed at that. "That one's… disturbing."
I took a long sip of chai. "So what's your plan? Deliver food part-time, charm unsuspecting women, and secretly build an app that takes over the world?"
"Something like that. And yours? Yell at strangers and go viral by accident?"
"I didn't try to go viral. My face looks like a raccoon got rejected from art school."
He looked at me like I was insane. "You're cute."
I paused.
Danger.
"You can't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because this is a professional relationship. You're my sandwich guy."
"That's not a real thing."
"It is if I say it is."
He smirked. "Well, Miss Sandwich Client, I brought a gift."
"What now? A restraining order from Crusty's?"
He pulled out a small envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table.
I opened it.
It was a printed receipt.
For my original order.
"It's proof," he said solemnly. "That I can, in fact, deliver the right thing."
I stared.
He was ridiculous.
Charming.
And worse… he knew it.
---
After he left, I sat in silence for a while.
Staring at the receipt.
Simba jumped into my lap and purred.
"What?" I asked him. "He's just a sandwich guy with a software dream."
Simba sneezed again.
Great. Even my cat shipped us.
---
That night, I couldn't stop checking the comments on the video.
Someone had edited a fake Netflix trailer featuring dramatic music, captions like "One girl. One sandwich. One unexpected delivery…" and—yes—screenshots of me glaring at Rohan in the rain.
Someone else asked if we were dating.
I didn't reply.
I didn't know the answer.
But the next morning, my phone pinged with another notification.
"New message from Rohan: Want to grab a sandwich, but like… together this time?"
My heart did a little hiccup.
I stared at the screen.
Then typed back:
"Only if I get to pick the place."
---
Teaser for Chapter 3:
A date. A debate over chutney vs mayo.
And a surprising confession that flips everything.
Coming tomorrow.
---