Chapter 5 When Quiet Finds a Voice

The office clock read 9:32 a.m. when I stepped through the glass doors.

Soft light streamed through the tall windows, bouncing off polished floors and chrome table legs. The smell of fresh paper and coffee hung in the air, humming with the low, familiar rhythm of ringing desk phones and fingers flying across keyboards.

I walked in wearing a navy-blue blouse and a gray pencil skirt, my ID tag sitting neatly on my chest. My face didn't show much-not the little storm that sat under my ribs. That was my armor. My secret.

"Morning, boss lady," Zoe called from the coffee station, lifting her mug like it was a trophy.

"Morning," I murmured, nodding as I passed.

I gripped the slim folder in my hand-morning reports for the project manager. Simple task. Routine. No surprises.

But life didn't get that memo.

The pen in my other hand slipped, clattering to the tiles in a small, mocking circle.

Someone crouched to grab it before I could bend.

He'd just stepped out of the office-tall, steady, crisp white shirt making his skin look even warmer in the morning light. He moved with easy precision, like he'd done it a hundred times before, and straightened, offering me the pen.

Our eyes met.

Brown. Clear. Unhurried.

"Here," he said, voice low and calm.

I took it carefully, fingers brushing the cool metal instead of his skin. My heartbeat sped anyway.

"Thank you."

For one beat, neither of us moved. Then he nodded politely and walked past me, heading down the hall like that quiet pause hadn't just happened.

I stood there for half a second longer, clutching the folder like it was an anchor.

What was that?

I shook myself and knocked on the office door.

The project manager didn't even look up as I stepped inside, dropped the folder on his desk, and nodded through his usual talk about timelines. By the time I left, my focus was still in that doorway.

His name flickered in my memory from last week's orientation memo.

Edwin.

Transferred from Nairobi. Impeccable record. Strong recommendations.

I'd skimmed over his name then. Now it replayed in my mind with that quiet, steady look in his eyes.

---

Later, at the printer, Zoe appeared behind me, leaning on the counter like a cat waiting to pounce.

"You okay?"

I glanced back. "Fine. Why?"

She smirked. "You came out of the PM's office looking like you forgot how doors work."

I grabbed the stack of warm paper and hugged it like a shield. "It was nothing."

"Mhm." She sipped her coffee, eyes dancing. "Girl, everyone saw how he bent to pick up your pen. He did it like it was gold."

"It's a pen, Zoe."

"It's a moment," she corrected. "But fine, keep pretending."

I rolled my eyes and walked off before she could see my cheeks warm.

---

The day blurred into tasks-project briefs, client calls, review notes. But every time Edwin's name popped up on an email thread or a shared drive comment, my chest fluttered like I'd swallowed something electric.

It was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

By six, I was tired enough to call it a day, shutting my computer with a soft click. Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting the parking lot in lavender haze.

I stood by my car for a moment, breathing in the cool air. His voice replayed-just one word.

Here.

A simple kindness, but it felt like more.

"Get a grip, Tonya," I muttered as I slid behind the wheel. But even as I drove, the thought wouldn't leave.

---

Home smelled like tomatoes and something green and peppery. Mum's cooking always met me before her voice.

"You're late," she called from the kitchen, wooden spoon raised like a conductor's baton.

"Traffic," I lied, dropping my bag by the console.

She smiled knowingly. "Garden egg stew. Your favorite."

I exhaled, heart softening at the sight of her. No probing questions. Just love, steady as breath.

I stepped into the kitchen and let that warmth settle into my bones.

-The next morning, I swore I would keep my head clear. Work. Focus. No wandering thoughts about Edwin, no replaying the way his voice dipped low when he said here.

By ten a.m., that plan had failed miserably.

The office buzzed as usual, keyboards clacking, phones ringing, snippets of conversations floating between cubicles. Yet it all felt distant, like someone had dimmed the sound around me. I was focused on the one thing I shouldn't be-him.

Edwin had settled quickly into the rhythm of our office. People liked him already; I could hear it in the way they greeted him, see it in how conversations paused when he spoke. Not because he was loud or commanding-he wasn't. He carried quiet authority, the kind people leaned toward without realizing they were doing it.

I sat at my desk, staring at a spreadsheet that should have taken five minutes but stretched into fifteen because every few seconds, my eyes flicked toward the hallway.

When lunchtime rolled around, I grabbed my tray and settled into my usual spot by the window, determined to drown out my own distraction. But Zoe wasn't about to let me.

"You're thinking again," she said, sliding into the chair across from me.

I blinked. "Am I not allowed to think?"

"Not like that." She speared a piece of lettuce, grinning. "Is it about Mr. New Guy?"

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Zoe..."

"What? It's obvious. You've been humming this morning, Tonya. You don't hum. Not since last year."

Her words stung, soft and warm all at once. "It's nothing," I muttered.

She tilted her head. "It doesn't feel like nothing."

I didn't answer because maybe she was right. It wasn't about Edwin, not fully. It was about me-the way something as small as a shared glance could stir pieces of myself I thought I'd buried for good.

---

By late afternoon, the sky outside shifted to soft amber, and the office began to thin. I shut my laptop, deciding to leave before the traffic thickened, when a voice cut across the quiet.

"Tonya."

I turned, and there he was-Edwin, standing a few feet away, holding a slim folder. He looked the same as yesterday, but something in his expression was different. Softer. Open.

"You left this in the conference room," he said, stepping closer.

"Oh." I took the folder, fingers brushing the edge where his had been. "Thanks."

He didn't step back right away. "You always leave first," he observed lightly.

I arched a brow. "You've been watching my exits?"

He smiled faintly. "Just noticed. That's all."

For a second, I thought of stepping away, of cutting this off before it became something more complicated. But instead, I found myself saying, "It's quieter when I leave early."

"Quieter isn't always better," he replied, his gaze holding mine for one long, suspended beat.

I couldn't think of what to say, so I nodded and murmured, "Maybe not."

He gave the faintest nod, then stepped aside, letting me pass, his presence lingering like a touch on my shoulder even after I reached the elevator.

---

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while the faint hum of the city seeped through my window.

It wasn't love. It wasn't even attraction I could name yet. It was possibility, the kind that scared me because I had told myself for so long I wasn't open to it.

And yet, one kind gesture, one quiet voice, had unraveled something I thought I had sealed tight.

When I finally closed my eyes, a thought slipped through, uninvited but warm:

Maybe different is exactly what I need.

---