It was 8:45 p.m. in Nakuru. The company retreat had stretched into the evening, and most of the team was still gathered around the dinner table, laughing and sharing stories. The Sarova Woodlands Hotel glowed softly under the moonlight, its courtyard alive with conversation and the faint sound of music.
Ashney sat across from me, radiant as ever. She wore a sleeveless casual dress that seemed to belong to the night itself, simple, elegant, and effortlessly graceful. The soft pink on her lips matched the gentle blush on her cheeks. She had always been my quiet distraction at the office, calm and kind in ways that stayed with you long after she had walked away.
The company had set up an open bar, and laughter flowed as easily as the cocktails. She was sipping on her favorite, a strawberry daiquiri, the light catching the rim of her glass every time she lifted it. The color suited her, vivid and sweet, with just a hint of mischief. I could not help but admire the ease in her laughter, how free she seemed, as though the night itself had decided to celebrate her.
It was her birthday, October 10th. She had not mentioned it, but I had overheard one of our colleagues teasing her about it earlier. That quiet awareness made the evening feel even more special, as if time had slowed down just for her.
After dinner, she excused herself to the ladies’ room. A few minutes later, I found myself walking down the same corridor. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of night jasmine from the garden outside. The moonlight spilled gently through the tall window, painting soft silver patterns on the tiled floor.
When she stepped out, our eyes met. Her breath reached me before her words did, a soft wave of sweetness, a mixture of alcohol and berries that felt both intoxicating and familiar. It was so alluring, that scent, warm, inviting, and impossible to ignore. It carried the joy of the evening and something deeper beneath it, something we both felt but never said.
“You followed me,” she said quietly, her tone playful but curious.
“Maybe I just got lost,” I replied, smiling.
We stood there for a moment, saying nothing. The silence was comfortable, the kind that holds meaning without effort. The world beyond that corridor faded into a blur, the laughter, the clinking glasses, the distant music. All that remained was the soft hum of the night and the closeness between us.
The moonlight touched her face, catching the light in her eyes. I reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and she did not move away. Her gaze met mine and lingered, full of warmth and quiet intensity.
“I have always wondered,” she said softly.
“About what?” I asked.
“What it would feel like if this was not just an office friendship.”
I felt a quiet pulse of emotion, a mixture of surprise and something that had been waiting for years to be spoken. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then she smiled, that soft, knowing smile that had always made the days at work feel lighter.
“Let us get back,” she whispered. “Before someone starts looking for us.”
As she turned and walked away, I could not help but watch her. There was a quiet confidence in her stride, graceful and natural. Her silhouette under the warm hotel lights was the perfect blend of elegance and allure, what Gen Zs would call “body tea.” But here in Kenya, we had a better term for it, body Ketepa. The kind that brewed slowly in your mind and lingered long after she was gone.
When she returned to the dining area, I heard the MC’s cheerful voice rise above the chatter. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we also celebrate a birthday, our very own Ashney, born on this day, 10/10!”
The room burst into applause and laughter. Glasses lifted high, and a toast was made in her honor. Her smile glowed brighter than the candles flickering around the room, and as she laughed with the others, I knew this moment would stay with me for a very long time. The warmth, the tension, and the quiet magic of a night that had changed everything.
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