The office smelled like fresh paint and desperation on Monday morning. The rebrand shoot had been scheduled for weeks, but after Friday's pitch disaster, Zara felt like the entire building was watching her limp back in.
She kept her head down, earbuds in, pretending to listen to a motivational podcast while actually replaying Mr. Okon's voice in her head on loop: *aggressively average… aggressively average…*
Her desk was a war zone—crumpled Post-its, three empty coffee cups, the ghost of last week's dignity. She dropped her bag and opened her laptop like it owed her money.
That's when she heard the laugh.
Low, easy, the kind that made people turn without meaning to. It came from the open studio space down the hall where the lighting guys were setting up softboxes and reflectors.
Zara glanced over.
A man in a faded black T-shirt and cargo pants was balancing a camera bag on one shoulder while handing out packets of chin-chin from a plastic bag like he was Santa at a low-budget Christmas party.
"Fuel for the troops," he said, offering one to the makeup artist. She took it with a grin.
He moved like he belonged everywhere he went—relaxed shoulders, quick smile, eyes that scanned the room and landed on things other people missed.
Mrs. Adeyemi appeared beside Zara's desk like a stealth missile.
"Zara, meet Kian Okoye. Freelance photographer. He's shooting the rebrand visuals today. Kian, this is Zara Adebayo—our creative lead on the campaign."
Kian turned, packet of chin-chin still in hand.
Their eyes met.
For one stupid second Zara forgot how to blink.
He had the kind of face that looked like it had been carved by someone who liked sharp jawlines and soft mischief. Dark eyes, faint stubble, a small scar above his left eyebrow that made you wonder about the story.
He extended the chin-chin packet toward her like an olive branch.
"Want one? They're the spicy kind. Good for bad Mondays."
Zara stared at the offering, then at him.
"I'm good," she said, sharper than intended. "Thanks."
He didn't flinch. Just raised one eyebrow and popped a piece into his own mouth.
"Suit yourself. More for me."
Mrs. Adeyemi clapped her hands once. "Right. Zara, you'll brief Kian on the mood board and key shots. He's got some ideas already—show him the deck."
Zara's stomach dropped. The deck. The aggressively average deck she'd deleted in a fit of rage on Friday.
"I… updated it over the weekend," she lied smoothly. "I'll pull it up."
Kian followed her to the small meeting nook beside the studio. He set his camera bag down and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with quiet amusement while she frantically opened files.
"So," he said after a beat, "Mrs. Adeyemi says you're the one who makes magic happen."
Zara snorted before she could stop herself. "Magic? More like mildly entertaining illusions."
He chuckled. "Modest. I like it."
She shot him a look. "Don't. I'm not in the mood for charming today."
"Noted." He pulled another chin-chin from his pocket and offered it again. "But seriously. Take it. You look like you haven't eaten since the weekend."
She hesitated, then snatched it. The crunch was satisfying. The heat hit the back of her throat—perfect.
"Better?" he asked.
"Don't get cocky."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They spent the next twenty minutes going over the shot list. Zara pointed at mood-board images on her screen; Kian nodded, asked smart questions, suggested angles she hadn't considered. He listened—really listened—without interrupting to mansplain.
It was annoying how competent he was.
The actual shoot started at ten.
Chaos arrived on schedule.
A light stand tipped over. Someone's phone rang with a ringtone that sounded like a distressed goat. The model—tall, stunning, effortlessly cool—kept asking for "more vibe" in a voice that made Zara want to scream.
Zara was adjusting a reflector when her heel caught on a loose cable.
Time slowed.
She pitched forward, arms windmilling.
A hand closed around her elbow—firm, steady.
Kian.
He pulled her upright in one smooth motion, close enough that she smelled cedar and something faintly sweet, like the chin-chin.
"Easy," he murmured. "We don't need two disasters today."
Zara's face burned. She yanked her arm free, but not before noticing how warm his grip had been.
"I'm fine," she snapped.
"Clearly."
He didn't smirk. Just held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, then stepped back to adjust his camera.
The rest of the shoot blurred—poses, lighting tweaks, forced laughter from the model. Zara directed like a general on autopilot.
Kian moved around them like water—quiet clicks, soft suggestions to the talent, never once getting in the way.
At lunch break he disappeared for ten minutes and returned with two Styrofoam plates of jollof and fried plantain from the buka across the street.
He set one in front of Zara without asking.
She stared at it.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
She took a bite. The rice was perfect—smoky, spicy, just the right amount of party jollof grease.
Kian sat on the edge of a table nearby, eating his own plate, scrolling through the morning's shots on his camera screen.
Zara watched him for a moment.
He caught her looking.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just… you're weirdly prepared."
"Habit." He shrugged. "Grew up in a house where if you didn't bring snacks, someone else would eat yours."
She almost laughed. Almost.
Instead she said, "Thanks. For the food. And the elbow catch."
He gave a small salute with his plastic fork. "Anytime, boss."
The word *boss* landed strangely—teasing but not mocking.
Zara looked away, suddenly aware of how close he was sitting, how easy it felt to talk to him.
Red flag, she told herself. Charming guys with snacks and quick reflexes are always trouble.
She finished her food in silence, then stood.
"Back to it," she said.
Kian nodded, already packing up his trash. "Lead the way."
As they walked back to the set, Zara stole one last glance at him.
He was humming something under his breath—off-key, cheerful.
She shook her head.
Too smooth.
Too observant.
Too much like someone who might actually stick around.
Which was exactly why she needed to keep her distance.
Because the last time she let someone get close, he left via voice note.
And she wasn't doing that again.
Not even for good jollof.