It had been three weeks since the night of the edible.
They hadn’t had sex.
They had made out. A lot.
First on her couch, legs tangled and breathing uneven. Then in the elevator at her office building after hours. Once, behind a conference room door, Zara pinned against glass as Femi kissed her like the world was ending.
They didn’t talk about it. They just… couldn’t stop.
The project was still moving, surprisingly well. Zara had established clear touchpoints for the partnership and set internal review dates. Femi had assigned one of his top operations leads to manage the logistics while insisting on staying involved in “big picture” decisions.
They were midway through Q2 now — four months into a nine-month development partnership. Contracts had been signed. Budgets were firm. The client loved the early mockups.
The work was solid.
So was their obsession.
At the office, they acted like teenagers. Brilliant, discreet, suit-wearing teenagers.
They didn’t do anything outrageous — just things that looked innocent from far away but felt like fire up close.
Femi would step too close to Zara during a status update, fingers grazing hers beneath the table. She’d send him a WhatsApp message from across the meeting room:
You’re distracting. That tie looks too good.
He once caught her in the hallway and kissed her breathless behind a column, pulling away just in time before someone turned the corner.
They were professionals. Technically.
That Saturday, they planned to finally be somewhere public. Together.
Dinner at a restaurant Zara liked — the kind with ambient lighting, low jazz, and menus that didn’t have prices listed.
All day, they’d been talking to each other via video calls as they both got ready for their date.
Femi in his car, shirt collar unbuttoned, looking amused:
“Still thinking about last night. And the one before that.”
“If you keep leaving lipstick on my shirt, people are going to notice.”
Zara in her robe, hair in curlers, eye-rolling as she applied her mascara:
“If you stop buttoning your shirts so high, I’ll stop leaving marks.”
“Also, are you wearing the watch I like or the one that makes you look like you work in finance?”
They couldn’t help it.
They just liked each other. A little too much.
Zara arrived first.
She wore a fitted silk maroon dress — backless, with a thigh slit that showed up every time she crossed her legs. Her hair fell in curls around her face, lips glossed in deep wine.
Femi walked in three minutes later wearing a tailored black shirt, charcoal slacks, and the silver watch she teased him about. The one she secretly loved. The one he wore just for her.
He sat across from her and grinned. “This restaurant is too classy for what I’m thinking.”
“You’re too old for what you’re thinking.”
He chuckled. “I’m not that old.”
“You’re 42.”
“You’re 26.”
“Exactly. My knees don’t make sounds when I sit.”
“Your generation thinks oat milk solves trauma.”
They laughed.
It was easy with them. Too easy.
Dinner passed in soft, flirtatious waves. They talked about books they were reading. Teased each other over work quirks. Shared a slice of cake that neither of them admitted they wanted.
When the check came, Zara reached for her purse.
Femi gave her a look.
“I know you can pay,” he said. “Let me be chivalrous before I start kissing you like a man with no morals.”
She snorted. “Ok but I'm paying next time. It was my idea to come out tonight.”
He leaned closer. “Next time, I’m not letting you leave my house.”
She froze for half a second. Just enough to register the shift.
Then smiled. “We’ll see.”
At her car in the parking lot, the night paused.
She turned to face him, heels off now, wearing slippers she had gotten from her car.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Like he was still asking for permission.
She didn’t wait.
Their mouths met in the kind of kiss that melted time.
It was slow at first — lips moving like memory, not urgency. But then it deepened. Her hands slid around his neck. His gripped her waist. Their bodies pressed together.
He kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in months. Like every time she pulled away before things went too far, it drove him a little mad.
She kissed him like she wanted to forget restraint altogether.
By the time they broke apart, they were both breathless.
Femi pressed his forehead to hers. “Let me in.”
Zara smiled.
“Not yet.”
And she slipped inside her car, blowing him a kiss as she drove away. Leaving him standing in the parking lot with a wide smile on his face.