When Ada joined the company, she learned two things on her first day: the coffee machine only worked if you kicked it lightly on the side, and Tunde never spoke during meetings unless he absolutely had to.

They sat two desks apart.

Ada was loud in a soft way she laughed easily, greeted everyone by name, and typed like she was in a race against time. Tunde was the opposite. Headphones on, sleeves rolled up, eyes always on his screen. People said he was “nice but distant,” the kind of person you only really noticed when something broke and he quietly fixed it.

Their first conversation wasn’t romantic.

It was about a missing file.

Ada stood by his desk, frustrated. “Please tell me you didn’t delete the Q2 report.”

Tunde removed one headphone. “I didn’t. Check your email.”

She did. He’d sent it ten minutes earlier.

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “Thank you.”

He nodded. That was it.

But after that, small things started happening.

He began saving her a cup of coffee whenever the machine decided to work. She started reminding him about lunch when he skipped it. They exchanged looks during long meetings when someone asked a question with an obvious answer. No flirting. No sparks. Just comfort.

One evening, they were the last ones left in the office. Power went out suddenly, plunging the room into darkness. Someone laughed nervously, it was Ada.

“Of course,” she said. “NEPA has perfect timing.”

Tunde turned on his phone flashlight. “You okay?”

They sat on the edge of her desk, waiting for the generator to kick in. In the quiet, Ada admitted she was scared she wasn’t good enough for the job. That everyone else seemed smarter. Tunde surprised her by saying he felt invisible most days.

“I don’t talk much,” he said. “So people think I don’t care.”

“I care,” Ada said without thinking.

The generator came on. The moment passed. But something stayed.

They never announced anything. No office romance drama. Just subtle changes arriving together sometimes, sharing inside jokes, one chair always closer than before.

When Ada got an offer from another company months later, she was excited and sad.

On her last day, Tunde walked her to the bus stop. Awkward silence. Traffic noise.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile. “I guess this is it.”

He nodded, then finally said, “I’m not good at saying things at the right time.”

She waited.

“But I don’t want this to end just because you’re leaving.”

She smiled slowly. “Good. Because I don’t either.”

Just exchanged numbers properly for the first time, laughing at how ridiculous that was after all those months.

Sometimes love doesn’t arrive loudly.

Sometimes it grows quietly between deadlines, shared coffee, and two people who finally feel seen.