By the time Chinwe finished her dinner, she realized she had stopped paying attention to the food. It was Tunde. Or rather, the way talking to him felt like sitting on a low wall at dusk, legs swinging, worries temporarily forgotten. How do you meet someone and in the next one hour it already feels like they’ve once been a part of you, but broken off after creation?

“So,” he said, leaning back slightly, “what do you people really think of us at head office?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want the truth or the official answer?”

“The truth,” he said quickly. “Always.”

By then she had found out that Tunde was an assistant facilitator for this training, working with the Learning and Development team at head office. It explained the way he carried himself like someone who knew exactly where he was supposed to be.

Still, Chinwe refused to let him enjoy that discovery too much.

They were now standing near the reception desk that evening, waiting for the elevators. The marble floor reflected the soft yellow lighting, and the scent of something floral drifted through the lobby.

“You people,” she began, folding her arms lightly, “you seem so unapproachable.”

“You people?” he repeated, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. Head office people. You always look like you are in the middle of something important. Or about to be.”

He laughed. “We are not that bad.”

“You are. You look like you forward emails for a living.”

He turned to her slowly. “Forward emails?”

“With one-word replies,” she continued. “Noted. Please refer to trail below. Regards.”

“That is a serious accusation.”

“It is lived experience,” she said. “Not theory.”

He tried to keep a straight face but failed. His laughter came easily, the kind that made other people want to join in.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted. “The work can be intense. Sometimes you open your laptop at eight in the morning and the next time you look up it is four in the afternoon. You have not stood up. You have not eaten. You are just there, replying to things, or working on management deliverables.”

She tilted her head. “Now you sound human.”

“I am human.” He replied, “Contrary to popular belief.”

She studied him for a moment, pretending to assess him. “You actually seem… normal.”

He frowned slightly. “That does not sound like a compliment.”

The lobby had quieted down; even the air felt softer. Somewhere behind them, someone dragged a suitcase across the marble floor. It echoed longer than it should have.

“Relax,” she conceded, fighting a smile, “pleasantly normal.”

He shook his head as though he was not sure whether to argue or accept it.

The elevator doors opened and a small crowd stepped out. They moved aside to let them pass. Inside, the mirrored walls reflected them standing side by side, not too close, not too far.

At her floor, the doors slid open. She stepped out and turned slightly towards him.

“Let me have your number,” he said casually. “In case there’s any update tomorrow.”

It sounded reasonable, professional even. She unlocked her phone and handed it to him anyway.
When their fingers brushed, it wasn’t dramatic or anything. Just warmth. And for a split second, neither of them moved.

“Goodnight, Chinwe,” he said.

The way he didn’t shorten her name, that detail stayed with her.

Inside her room, she kicked off her shoes and let out a long breath she did not realize she had been holding. The bed was large and neatly made, the white sheets smooth and untouched. The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing the faint glow of the city to slip in.

She lay down slowly, as though testing the mattress. It held her without swallowing her whole. The kind of bed that made you aware of how exhausted you had been for weeks.

Outside, Kano hummed in the distance: a generator was on somewhere nearby; a car horn that sounded irritated. But inside her room, everything felt contained.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, replaying small fragments of the evening.

The way he laughed without restraint.
The way he listened when she spoke.
The way he said her name.
Chinwe.
Not Chi.

She turned onto her side and closed her eyes.

Usually, nights were when her mind began to race. Pending emails. Targets. The fear that she was not moving fast enough in life. That everyone else had figured something out she had not.

Tonight, her thoughts were calmer, and they circled around one person.

That night, she slept deeply. No waking at two in the morning with anxiety pressing against her chest. No restless turning. Just steady, uninterrupted rest.

The next morning, her alarm dragged her back to earth.

She groaned and reached for her phone without fully opening her eyes.

A message was waiting.
Tunde: Good morning, Chinwe. Breakfast in 30 minutes. Please do not disgrace me.
She laughed before she could stop herself.
Chinwe: Disgrace you how?
Tunde: By being late. Assistant facilitators have reputations to protect.
She sat up, shaking her head.
Chinwe: Is this a threat?
Tunde: It is a polite warning.

She could almost see the expression on his face as he typed it.
She dressed quickly, choosing something simple but deliberate.

The restaurant was already busy when she walked in. The clinking of cutlery. Low conversations layered over one another. The smell of coffee and toasted bread.

Tunde was seated near the window, his sleeves rolled up and ID card hung loosely around his neck. A cup of coffee was in front of him. He looked up as she approached, and something like relief flickered across his face before he masked it.

“You made it,” he said.

“Barely,” she replied, pulling out the chair opposite him. “That bed almost convinced me to abandon my responsibilities.”

“For a training you travelled for?”

“It would have been a valid reason.”

He laughed softly.

They fell into conversation easily. About Lagos traffic and how it could test even the calmest person’s spirituality. About office gossip that travelled faster than the speed of light sometimes.

At some point, a colleague walked past their table and paused. “You two look very serious,” she said. “Planning a coup?”

Tunde did not miss a beat. “Just discussing the logistics.”

Chinwe nearly choked on her tea.

After the colleague left, she shook her head. “You are dangerous.”

“I am strategic,” he corrected.

She studied him again, this time without teasing.

There was something measured about him. Something careful. As though he revealed himself in parts. And it made her curious.
But curiosity, she knew, was rarely harmless.

When they finally stood to leave for the day’s activities, there was an unspoken awareness between them. This training had been meant to be routine. Or better yet, an escape. But it was quietly becoming something else.

And she was not sure whether that should excite her or worry her.