I stepped into the office on my first day and was shown to my desk. The table was cute, the office was busy, and everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Then you walked in.

Some people enter a room quietly. Others arrive with an aura so strong it fills every corner before they even say a word. You were the second kind.

Tall. Fair. Glasses. Slim.

I remember looking up and thinking, This isn’t love at first sight. It’s love at first presence.

I didn’t notice your face first. I noticed your energy.

It was calm, yet commanding. Intimidating, yet inviting. The kind of presence that makes you curious even when you’re trying not to be.

I was too shy to speak to you until I finally gathered enough courage to ask, “Can I borrow a pencil?”

“Sure,” you said, handing one over.

A simple exchange.

But then I noticed everyone calling you “Master.”

“Master this.”

“Master that.”

Who exactly was this man, and why was everyone addressing him like he’d just descended from a mountain with sacred wisdom?

Still, I wasn’t curious enough to investigate.

Besides, my life has always been guided by one principle: know your limits.

After all, who develops a crush on a colleague? Boyfriend is one thing; husband is another. A work crush? That’s a dangerous game.

Then came the conversation that almost ended the story before it began.

Someone mentioned how much you liked a tidy environment. Another colleague joked that your future wife and children would eventually scatter things around the house.

And you replied, “I can beat them.”

Everyone laughed.

You said it was a joke.

But immediately, alarm bells started ringing in my head.

Red flag. Red flag. Red flag.

Because, in my experience, every joke carries at least a grain of truth.

So I mentally closed the chapter and decided I would never look at you romantically again.

That lasted about a week.

One afternoon, you turned to me and asked,

“Miss Miracle, are you Yoruba?”

“No.”

“Igbo?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

I told you my state.

Then you smiled and greeted me in Igbo.

“Ọ dị mma. Welcome. Let me officially greet you.”

And before I could process what was happening, you gave me a side hug.

A simple side hug.

Yet somehow, it felt ridiculously cute.

And then there was your cologne.

Good Lord.

To this day, I don’t know what brand it was, but it should probably come with a warning label.

I caught the scent for only a moment before you walked away, but somehow it stayed in my memory far longer than it should have.

For the next few days, we barely spoke.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that you always had words sitting at the back of your throat.

Like there was something you wanted to say but never quite did.

Then one afternoon, exhausted from work, I rested my head briefly on my laptop.

You looked over and asked,

“Miss Miracle, do you keep friends?”

I lifted my head.

“Of course. I have lots of friends.”

You smiled.

“No, I mean male friends. You seem like someone who only keeps female friends.”

Hmm.

Another red flag.

Or maybe another clue.

At that point, I had convinced myself I wasn’t interested.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

The conversation drifted toward relationships. You were smiling from ear to ear. I was trying very hard not to blush.

Then came the question.

Something about helping a single brother.

Something about cooking.

Something that sounded suspiciously like an application form disguised as casual conversation.

And all I could think was:

Don’t you have female friends to ask these questions?

Fast forward a little.

One evening, after an especially stressful day, I was heading home when you stopped me.

“Miss Miracle, come and take cold water.”

I hesitated.

Accepting gifts, no matter how small, always feels like opening a door.

But because I liked you just a little more than I wanted to admit, I accepted.

The next day, I greeted you.

You walked past.

No response.

Yet somehow, I still felt your eyes on me.

As if there were words you weren’t saying.

As if there was a conversation waiting to happen.

That Friday, I rushed out of the office almost immediately after closing time.

Partly because I was tired.

Partly because I suspected you might ask me to spend time with you after work.

And honestly?

I wasn’t sure whether I wanted that or was afraid of wanting it.

I remembered you asking if I lived with my parents.

I remembered the way you looked at me.

And maybe I’m wrong, but sometimes I get the feeling you see me as younger than I am.

A girl still figuring life out.

Someone simply passing time at work.

Someone who doesn’t yet know exactly what she wants.

Maybe you’re right.

Maybe you’re wrong.

What I do know is this:

I’d like to talk to you.

I’d like to know who you are when you’re not being called “Master.”

I’d like to know whether the things I imagine are real or whether I’ve simply built an entire romantic comedy out of a few conversations, a side hug, and a very dangerous cologne.

Until then, I suppose we’ll see what happens on Monday.

XOXO.